"Here," I say, and I hand him his burnt sienna sweater, the one he wore to Into the Woods. I love seeing him in it, or half in it, as it generally manages to slide off one or the other shoulder with every move he makes. You can almost hear it as it slips over his hard muscles, but the sound is an illusion, the sweater strikes silently. One moment you're having a rational conversation and then he shifts and that sweater dips over his shoulder and you can't remember there ever having been a time when you were doing anything other than tracking its progress: the way it glides over his flesh. The sound in your head is an glissando of notes. It's magical, that sweater. I would write an ode to it if I were a writer but since I'm a visual artist, I'll do what I can: I'll draw it. More importantly, I'll draw it with him in it. As one of the six sketches I’ve been commissioned to do for Kenneth Harris.

Despite having sold the idea to Brian, I'm not as confident about the commission as I seemed. Not about the execution of the work; I could draw Brian all day every day and every picture would turn out perfect. I'm having second thoughts about handing over my feelings for him to a man who's admitted to being in love with him. I don't know if I should be encouraging him, feeding those feelings. He says he wants to be Brian's friend, to be my friend as well and I guess it's possible. Xavier and I are friends even after everything we've been through. He and Brian will never be though. I'm not naïve or stupid enough to believe that.

But Kenneth Harris, unlike Xavier, hasn't moved on. He's still obsessed with Brian despite Brian's protests to the contrary. He jokes about it because he doesn’t want to think about it seriously, because he's still ashamed of what he did in Los Angeles. As much as I hate what happened, I would have hated it more if he'd slept with Kenneth. Kenneth… makes me feel insecure. I feel as if I can't make any mistakes with Brian anymore because if I do, Harris will be right there, ready to take my place. Brian has told me over and over again that he has no interest in Kenneth, that he doesn't want Harris, he wants me. But what if I were out of the picture? Then what? How long would he hold out before succumbing to Kenneth's affections? The man is good-looking, successful, smart, rich—he's Brian's perfect match, I know that. He can offer Brian things I could never give him probably. And he's older, he's done things Brian hasn't so, for once, Brian would be the one who follows, who learns instead of always having to teach, to be an example for me.

So why am I doing these sketches for him?

Brian takes the sweater and puts it on. It's all he has on. His hair is messy as if he'd just gotten up. I think he's his sexiest when he's got bed hair. Maybe that's because usually we've just made love. I guess I could call it love hair. You can almost see the paths my fingers took as they raked through the brown and auburn locks. We haven't made love though, I just stood in front of him and messed up his hair. I may have to do a few touch ups after I decide where to put him. I have an idea.

Comes from another of his admirers: Trevor Janson. Every time I see him now at PIFA, I feel helplessly angry. Knowing that he's been with Brian, that Brian let him fuck him. In our bed. I try not to let it bother me, after all, Brian has to deal with Xavier, but I can't help it. I want--I want Trevor to vanish so that I can get rid of those feelings. But he won't. I wonder what he did with the statue he'd started of Brian. I wonder if he keeps it covered in his studio, in his apartment, taking the tarp off to stare at Brian's image. Maybe, in time, the statue would grow old and Brian would stay young, like Dorian's portrait. He'd like that.

I lead Brian over to the chaise lounge. "Straddle it and then lie back," I tell him and he does so, his long legs stretched out on either side of the seat, beautiful feet on the floor. "Raise your right arm and put it behind your head." The sweater rises up, exposing his genitals. They hang down between his open thighs. His pubic hair is but a darker shade of the sweater. Having raised one arm, the movement forces the sweater to slide off his left shoulder. He has the longest, smoothest neck. His sexuality assaults you despite his passive pose. You can sense the erotic potential of the bare neck and shoulders, the naked legs, the shadowed cock and balls. I want more.

"Lift the hem of the sweater up over your stomach." He pushes it up with his left hand, exposing his abdomen, tight with muscles and I almost say fuck it, fuck the sketch. God, I want him so badly, I want to--

No. We're here to work. I open my eyes and find that his are fixed on me, their naked hazel gaze piercing me like a laser beam, penetrating me more deeply than his dick ever has. He knows me. Better than anyone in the world, sometimes better than I know myself. He knew when I was thinking about going to Dartmouth that being a business student wasn't what I wanted and he knew why I was doing it, knew enough to challenge me, to advise me, to comfort me. That was the first time that I knew, really really knew that he cared for me, that he might even love me despite my teasing him about it earlier in the Jeep. "You love me," I sang. "You love me soo much," and loved the way he refused to deny it, the way he glared like a lion with no teeth or claws.

But this sketch isn't about me, it's about him. I need to be objective. "Close your eyes," I say and the hazel light goes out and I feel steadier again. But only just a little. The sight of his half-naked body arouses me. I feel the first, faint stirrings of an erection. Good thing I put on my sweats this morning. Although it's going to be distracting working with a hard-on all afternoon.

I flip open my sketch pad and walk around him, trying to figure out the best vantage point from which to draw him. The most obvious would be to sketch him dead-on from the front but I reject that. The thing about Brian is that although his obvious physical beauty is probably the first thing that catches your eye, that's not the reason you fall for him. There are plenty of beautiful men in the world but there's only one Brian. At least until Gus grows up and, even then, he'll be different. His set of circumstances will have made him into a different person from the man Brian is. Brian is more than just a beautiful face, a sexy body. He's like one of those pictures that look like a regular portrait from a distance but when you get up close you realize that the portrait is made up of hundreds of smaller pictures. That's Brian. You look at him and think that you see him when you see the hazel eyes and brown hair, the tall, slender frame, the raspberry red lips. But that's only on the outside. What's inside is so much more important. And that's the part that's hardest to get to. All he used to offer his tricks was the outside. They never got to see what was inside the seductive package but I did. I forced my way in; I was like a kid at Christmas who just knows that the biggest, brightest wrapped gift is his. I took what I wanted and no matter how hard he fought, I never stopped reaching. Sometimes I changed tactics but my goal was always in sight.

I knew from the moment I met him that I had to have him, all of him. Hearing his voice for the first time, I wanted to kiss him and take it inside me, the way I would later take his cock. I wanted to know him. Not that I had the words or the thoughts even to express my desires. Like all the others, at first, I was pretty taken with the wrapping but, later on, I began to hunger for more, for all of him, for the parts I knew he was keeping from me. I would see him with Mikey and the guys and I wanted that Brian. I wanted the Brian I had seen holding his son for the first time. I wanted the Brian who had sucked his coach off in the locker room at the age of fourteen. I wanted the man who once told me, "I love… the way your skin feels when I touch you. I love touching you. I love your smile." And I got him.

Only, like most things, I hadn't been completely cognizant of what I was getting or whom. He was and is a more complex man than he seems from the outside. As strong as he is, I want to protect him--I have to protect him; as beautiful as he is, there are ugly places inside him; as dark as he seems on the outside, there is a light, an aura about him that shines so bright. And now I want the man who cried because he couldn't be all things to all people; who was never sure if he was good enough; who was always pushing himself to be the best so that everyone would want him and he'd never be rejected again. He's a mass of contradictions, a conundrum. And as complicated as he is, he generates feelings just as complex in others. His seduction is far from simple.

So I reject the head-on pose because that's not the way it works, his sensuality. It is a more subtle thing. I circle him. A more oblique thing. I pause at his head and look down the line of his body. From my vantage point I can see the top of his head, the tip of his nose, the sienna covered chest, a thatch of pubic hair, and the tops of his thighs. Parts. Parts that fool you into thinking they make up the entire man, concealing the other hidden components. That was the way it worked.

Taking a stool from the bar, I perch at his head and begin to draw. He doesn't grumble as I spend the next two hours capturing him in the pages of my pad. As the light changes, so do my impressions of him, until he is almost all shadows.

I've finished the preliminary drawings. Later, I'll begin work on the actual portrait. Much later.

Putting down my sketch pad, I move the stool back to its customary place and return to the head of the chaise lounge. He's still sprawled out on it, having no qualms about lying around half-naked. I've never known anyone more comfortable in their bare skin.

"Through?" he asks, the first words he's spoken for over two hours. He understands the concentration needed to work.

"Um-hm," I say and slide my hands down his chest, rest my head on the top of his crown. He waits. I clench the sweater in my hands and rub it over his chest and belly, slowly, sensually as if I were gently washing away the day's dirt. He stretches beneath my strokes, catlike, pleased. I mold my hands to his pecs and rotate my palms over his nipples, feeling them harden through the thin material. Moving around to the side of the chair, I bend over and kiss him while reaching for his cock. Grip it beneath the smooth material and rub his balls. He exhales inside my mouth, urging me on. I continue to stroke him until he starts to swell. Pausing in my ministrations, I look down at him, at the bulge beneath the sweater that matches the one at my crotch. Swiftly, I undress and climb onto the chaise lounge, sit on the seat facing him. As if unwrapping a gift, I slide the edge of the sweater up over his cock. It springs from its confinement, offering itself.

Accepting, I bow my back and take him between my lips. My tongue lazily inscribes circles around the head. Then I begin to tap the tip with my tongue. That never fails to excite me when he does it to me. Slowly at first, then faster, faster in tempo, a song I sing upon his flesh, la la la la la. I hold onto his thighs and feel his muscles tense in response to my actions. I love his cock. I rotate my head, I tug on him, I slide down the length of his shaft and tighten my lips about the root. Moan around him, sending vibrations from base to tip. And he moans. And he raises his feet from the floor so that only the toes remain in contact with the tile. And he lightly grips the back of my head and holds me still while he catches his breath. When his breathing slows once more, I begin again. As I suck him, I can feel my own cock pressing against the leather seat below me. I know that I'm dripping, my cockhead slides through wetness. My hole clenches and releases in time to the throbbing of Brian's dick against my tongue. It wants him inside. I want him inside.

Sitting upright, I stand and move until I'm crouched over his groin. I push at his sweater and reach for his cock. He takes the hem from me and holds it up while I position his erection. Spit slicked and slippery with precum, it presses against my hole and slides inside. I release the breath I've been holding and slowly sit down upon his lap. He was right, that first time, when I asked him if it would always hurt and he said, "A little. But that's part of it." Even that gives me pleasure. Inches of hard cock push up me. At the end of the trip, I close my eyes and lean my head against his shoulder, savoring the feel of him lodged inside me.

And then we fuck. So hard I can barely breathe. There'll be another note from the super for sure tomorrow morning. I'm moaning and I don't care who hears it cause it feels so good. My entire body is flushed, I'm so hot I want to come out of my skin. And we fuck. The chaise lounge creaking from our exertions, sweat dropping from my forehead to land on his sweater. I grab the sweater, twist it in my fist and drag it over his head, trapping his arms. The sight of him bound turns me on. His face is hidden but I can hear him breathing, I can see the fabric fluttering. He looks helpless and yet I'm the one impaled on him. I'm fixed on his erection but I control our fucking.

Nipples the color of cinnamon stand out from his chest. I lean over and lick one, suck on it, nip it with my teeth and hear him cry out, the sound muffled by silk and wool. Impossibly, his dick hardens even more.

Mouth open, one hand bunched up in the sweater to keep it in place, I ride his cock. I love his cock. I could sing songs about it, about how beautiful it is, how beautiful it feels inside me, how complete it makes me feel, how beautiful. I gyrate my hips lazily, dancing for him. For a moment I'm tempted to turn around and take him inside me from behind so that he can watch my ass move as we fuck. He loves my ass. He tells me that all the time. When we kiss and he cups it in his hands; when he walks behind me, watching my hips sway; when he has me opened up beneath him, his tongue buried in my hole; when he kneels behind me and fucks me til I scream. But it feels too good right now, just the way we are, and I don't want to break the connection, not even for a moment. And I don't want to release his arms or uncover his face.

Just the sight of him bound like that has made my cock rock-hard. It juts against his belly, smearing his skin with silvery precum. I reach for it with my free hand, fingers sliding over the slick head. Press the tip against his navel. The wrinkled button is like a tiny asshole and I push against it as if I want to enter him. The sensation, coupled with the idea of fucking him while he's fucking me, makes me dizzy. I tighten around him and he gasps, shudders. Now. Now, something inside me says. Before I lose all strength in my legs, I stand, still holding the edge of the sweater, now holding my cock as well, and I thrust it against his cloth-covered mouth. The soft fibers of the sweater abrade my tender flesh and I wince but the sensation is pleasurable nonetheless. Harder and harder I thrust against his face until I feel my dick swell one last time and I come. Creamy strands crisscross the sienna-colored hills and valleys of his face like paths to some hidden place that only he and I know. Releasing my cock, I grip the back of the lounge until I'm able to stand unaided. I still have the sweater twisted in my fist. I push down on his head and he understands, slides forward until he's lying supine on the chair. I no longer have to keep the make-shift hood and restraints in place; gravity does that for me.

Again I sit between his legs and I again I face his cock. I grasp him in my fist and pull. The ripe head expands. I stroke him again and his dick jumps in my hand. His muffled cries communicate his need. I tug harder, faster until his back suddenly arches and his cock head opens to release thick streams of cum. I direct them towards my face. He comes on my skin, pale streaks in faint relief against my pale complexion. Sometimes I dream about bathing in his cum, about kneeling at his feet as he showers me with spunk, so much that I can open my mouth and drink my fill, rub it over my nipples, my belly, my cock. Even though, in reality, he can't come like that, he's still my fantasy and I love every drop that falls on me. And when he's done, I crawl up him and kiss his mouth, still trapped behind his mask. I can't see his face but I know him: I know every inch of him, every expression, every desire, every need. I know him by heart.

I kiss him and rub my face against his until our cum mixes and soaks the strands of his burnt sienna sweater.

Heels Over Head | Stories