Short story...
“So why do you-” he stumbles on the words a bit, coughs quietly and tries to calm his breathing. For minutes now the artist’s eyes have been shifting from him to the canvas and back, intense, studying every inch of him. “Why do you paint nude portraits instead of just portraits?”
There’s a long pause in which the older man says nothing, sweeps his wrist somewhere along the painting. When he steps away from the easel he doesn’t speak, just lifts one heavy, calloused hand - he claims he’s always been a painter by trade, but he has working man’s hands that say different - to scratch at his jaw, careful not to leave a streak of paint in it’s wake.
“Have you ever looked at yourself?” he asks, smiles. “Naked, I mean.”
“In the bathroom mirror, I guess.” he shrugs. He’s not all rock-hard abs and muscle - nothing like the kind of Adonis these artists usually look for - but he’s tall and lean, he’s got strong arms that taper off to almost delicate fingers and his athlete’s legs are dusted with fine, light hair.
“You’re fascinating.”
He feels awkward for just a second. He’s never been spoken to like that before. He had a boyfriend who’d fuck him hard with his eyes closed and tell him how ‘fucking hot’ he was. It never got him off, never flattered him any, but he has to swallow down an embarrassing sound, try to force back his flush, at the fact that being told he’s fascinating by an honest to god man with smile lines and a dusting of salt-and-pepper in his hair makes his stomach tighten.
He doesn’t look down at himself, hasn’t ever done so in these sessions. He doesn’t want to try seeing his body through the eyes of this man, this artist, probably used to something akin to perfection. “Why…I mean, artists like you usually paint women, don’t they? Women who’re an interesting...um, shape?”
“Oh,” he chuckles deep, a low rumble. “Trust me I can appreciate any woman with an interesting shape, good hips, thighs…” He says it like he means it, like those paint splattered hands have travelled the curves and shapes of many a woman, but when he speaks again his voice is low, his eyes locked directly on those of his subject. “But there are a thousand pictures of those women. I like to paint things that can make a person stop in their tracks…make their hearts thump in their chests as the blood rushes to their groin.”
“You’re bisexual.” It’s not a guess, not hanging like a question. He’s made it too blatant for that.
The artist smiles, all amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That a problem?”
He’s never explicitly stated that he likes men, not here, and he isn’t about to. Despite the way being naked with this man makes his hands shake and his upper lip bead with perspiration, he likes how he feels here. Having no clothes feels something like having no identity, no sexuality.
“It’s not a problem.”
The artist, who’d waited patiently for an answer, lets his smile widen into a grin, perfectly friendly, if not a little predatory. “Good. So you won’t mind getting yourself hard before our next session then.”
He’s not sure if it’s the shock of the request or the idea of having to maintain an erection for an entire session, but his breath catches and the shaking of his hands starts up again. When their eyes meet once again just to the left of the easel though, he knows that he couldn’t say no even if he wanted to.
Fin.
There’s a long pause in which the older man says nothing, sweeps his wrist somewhere along the painting. When he steps away from the easel he doesn’t speak, just lifts one heavy, calloused hand - he claims he’s always been a painter by trade, but he has working man’s hands that say different - to scratch at his jaw, careful not to leave a streak of paint in it’s wake.
“Have you ever looked at yourself?” he asks, smiles. “Naked, I mean.”
“In the bathroom mirror, I guess.” he shrugs. He’s not all rock-hard abs and muscle - nothing like the kind of Adonis these artists usually look for - but he’s tall and lean, he’s got strong arms that taper off to almost delicate fingers and his athlete’s legs are dusted with fine, light hair.
“You’re fascinating.”
He feels awkward for just a second. He’s never been spoken to like that before. He had a boyfriend who’d fuck him hard with his eyes closed and tell him how ‘fucking hot’ he was. It never got him off, never flattered him any, but he has to swallow down an embarrassing sound, try to force back his flush, at the fact that being told he’s fascinating by an honest to god man with smile lines and a dusting of salt-and-pepper in his hair makes his stomach tighten.
He doesn’t look down at himself, hasn’t ever done so in these sessions. He doesn’t want to try seeing his body through the eyes of this man, this artist, probably used to something akin to perfection. “Why…I mean, artists like you usually paint women, don’t they? Women who’re an interesting...um, shape?”
“Oh,” he chuckles deep, a low rumble. “Trust me I can appreciate any woman with an interesting shape, good hips, thighs…” He says it like he means it, like those paint splattered hands have travelled the curves and shapes of many a woman, but when he speaks again his voice is low, his eyes locked directly on those of his subject. “But there are a thousand pictures of those women. I like to paint things that can make a person stop in their tracks…make their hearts thump in their chests as the blood rushes to their groin.”
“You’re bisexual.” It’s not a guess, not hanging like a question. He’s made it too blatant for that.
The artist smiles, all amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That a problem?”
He’s never explicitly stated that he likes men, not here, and he isn’t about to. Despite the way being naked with this man makes his hands shake and his upper lip bead with perspiration, he likes how he feels here. Having no clothes feels something like having no identity, no sexuality.
“It’s not a problem.”
The artist, who’d waited patiently for an answer, lets his smile widen into a grin, perfectly friendly, if not a little predatory. “Good. So you won’t mind getting yourself hard before our next session then.”
He’s not sure if it’s the shock of the request or the idea of having to maintain an erection for an entire session, but his breath catches and the shaking of his hands starts up again. When their eyes meet once again just to the left of the easel though, he knows that he couldn’t say no even if he wanted to.
Fin.