A short piece of prose for this post. Can’t call it a short story (or can you?), so I’ll just say it’s a slice of life for a good but not terribly well-known portrait artist in the city of Albuquerque in the state of New Mexico. But the location and the circumstances aren’t important. Not to the artist James Carson Hamner nor to the models he occasionally uses.
*****
ARTIST AND MODEL
JAMES CARSON HAMNER, ARTIST
That was the sign affixed to his front door. He’d had to seriously restrain himself to avoid adding an e to the word Artist five years ago when he first put up the discrete plaque. That’s the way he felt… like an artiste. Of the four words on that sign, Artist was the one that defined him. Certainly more than the three names precedent. Those were just legal necessities for signing contracts and paying bills. Ordinary, mundane titles for ordinary, mundane tasks.
James Carson Hamner’s home reinforced that conviction. The front door to the adobe in Albuquerque’s north valley opened directly into his large studio and gallery... his living quarters lay somewhere beyond. His own work hung on the whitewashed studio walls. In one corner near the north-facing windows, he’d rigged dark curtains at right angles as a place for his subjects to pose. He disdained still life, so these subjects were living, breathing individuals… usually male.
He’d had some interesting characters sit or stand in that alcove over the years. Most of them assumed he was homosexual and acted accordingly, either refusing to remove their briefs or flagrantly displaying themselves. Very few—mostly professionals—were nonchalant about their nakedness.
James Carson Hamner grimaced as he remembered Roddy. Football player, hunk, and well… roddy. That is, well endowed. At the end of each of their four sessions, the tight end—that probably didn’t mean to others what it did to him—had been his usual aggressive self and simply assumed his stud services were required. Roddy had been a selfish lover. He took care of his own needs and then exited the premises still demanding adulation with comments like “How’d you like that?” or “Never had better, have you?”
“That’s okay, Roddy baby,” he whispered beneath his breath. “You and all your glory brought me an even five grand.” Immediately, he was contrite. He did this for the art, not for the money. Still, one had to eat… even an artiste.
Vincent had been okay. The alabaster model, he’d called him. Pale white skin. Yellow curly hair, vivid green eyes. And anxious to please. Put him in one position, and Vincent remained there. Regardless of whether James Carson Hamner was painting with his brush or panting from his efforts.
The present one was a little more enigmatic. Physically, he was charming. Dark skin, black hair, and the brown eyes of a frightened doe. Bold, yet halting all in the same breath. He held the name Darius, an appellation as exotic and enigmatic as its bearer.
James Carson Hamner had inspected the man-child’s driver’s license twice before admitting the charming youth was, indeed, eighteen… the minimum age he accepted for his models. He never exposed himself to possible recriminations from the law.
He had spent fifteen minutes talking the beautiful Darius out of his clothing, and now they argued over the boy’s boxer shorts.
“I made it clear up front,” he said. “I advertised for nude models.”
“I-I know,” Darius stammered in his beautiful baritone. “But I thought that meant I could keep some clothes on.”
Near the point of giving up and sending this local version of Adonis away, he snorted. “Nude means nude… naked… sans clothing. Are you ashamed of what you’re hiding?”
The boy blushed. “No, but… it’s private.”
James Curtis Hamner threw down the piece of charcoal he held in his left hand. “Do you want the job or not? If you do, shuck the shorts. If you don’t, get dressed and go away.”
Clearly distressed, Darius frowned, rendering himself hauntingly human instead of merely lovely. “I guess so.”
He almost laughed aloud when his model turned away to remove his shorts, revealing two smooth, tan, inviting orbs. The boy hesitated a long moment before turning around. Breathtaking. The curly, black bush was exactly proportional to the flesh of the long, flaccid penis. Proportional… that is to say not too large as to seem furry or so small as to appear trimmed. Entirely natural. The fat penis was uncircumcised. Unusual in this day and age.
He met the youth’s hooded eyes. Darius swallowed hard. “You… you won’t….”
James Carson Hamner almost broke out laughing. He put a note of banner into his voice. “Don’t worry. Your virginity is safe. I won’t attack it without an invitation.”
“W-what if someone comes in,” Darius sent his gaze toward the door.
“Don’t worry. It’s locked. Remember, you had to ring the bell to gain admission. And if someone rings, there’s a robe on the table for you to cover yourself. Ready now?”
The boy, standing with his legs apart, his fingers curled loosely into fists, nodded.
He spent an enjoyable five minutes arranging the fetching boy in a semi-reclining position on the black shrouded sofa. Deciding the background was too somber, he had Darius get up and spread an ecru cloth over the black, arranging the folds so that some of both were visible. Then he had the boy take a seat and placed him in the position he wanted. Of course, this necessitated laying hands on that delectable flesh, but he was careful to stay clear of the area that would panic the boy. Darius was astonished that he wanted that intriguing cock posed in just the right way, as well. Nonetheless, he moved himself around as directed.
“You don’t need to hold absolutely still, but try not to move more than necessary. Give me a few minutes notice before you have to really move. You know, sneeze or scratch or the like.”
James Carson Hamner totally enjoyed himself as he skillfully sketched the boy’s outline on canvas with the charcoal. As he started filling in details, he noticed the boy—whose head was pointed in his general direction—followed his movements with his eyes. Abruptly he switched and began sketching the boy’s groin, certain the boy knew where he now concentrated. He was right. Darius’s right leg twitched. He caught the alarmed look on the youth’s face as he realized something else was happening.
That fascinating tube of flesh stirred. Darius flinched but held his pose. Then it actually moved. Fattened and swelled ever so slightly. The boy blinked rapidly, then closed his eyes. That did not save Darius. His cock continued to grow, lengthening and thickening. He licked his lips, but nothing helped. The cock was now semi-erect; the boy half panicked.
James Carson Hamner stood enjoying the drama. Once Darius had lost the battle, the handsome youngster lay back on the sofa attempting to hang onto an aura of defiance. But the pulsing member belied his struggle.
The artist put down his charcoal, carefully wiped his hands on a rag and approached the boy. He watched as the fright in those soulful brown eyes died, replaced by another expression. Curiosity? Desire?
“Not without an invitation,” he murmured softly before sinking to his knees and lowering his head to take what he had desired from the moment he set eyes on this shy man-child.
I hope you enjoyed this little scene. As is always true, I’m interested in your reaction. Send comments to markwildyr@aol.com. Thanks for reading.
New blogs posted at 6:30 a.m. each Thursday.
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