Art for Art's Sake

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I blinked once. Twice. Then my eyelids fluttered.

“What the—? Huh? I mean—holy f**k!”

I babbled gibberish for several seconds before racing to the alcove where the stranger had originally stood in the shadows. Nothing there now but cobwebs. Yet I had not heard the man creep away behind me, and the elevator at the end of the hallway remained empty and lifeless, so he had to be in this hallway. Somewhere!

But where?

I went to another alcove, then another, continuing all along the hallway, and in each I discovered nothing but unoccupied gloom. The stranger’s muscular frame had to have been at least two hundred, perhaps two-twenty pounds, so the creaking floorboards should have given me a clue as to his movements. Not to mention I should have seen an indication in the eyes of Skylar Novak, who had been facing in that direction during our brief conversation; certainly the artist would have noticed some movement behind me and followed it with his eyes. Especially the movement of a six-foot-two hunk of a man tiptoeing back into the penthouse murk, considering that the lone light bulb shone almost directly above the studio’s entrance and the man had been illuminated when Novak opened the door.

Matthew Lawrence Rhodes, you’re just a f*****g imbecile! You’ve got to lay off the booze, damn it, before it drives you to the loony bin!

Drinking? No, no, the two Coronas wouldn’t have done that. Unless they had been laced with PCP or LSD or another three-lettered hallucinogen, I thought sarcastically.

I shook my head in utter confusion. Yes, maybe I was going batty. Completely bonkers. I was a certifiable nut—N-U-T—although not a drug, another three-lettered word. Hell, lunacy ran in the family, on my dad’s side anyway. My Uncle Clarence continues to spend his days in an upstate booby hatch making animal figurines out of fudge-bar sticks, or so the story goes. So the concept wasn’t such a stretch, and the thought did nothing to calm my nerves.

For the first time since entering college, I cursed myself for dropping the Psyche 101 class in my freshman year and shifting my major to Journalism. Maybe with better insight into the complex workings of the human brain I could have determined now what had brought about today’s bizarre phantasms. Other than insanity, that is.

Thankfully, I swiftly settled on another reason; I’m sure desperation led me to it, but the explanation seemed fairly logical nonetheless. Carnal anticipation…yes, that could be it. The giddy expectancy of what I planned to do today, of what I had hoped would happen between Skylar Novak and myself, had me on the edge. The unbridled horniness I already felt had likely played havoc with my senses, and yes, I really had only imagined the mysterious stud in the hallway. The stud who had nearly made my d**k erupt with his hungry scrutiny of my body and his killer good looks…

I shivered at the lush memory of that brief encounter. And what a vivid imagination I had, since the man’s stunning features had been etched into my brain. Even now, I had a sneaking suspicion I would remember that face for the rest of my life. And, damn it, I wanted to remember it…remember all the things I had fantasized doing to his sublime body—to his c**k—while those deep, blue eyes caressed me with that intense gaze…

Slamming back to the moment, I took a shaky breath and released it on a windy sigh. As my c**k finally deflated, all the blood in my body seemed to surge upward, and my cheeks began to sizzle in embarrassment. I returned to the studio to confront the artist and found a smirk curling his lips. Those full lips surrounded by stubble…those sexy lips that would likely taste so damned delicious and…

“Looking for something in particular?” asked Novak.

“Huh? What?”

Shit! Could I make it through the next five minutes without thinking about my hidden desires? Once again viewing the sinewy arms and the bulging crotch of the artist standing before me, I sincerely doubted it. All this raw masculinity I had confronted in just the past few minutes, both actual and imagined, would be the key to the asylum in my future if I didn’t pull myself together, and fast!

Hey there, Uncle Clarence, save a place for me in the rubber room.

Novak leaned casually against the doorframe. “Are you ready to pose for me, or do you plan to continue your game of hide and seek indefinitely? If so, you must explain the rules, since I’m not quite sure what you’re hoping to accomplish out here in the hallway. Should I be hiding or seeking?”

“Hiding? Seeking? Huh? No, sorry, you don’t understand. It’s not what you think.”

“Oh? And what do I think?”

“You think I’m a whacko. A full-fledged lunatic.”

“Why in the world would I label you as such?”

“Because you’re sane.”

“Excuse me?”

“What sane person wouldn’t think me a nut-job?” My voice dropped to a whisper and I spun toward the empty elevator again. “s**t…here I am…standing in the hallway and babbling like an i***t…recently having an honest-to-f**k conversation with someone who wasn’t really there…now I’m peering into the shadows as if I’d just seen a ghost…but that might be what I actually did see and…”

Behind me, Novak cleared his throat. “You’ll have to raise your voice to audible levels if you want me to distinguish what you’re saying.”

“Is this building haunted?”

“It’s old enough, so I wouldn’t be surprised. Is this part of the game?”

“Forget about the game. There is no game. I just…I mean…I’m only…”

“Only what, Matthew?”

“I’m only”—only about to lose my f*****g grip on reality, that’s what!—“I’m…err…oh, never mind.”

Not hiding his amusement, Novak’s grin widened, his teeth flashing in a Colgate-bright smile that sent another quiver of longing into my gut. It also shot a blatant truth into my soul, and I decided to face that truth head on. I thought back through the years and realized now, in no uncertain terms, that no amount of naked t**s or bared p***y had ever affected me like the mere smiles of the two men I had encountered here today. No simple “curiosity” had brought me to this studio, but an out-and-out necessity to embrace my “gayness,” even now bubbling up inside of me. I heard myself actually groan in surrender.

As if sensing my plight and gleaning my decision, the man stepped forward and patted my shoulder with his free hand. I welcomed the physical contact. Cherished it, actually. “Listen, I know ‘nervous’ when I see it. This is your first time, isn’t it?”

“F-first? Why, yes. How did you know?”

“Many of my models find it difficult to pose nude the first time.”

“Oh, posing? Yeah, this is my first experience doing it. I guess I’m more nervous than I expected.”

“What you need, my friend, is a stiff drink of alcohol before we begin the session.”

Just hearing the word “alcohol” had saliva coating my tongue. And the notion of pouring any form of booze into my belly seemed to calm me. Or perhaps it wasn’t that particular notion after all, but the way the man’s hand rubbed back and forth over my shoulder, the way his beautifully sculpted fingers gently dug into my muscle and kneaded away the growing tension.

I made my decision. “No alcohol, thanks.”

“What? All of a sudden you don’t drink? Hmm…I seem to recall you putting away a string of tequila shots last evening.”

“Oh, yes, I drink, and probably too much…and that’s likely what started this in the first place.”

“Started what?”

“Forget about it, Mister—”

“Ah-ah-ah!” He punctuated the reprimand by stabbing his clean paintbrush against my chest.

“Sorry, Sky.”

He lifted the brush and playfully tickled my chin with it. “That’s better, Matthew. Much better.”

I gazed into his attractive face, now just inches from mine. Like the previous evening at my friend’s party, I thought I saw something flicker in the dark depths of those eyes, more than just a fiery intelligence, but a fervent passion for his art, and a flaming desire for my body. A desire I wanted—no, I needed—to experience.

Of its own volition, my head moved even closer to his, and my lips actually tingled in impatience. I needed to taste that mouth…that moist mouth that seemed to beckon me. I needed to feel his tongue stroking mine while my hands explored the ridges and valleys of his arms and chest and—

Without warning, he stepped back and released my shoulder. The abrupt severing of our physical contact left me feeling so damned empty, so damned lonely. Enough to make me want to weep in anguish. I had come so close…so damned close…

But today’s session has only just begun.

That thought allowed me to pull myself together just as Novak swept open the doorway and gestured me into the studio. From above, amber rays of the midday sun poured down from a four-paneled skylight, and several tall windows offered additional illumination. It took my eyes several moments to adjust to the startling brightness.

Unlike the decadence of the hallway, the studio appeared almost pristine by comparison, apart from several splotches of paint on the polished hardwood floor and a few crumbled pages of sketch paper that lay beside a small trashcan. Additionally, the man had a wealth of “artistic” accouterment—not only empty easels and sketchpads, brushes and pencils on every flat surface, which I had fully expected, but cameras and tripods and other photography paraphernalia. In several corners stood directional lights, floor-to-ceiling backdrops of sundry scenery, and extra props, including chairs, pillars, tables, a rack of costumes, and who-knew-what else just waiting for use.

But something else gained my full attention. In all directions, in nearly all the works of art on display, c***s met my vision. An amazing display of beautiful male genitalia in varying hues and states of arousal. Years earlier I had heard someone declare, “A c**k is a c**k. Once you’ve seen one p***s, you’ve seen them all.” Only now, confronting this outrageous assortment of phalluses, did I fully realize the tremendous inaccuracy of that statement. Lengthy and stubby, plump and slender, cut and uncut, both smooth and craggy with veins…all had been fairly represented in this man’s extraordinary collection of art. Additionally, the conglomeration of work consisted of more than just c***s; it also included depictions of men in varying stages of undress. Full nudes—both front and backside—close-ups of handsome faces, torsos and asses, both hairy and shaved, and even detailed illustrations of hands and feet all met my gaze at every turn.

For a long moment, I stood speechless, in complete awe. Viewing this wondrous diversity of nudity—created in everything from grayscale charcoal sketches to subdued watercolors and prismatic oils—made me truly appreciate the richness of the human male at its most fundamental level. How many models must have sat for Skylar Novak through the years, I couldn’t even begin to imagine, but the man had obviously seen more naked men than I had seen in a lifetime. And, damn it, I envied him to the depths of my aching libido.

And talk about a shock to my closeted gay existence. My own p***s stabbed my zipper as blood gushed downward to my crotch. My balls inched closer to my body, and I could actually feel the seed churning at the base of my hard shaft, just waiting—begging—for an invitation to spew.

By the way my gaze eagerly leapt from one work of art to the next, not to mention the drool I felt unwittingly forming at the sides of my mouth and the bulge I could no longer hide at my crotch, I realized that Novak knew my true s****l desires. When he stood beside me, again just inches away, his sly smile told me as much. And it excited me. Especially when I glanced toward his own groin and noted that his package had also grown heftier.

“You like what you see?” he asked.

“Th-this is beyond amazing,” I mumbled.

His dark eyes twinkled from the flattery. “Thank you, but frankly, you haven’t seen anything yet…and I say that with all modesty shoved aside.” His bare feet slapped against the floorboards as he led me to an open doorway on the far side of the room. “Care to have a look in here?”

Lord knew what visual thrills my eyes would encounter when I entered that room, but I couldn’t wait to find out. Briefly brushing against Novak, who made little attempt to completely step out of my way—the manly scent of him and the muscular biceps pressing against my own drove me wild—I stepped inside the area.

And stopped dead in my tracks. My jaw descended and my heartbeat started a furious gallop. If I had deemed the work in the previous room as X-rated, then the art displayed in here earned a triple.

Again, a delicious bevy of c***s met my eyes. But in every picture I viewed, on each canvas and in every sketch, fingers enwrapped the rigid shafts, or a mouth or an ass consumed them. Yes, in this room, each work of art detailed s****l acts being performed between two or more men. A virtual smorgasbord of male meat in an orgy of charcoal, watercolors, and oils. My boner throbbed in a rhythm of pure agony.

When Novak came to stand just behind me, I felt the warmth pour off his body in exhilarating waves. He set his paintbrush on the shelf of a nearby easel, then draped one arm around my shoulders and used his free hand to gesture around the room.

“So, Matthew,” he said, his voice taking on a lazy, just-between-us-pals nonchalance. “What do you think? Do you find the art in this room even more amazing as I predicted you would only a moment ago?”

“I…”

“You can be honest. Trust me, we working artists have tough skins in order to deal with criticism.”

“I-I’m speechless.”

“Truly? Is that a good or a bad thing, I wonder?”

I found it difficult to tear my gaze from each painting in order to view yet another. Apart from the provocative scenes, portrayed in such lifelike detail, I could almost sense s****l energy pouring off the canvases. It seemed as if the men being jacked or sucked or f****d and shooting their loads in the various scenes had left a piece of themselves—an aura of the ecstasy they experienced—behind them somehow. The stranger in the hallway had been correct in his assessment of Novak’s work, saying how the artist possessed an almost magical ability to delve into the souls of his models and depict their deep-felt emotions.

The magnificent and salacious paintings, the heat from Novak’s body and his touch, made it impossible for me to maintain the last remaining defensives I had long-ago built around myself. With the man’s question hanging in the air awaiting a response and my d**k ready to explode, I yanked my gaze off a painting of an ejaculating p***s and turned to him. “A good thing, most definitely.”

His nostrils momentarily flared as a smile dimpled his cheeks. “A very good thing indeed, since your barriers have disappeared.”

Fuck, he had read my mind after all, the same as he must have read the minds of all the men who had posed for these captivating works of art. “How did you know?”

“As an artist, it’s my job to know…to delve deep into the heads of my models, to see what makes them tick, what excites them, what scares them, all in an attempt to put nothing but the unvarnished truth on canvas.” As he spoke, he placed his free hand on my chest, over my thumping heart. His fingers drew slow, invisible circles on my Disturbed T-shirt. “When I met you last evening, I immediately sensed that my art—or rather, the subject matter of my art—would appeal to you. But I also sensed that you might not be so quick to admit that. The problem, however, is that I needed you to admit it before today’s session began.”

“Why?”

“In order to portray you to the best of my abilities.”

“And now that I’ve admitted it to you, what comes next?” I asked, my throat tighter than my clenching ass cheeks.

Novak’s hand took a detour from my chest, straight down to my crotch. His palm crushed against the base of my steel-hard rod while his nimble fingers danced along the remainder of my bulge. “What comes next? Why this, of course.”

When he pressed his lips against mine, I felt as if I would melt in the molten heat.