Gay Erotic Stories

What can I say about that moment? About drawing Aaron close to have his lips touch mine and feel his breath dance over my cheek; about my hands slipping 'round his waist to the small of his back to hold him next to me? About molding myself against him and knowing his strength and grace and beauty as it caressed my body? Even through two layers of clothing (his tee shirt and mine) I could feel his exquisite muscles quivering against me. I began to shake from the intensity of the emotion as the meaning of it all overpowered my own concept of myself. I'd never gotten even close to being with someone as gorgeous as Aaron before, but that didn't seem to matter. The intimidation I'd felt so many times as I watched him cross the campus with his slow genial saunter (an intimidation I'd always believed was endemic to my makeup) vanished in the reality of his skin warm against mine. The understanding that I was bland or plain or average (choose your adjective here) dissolved into nothingness like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy did when I learned my dad and mom filled the roles, respectively. My life prior to this moment was nothing more than myth-filled half-truths and misconceptions laced with fears and stupidity, and now none of it carried any weight. The only important thought was that he and I were together, even if it might be for just a few moments and then never again. I could have died right then and been happy. I moved away from the kiss and let my lips dip to his chin and down his throat to his chest as my hands slipped under his shirt and slowly, carefully slid it up...up...up over his body. He raised his arms and let me guide it higher and higher...let my fingers tickle the sandy hairs under his arms as the material slipped past...let the palms of my hands caress his skin as I pushed the shirt off him, completely. Then I let my lips drift back to his right tit...let my teeth gently take it...let my tongue flit over it. Instinctively, Aaron moved back...but then held still, letting me play with his nipple and pull it harder until he was cringing from the sensation and little whimpers of joy were escaping him. I could tell he was wearing briefs this time (which only added to the sexiness of the moment, so far as I was concerned), but molded against his body like I was, I could also tell that the screaming lightning had launched itself from my mouth to his thighs and slammed him into straining hard against the cotton fabric. I almost moaned for joy when it became too much for him and he breathlessly curled his right arm around my head and slipped his hand over half my face to guide my mouth away from his chest. My hands were back around his waist. I began inching down his shorts, planning to remove them, but he put his hands on mine to stop me...and guided them to my own shirt. I hesitated, let him give me a look of askance...then I smiled, understanding. He needed a bit of a breather. He leaned back against the door and watched as I pulled off my tee shirt. No hair on my chest. No real definition of muscle. No abs to speak of. Just the vague outline of my pecs and two tiny brown tits over a smooth belly. My shoulders were wide enough, I suppose, and I had next to no fat on me...but up to this point in time, I had only attracted older men and dip-shits who said I looked like I was still in high school (the perverts). And I'd expected nothing more up to that point. But then Aaron gave me his secret smile and pulled me close, and we kissed, again...and the world spun out of control, for an instant. His arms were strong around me, the hair on them tickling my skin as he held me tight, enveloped me in his grip. Oh dear God, I never wanted him to move...never wanted him to let go. He slid his hands down my spine...down to just above my butt...and stopped. I started to do the same to him...trailing my fingers down the small of his back to the point where his ass began to curve around...just under the elastic of his shorts...and he pulled away, shaking his head. Not just yet, boss. Not just yet. No problem. I took his hands in mine and pulled him back into the room and drew him close to me. The room was growing darker in the night air. Pale light wandered in from the moon (was it a full one? It seemed that bright) and offered just enough illumination to see. He moved close to me, his gaze wary and expectant...and I shoved him onto the bed. He fell back, laughing in surprise; then I collapsed on top of him and held his hands above him. Now let's be real: all he had to do to get free was give me one quick shove. But he didn't; he just lay there...and let me kiss him...let me lay on top of him...let me rub my chest against his and my tits against his and my belly against his and my crotch against his. Even through my jeans I could feel how rock solid he was...how ready. That's when I began tracing my lips down the center of his body along the path of pleasure laid out by his golden hair, he stretched back a bit to make the journey just a hint longer. My tongue danced through the soft trail of down, gliding over and around the muscles of his abs, dipping into his navel, twirling through the patch below that slowly widened to meet the center of the universe. I let my hands drift over to his hips to gently pull at the shorts...and he did not stop me this time. I tugged at them. They slipped down past his tan line...and past the elastic to his briefs...and kept gliding lower and lower until I had them down to his thighs. Now I could see how big and full and wonderful he was under the white cotton fabric that still formed around his hips. My heart was pounding out an earthquake in its power. I slid his shorts slowly...slowly...all the way down those perfect legs, using my thumbs to guide them and letting my fingers whisper over tiny gentle hairs that gleamed even in the moonlight. His muscles curved into his knees (so exactly) and rolled out again to form well-developed calves covered with even more of the golden cornsilk before curling down to solid masculine ankles. I removed the shorts, lifting one foot and then the other, then slipped off his sneakers and floppy socks. Man: even his toes were good and strong and shaped just right, with hints of golden hair dancing across them. I got to thinking this can't be possible; I can't really be doing this. This man can't be as wonderful as I think. I'm just obsessing and making too much over someone who's only good-looking, nothing more. There's something wrong here. So I stood up and looked at him...and everything about him...I dunno -- it just fit just right. His shoulders and neck and chest and waist and hips and thighs and arms and head lying across my well-crushed sheets...the vision accentuated by a pair of new clean white cotton briefs...and his calves draped over the bed's side. It hurt to see him lying there...looking up at me...waiting for my next move. Suddenly, I didn't trust my eyes...didn't trust my perceptions...didn't believe I was where I was and was doing what I was doing. It was all too overwhelming. I reached down and gently took his hands and silently guided him to his feet. He almost spoke...but I put a finger to his lips...then closed his eyes...then slowly...softly allowed my fingertips to drift down his cheeks to his neck to his shoulders to his arms to his hands. Then I closed my eyes and slid down to my knees and allowed my fingers to wander over to his thighs. As I touched the hair that swirled up his skin, I envisioned flowing fields of grain on a brisk golden day. As I let my fingers follow the smooth form of his muscles, I pictured rolling hills after a gentle summer rain. As the backs of my fingers rose up the insides of his legs, gliding along the curls of his calves and small humps of his knees and the gentle build of his thighs, I saw a secret lake blessed with cool clean water laughing around a bright and happy shoreline. I pulled my hands back around his legs at the last moment and let them curve to the back...to where the hair grew soft and sparse just before his muscles leapt up and around to form his rear. I could feel the bottom of his briefs, tight against him, digging into the skin ever so slightly. The cotton rolled around tiny straps of elastic that held it in place at the junction of his legs to his hips. It was warm...yet cool. I could feel him shivering...hear it in his breath. I hesitated only an instant before letting my fingers gently glide up and over the smooth roundness of his rear. What did I picture then? Only how he looked. Only how he felt. Only the whiteness of fabric drawn taut over ivory flesh. The similes of image in my mind became this one reality. I knew if I opened my eyes, I would see exactly what I saw in my mind's eye, without question. I reached up and took hold of the elastic with my left hand...caught it just where his cheeks flowed apart to blend into his back...felt the ridge of the seam where it joined...and I began to pull it down. He did not try to stop me, this time. My right hand gripped the left side of his briefs and also pulled. He did nothing. Now I knew we were connected. Now I knew we were one. Now I was ready. I opened my eyes and watched the cotton and elastic slowly move down his hips...away from a line where golden tanned skin gave way to alabaster...then over his groin while still holding tight to his pubes...then watched the base of his crotch surrender their hold and the briefs whisked away to reveal the world. And he was exactly what I had hoped for. He wasn't so much long as curved in a gentle slope, and he wasn't so much thick as round and full, and he wasn't so much hard as ready for the next stage. His skin was like translucent sand and his head was almost white pink, big and smooth, not oversized. He was cut (so am I, so I prefer it), the circle of a scar adding to his dimensions, and the veins in his shaft added depth to it all. The hair at the base was rich and sandy as it splayed out to dance up his abdomen and swirl down around his legs, and the neat balls hanging below it all (why can't there be a finer word for them than that?) were clean and inviting. Perfection, once again. But this time...at this point...I believed in it. He was real to me, now, and not just because I could smell the vague muskiness of his crotch or see the form of his dick or hear the shiver in his breath or feel the tension in his muscles. No, he was now a part of me...and to make love to him would be to make love to part of myself...and would be ten times more real than anything I had ever done with a man before...and it was to be everything I had ever wanted in my life...and I was so ready to complete the moment it hurt. Except I...I couldn’t go through with it. My face begged to nuzzle his pubic hair...but would not move. My hands ached to fondle his balls...but refused to leave his legs. My brain screamed to put my lips to his head...but they froze. No matter what I tried to do to begin giving him what I knew would be the best blowjob in the history of the world...I could not make myself do it. There was something...something wrong about it all. Now I know what you're thinking: Joe, you dumb fuck, what the HELL are you doing?! You've been lusting after this guy since the beginning of the school year! You've been dreaming about him and sketching him and fantasizing over him as you jacked off in the fucking shower since the first time you saw him! And here he is, ready, willing and perfectly able to do whatEVER you fucking want and you can't move the last few inches to actually make it all happen?! C'mon! He's fuckin' gorgeous and he fuckin' WANTS it, man! Just move your mouth! Just suck cock! Just fuckin' DO it, twerp! And let me tell you...had we gotten to this point before last Saturday night, there would have been ZERO hesitation on my part. I'd have pounced on him like a duck on a June bug (as my gran'mama used to say). But now...after he'd lead me into a new world...a new belief in myself...a deep sudden realization washed over me that he was more than just some object of desire. His meaning was far deeper than a one-night stand (or two nights or a thousand; numbers didn't matter). To take what he had done for me and drag it into something as common and simple as lust would kill its meaning. It would be like spitting in the eye of God after he'd shown me the world and the endless depths available within me. I would be covering the well of my being with superficiality and it...shit, it would've made me into exactly what I did not want to be: a queer artist who paints pretty boys just before he fucks 'em. And that was not to be my life...not anymore. I think it was at this point my brain finally connected with my soul. I finally knew that if I had sex with Aaron, I wouldn't be able to paint him anymore. What I saw in him would be gone...maybe even dead...and whatever took its place would be worthless to me. It would be like murder...and that is something I could never do...not to him or to me. I leaned back and sat on my heels, stunned. My hands were still on his thighs, still holding the white briefs. His dick was beginning to soften...making it even lovelier. I wanted nothing but silence, at that point, but then I noticed he was looking down at me, frowning, confused. I looked back at him with such intensity, he almost flinched, and then I asked, "Why do you want this?" "Huh?" "Do you really want me to do this?" He gave an incredulous snort and said, "What do you think?" "I don't know...but I don't want to do anything with you if the only reason you're doing it is to...to get it over with. Like you have to do it for me to paint you." "What?!" He glared at me. "Shit, Joe, you want t' try makin' some sense?" "Well, I...I don't know if I can, Aaron," I said. "It's just...there's something not right about doing this. It's like I'd be violating some sacred trust or something and I can't..." "Aw, for Christ's sake!" He hiked up his briefs and grabbed his shirt and yanked it on, almost tearing it. "You're really somethin', Joe! A real prick tease! You get me all worked up then pull some psycho-crap before you even try to...to...shit, I thought you wanted to...you said you wanted to do it and..." I rose to my feet, suddenly afraid he'd just leave and I'd never see him again. "I did!" I said. "But I...I finally realized the only reason you were letting me was because you want to be touched. And held. And you want it so much you'll put up with anything. Almost anything." "WHAT!?" Man, for a second I thought he was going to hit me, he got so red in the face. "You freaky fuckin' faggot, you think I'm that screwed up?!" "No! No. It's just...I think maybe you're lonely. I think maybe you want something...and you don't know what it is...and I don't, either...but maybe I can give it to you." "Man, you are the true wiggins," he snarled. "Let's just...stay away from each other, okay? This was just one big BIG mistake an' it's best t' cut it 'fore it gets any crazier." He yanked on his shorts then started pulling on his socks and shoes...and I didn't even think to try and stop him. I just sat on my stool, eyeing him like a cat as I said, "I'm sorry. And you're right, it does sound crazy. But the fact is, if I suck you off, then I can't paint you." He rolled his eyes (I could tell, even though he wasn't looking up) and tied his shoelaces with the fury of a strangler. "Aaron, I mean it. Even if all that happens is I...I 'blow' you, then you become nothing to me. You'd just be one more guy I gave a head job to...and you're too important to me for that." "I told you, I'm not turnin' queer for you!" "And I meant it when I said I didn't want you to! But I didn't realize till just now how much I meant it! Aaron...please try to understand...the other night...when I was touching your face...I connected to something deeper inside me than just lust or longing. And I...I...I saw more to you than just the skin wrapped around your body. I saw more than just the public face you offer the world. And I saw that until that moment, I'd been trying to paint only what I saw: a figure...and not a person (shit, that sounded so lame). And everything I've done up to now reflects that...that stupid, surface simplistic mentality." He looked at me, slowly...warily...even more confused (and I can't say I blame him; I was now confusing myself). "It's because of you...through you that I found...I've been wasting my time on nothing, and I can't do that. Not anymore. And I can't let you become nothing to me." He finished tying his shoes and rose, his wariness increasing. "You ain't makin' one damn bit of sense." "Fine," I said, moving towards him, "let me show you what I mean." He backed away. "No, I...I better head on." "Aaron, please, just sit in the chair. I won't touch you. I don't need to anymore." He stopped before opening the door and eyed me as if I was from another planet. (At that particular moment, I couldn't have proven to anyone that I wasn't.) I backed to my easel and positioned the stool before it. "We don't have to talk," I said. "You can keep an eye on me the whole time. And if I try anything, you have permission to smack me into next Sunday." "Man...you got me so fuckin' confused." "I know. I know. I'm trying to explain something that I can't explain. Not with words. So please...let me show you. It won't take very long. And you...you'll get your portrait out of it. Okay? Then you can run clear to Tulsa, if you want." He finally nodded and sat on the chair. "Let's get it over with," he muttered. (Not a good sign, but I wasn't worried about that, just then.) I scrambled to find the one clean sheet of illustration board I had and dropped it to the ugly carpet. I frantically swiped both sides of it with a wet sponge to prep them then pulled out half a dozen empty "Jif" jars and half-filled them with water. Then I realized it was dark, so I turned on my easel lamp, and I spun my desk lamp around to shine on him. I had a floor lamp by my bed that I moved to his other side, to give him a bit of fill light. Then I began mixing acrylic paints in their caps, using a different jar of water for each color, all like someone possessed. By the time I was ready, the board was dry and open to my use. I didn't pay much attention to Aaron, during this, but I know he watched me flit around like a sketcher on a high. And any time I got too close to him, I know he tensed up and readied his fist. I didn't care. I was in some kind of art zone...and I'm still amazed at how easily I slipped into it. The actual painting took a few hours, nothing more. I wish I could describe what I did...but it's so...it was so simple and straightforward, it would just seem boring and incomplete. Whipping through the outline of his head and shoulders. Putting down the first layer of paint and then the second. Working in the filler and then the details and then the shading...it sounds academic when it was really instinctive and sudden and almost...well...ephemeral. And even though I remember the chime of the school's bells (nine o'clock; ten o'clock) and Aaron breaking to grab a Bock and bring me one, too (I drank half of it before forgetting about it, completely) and ordering in pizza (which I ate, though I can't remember what kind it was) and taking a pee (winding up with burnt umber and portrait pink on my dick), I was not in this world as I worked. Just past midnight...with paint streaked across my body and layers of colors on my fingers and my jeans a full and complete mess...I was done. I don't know how I knew it was ready, I just thought, If I add one more dot or line, it'll be ruined. So I signed it and stepped back, still in that netherworld of being here and beyond. I didn't say anything, but Aaron knew it was ready so he slowly stretched and carefully joined me to view the portrait. Oh...and what a portrait. Sweet Jesus, I had him. The thick and golden hair. The smooth and glowing skin. The bright and shining eyes. All in whispery layers of color that seemed more rich oil than flat water based. Lips with a hint of rubies. Cheeks with a bit of blush. The line of his neck. But this was more than just the combination of shades and tones that offered a photo-like representation of a good-looking guy; this was art. This was my explanation...my proof. His eyes held layers of wariness and need and longing, all at one time. His secret smile was painful in its cool emotion. His posture was proper and correct and yet demanding and distant. I could compare the effect to that of "The Mona Lisa" (give me a few more years of working on my ego and I probably will) in its simplicity and meaning. I could never be as proud of anything I did as I was of that piece of art at that particular time, I just knew it. I drifted back to this world moments before Aaron cast his first glance at his portrait. I could see the tension and weariness whisper out of him as he took it in. Oh, sure...he was impressed; I already knew he would be. But I needed to show him why my work also impressed me. I stumbled to my portfolios and dug through them for the best portrait I'd done up to that point. It was of the guy in my life drawing class, the one with the beard. It was an upper torso layout, from just above his navel to include all of his head. His eyes were closed, his arms were at his sides and I'd made him to look a bit like Christ. It was good...but when I set it next to Aaron's portrait on the easel, it was like comparing the work of a child to that of Renoir. Aaron looked at it, and I could tell even his untrained eye could see the difference. I slipped up behind him, put my arms around his shoulders, drew myself close to him, holding him like a brother, and whispered into his ear, "You see? This is what you brought me to." He didn't move, just let me mold myself against him. I lay my chin on his left shoulder. "I now know that to paint...to create...I have to connect with the soul of my subject. You're the one who let me do that. You're the one who showed me there's a bridge that takes you from being a fool to being a king. You're the one who let me see that I was worthy enough to cross that bridge. Yeah, before I...I knew you, I was attracted to you. And I thought it was just for your looks, but now I know it was because I sensed what you could show me. Where you could lead me. To have...to have sex with you now would be a desecration." Aaron took hold of my arms and held them tight to his chest. I could tell he was weeping...lightly and still with some basic control, but enough to fill me with gratitude. "I...I'm sorry, boss. I really thought that's all you were after." "So did I, once." "Y'know...that's all anybody's ever really wanted out o' me. The way I look. The way I act. My folks. My brother. Andrea. Everybody." He cocked his head to look at me. "But you...you're a funny fella, Joe." I couldn't think of a nicer thing from him to say, so I just smiled. He hugged my arms closer to himself and looked back at the portrait. "Is it really mine?" I nodded. "Let it dry overnight, then I'll spray some fixative on it. You can pick it up after twelve. Get it matted and framed and it's ready for the parents." "I'll let Andrea do that; she loves that crap." Then he looked closer at the portrait and glanced back at me. "You signed it 'Jam The Cat'." "That's my name, now." He gave me a hugely quizzical look and pulled away from me. I didn't mind; it was time for him to leave and I was feeling the desperate need of a bath. We moved towards the door. "My full name's Joseph Allen Martin. At my high school, if your initials formed a word, that was your nickname." "But 'The Cat'?" "Well...my junior year, I got into a shoving match with this jerk in Geometry. He pushed me through a window. We were on the second floor, so I did a back flip and landed on my feet. Broke a bone in right foot. Might've been worse if I hadn't hit some grass. I was on crutches for weeks. One of the kids who saw it said something like, 'Jam landed like a cat!' The name stuck." He grinned and said, "Okay, boss. I can see that." I stopped him by the door and said, "Aaron, I'm not your boss. And you're nobody's servant." "I know that." "Do you?" He smiled and sort of shrugged. "T'morrow, 'bout noon?" I nodded. Then he drew me close and kissed me, long and hard, with a deeper affection than he ever had before...and then he left. He came back, the next day, Andrea in tow. And, of course, she rattled on and on about how great the portrait was; it was almost irritating. I think she wanted me to offer to do one of her, but she held no promise for me. Too cloistered in her superficiality. So I borrowed a photo student's camera to shoot a couple of transparencies of it then handed it over to Aaron. I didn't see him for two weeks. Not that it mattered. I knew he'd come back, again. I finished the mural of his face on my dorm wall, then contacted my folks and told them I wasn't returning to school the next year. "Oh and, just in case you didn't know, mom and dad: I'm gay." They already knew. Dammit. Just waiting for me to tell 'em. So much for any overwrought drama in my life. Aaron finally dropped by one evening to show me some photos of his parents' anniversary party. His folks were nice well-off Republicans (scum of the earth) and his brother was an overweight chunk compared to him. The centerpiece of just about all the photos was the portrait I'd done. It wound up hanging over the family's fireplace, which was a position of honor, according to Aaron. He even carried a nice handwritten note from his mother thanking me for it (well...at least she was raised right). Then as he sat and I sketched (or painted or drew), we talked and ordered in pizza and drank Shiner Bock. He got into the habit of dropping by two or three times a week, so I got to build my own little "Helga" portfolio. Faces. Hands. Torsos. Clothed. Nude. Face up. Face down. Whatever I wanted him to do, however I wanted him to sit, he did. We never again referred to our near death experience, and when the semester was over, he went back to Dallas and I moved to San Francisco to invest completely in my new life. We haven't seen each other since. So here I sit in my overpriced studio, taking a break from my latest work -- an old jazz saxophonist with arthritic fingers and eyes that reach to heaven -- happy as a clam. I'm seeing this photographer named Ric who's a few years older than me and who likes taking shots of me working; says he's trying to catch creativity as it sparks to life. He's still trying. He's not as beautiful as Aaron but I don't care. He tolerates my moods and he brings me peace and his eyes shine with the joy of a kitten just discovering the world, and I love him. I've painted him a dozen times. I want to do a dozen more. That alone should tell you how much. I'm slated to have my first full viewing of my work at a gallery in three months. My paintings of Ric will make up one section -- Life. My portraits of old jazz musicians from the "Beat Period" will make up the second section -- Liberty. And the third section (if you haven't already figured it out) will be the first conte pencil sketch I did of Aaron, all by itself...but without a word to identify it...except for the one that flows from deep within my soul. And to those who ask why it has no title, I'll respond in the only way I can. "How can you label perfection?"