Both forms tap into the basis of human sensuality, which I would conclude, drives the lustful, twisted animals within our very human nature. The question lies in whether by articulating these deeply hidden traits is in essence an artist’s license and a form of self-expression, or simply crude and graphic baseless sexual perversity?
It drives the point of whether art is meant to be arousing. And if so, do you conclude that it makes it pornographic?
Professor Mathiasson
Ps: I suggest more research on this topic and you can enlighten me with your fresh perspective on Tuesday.
I’m sure the professor didn’t mean to fuel my lustful thoughts with his scholarly language or give me a hard-on with his educated and academically written response, but it was all I could do to keep from sliding my hand down my pants to tug one out as I read the words in his email.
Lucas’s words filled my mind with the hottest sexual fantasies I’d ever had. It not only got me off but also inspired a painting of soft pastels that I began and finished earlier this morning. An impressionist painting of two men, one older and taller than the other, wrapped up naked in each other’s arms. Their bodies lax and languid, cocks hanging limply to imply their sated states of arousal, as if they’d just gotten each other off in the most magnificent of climaxes and were satisfied to simply hold onto one another until the next round of lovemaking.
It was probably one of the easiest paintings I’d ever done, the brush strokes flying over the canvas as I envisioned the positions of their bodies and captured it in the visual art. And it all stemmed from the fantasy of the two men as Lucas and me.
So yeah, it’s not as if I’m not horny and down-to-fuck, but Atlas’s offer doesn’t quite have the appeal that I’m looking for. He’s not Lucas.
“Well, maybe some other time, then. But damn, Monet, you sure put on a great show tonight. Very hot.” He calls me by my stage name and licks a finger, pressing it to his ass that he juts out with flare and signals it with a sizzling sound.
I throw my head back and laugh at his antics, waving a goodbye as I meander through the crowded hallway toward the back door. As I do, I’m greeted with all sorts of filthy debauchery on my way out. Tongues, mouths, bodies, and flesh seeking out the desires they need to have fulfilled.
By the time I get home, it’s after one a.m. and as I walk into my silent apartment, with Pey-Pey having long since gone to bed, I wonder why I didn’t take Atlas up on his offer.
I’m horny and need a release from all the sensual activity from tonight’s shift.
Pussy Cat follows me into my room, jumping on my bed with a soft thump, curving her body into me as I plop down across the mattress, brushing against me with a soft purr.
I lay face up, tipping my chin down to watch her seek my attention. I give her a nice head rub as she begs me for more by pushing her head into my palm.
“You’re such a needy girl, aren’t you?” Her only response is a mewl.
God, I’m needy too.
I turn to face the fall where I’ve set my painting earlier this morning and I’m suddenly craving my professor’s critique and reaction to the painting. Shifting suddenly, I reach over to the bedtable for my laptop, startling Pussy Cat who leaps off the bed and looks back at me in a huff, her bright blue eyes staring me down as if I’ve disrupted her entire evening.
Opening up my email, I pull up the last exchange I had with Lucas. I snap a picture of the piece perched on a stand over in the corner of my room, and attach it to my email.
Dear Professor Mathiasson,
I’m curious to get your opinion on this impressionist piece of art. Do you find it a realistic depiction of gay lovers in a romantic embrace or would you characterize it as sexually explicit, an erotic portrayal of two men after they’ve made each other come so hard that they can barely breathe?
Your Student,
Kyler
I swallow, suddenly so thirsty and eager to hear from him, but certain I won’t get anything back this late at night.
Setting my laptop back on the side table, I jump up to run to the kitchen for something to drink when my phone pings in my pocket. Thinking it’s the boys from the bar, I give it a quick glance before opening the fridge. My eyes grow wide and fixate on the number and message that draws my attention down to the screen.
Unknown: This is your professor. My professional opinion is that the painting has beautiful and exquisite detail, and I would dare say it’s simply a romantic illustration of two lovers embracing.
Unknown: My personal critique, however, is that I think it is hot as fuck, which I can’t very well include in my email back to you. And I feel like I’ve lived out that scene with one of my lovers who looks an awful lot like one of your models. I assume that you painted this from a real-life experience? Perhaps one that you continue to fantasize over?
The water bottle slips from my hand and drops to the floor as I gape at the message.
Holy shit. This is bad.
Very, very bad.
But wouldn’t you know it’s exactly what I want and need right in this very moment and time.
9
Lucas
This is wrong.
So very, very wrong.
I know I shouldn’t have texted Kyler tonight – knew it like I know the sky is blue. I should’ve done the right thing and waited until Monday when I could give him an altogether professional response in-person that wasn’t dripping and heavily laden with sexual innuendo.
But instead, because I’m feeling buzzed after coming home and drinking two very strong martinis, which had me already thinking of Kyler in all manner of inappropriate ways, I went there and did exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do. I cornered Kyler into telling me about the painting he created and sent me. The painting is clearly the two of us.
How do I know this? Because I remember the scene perfectly, etched in indelible stone in my head, as if it just happened yesterday, not months prior.
The painting depicts the afterglow of our lovemaking. After my cock had been inside Kyler’s impossibly tight body, having depleted myself of everything I had, as his dick erupted in my hand between us, his hot release gushing over our already sticky bodies.
It was that quiet moment between us, as our bodies and breaths came down from that momentous high, as he bent his head into my neck, my nostrils taking in his intoxicating scent of citrus shampoo and his salty essence.
He was so warm against me, our connection having changed course, turning from lustful to revering over the course of a few moments. Our dicks began to soften, but it was hard to relinquish my embrace long enough to take care of the condom. Something inside me shouted, “Don’t let him go.”
It was precisely why I impulsively texted him tonight upon the receipt of his email instead of waiting until Monday. The painting evoked too many heady emotions and feelings in me to wait.
I needed him now.
I somehow knew he’d be awake, assuming he’d been out doing whatever college kids his age do on Saturday nights. Which bothered me to think of all those wild parties and hookups he’d be participating in. Jealousy consumed me.
And I made my response overly implicit.
Surprisingly, there wasn’t a long wait long for his reply, which is good, since I think I’ve been holding my breath.
My body burns with the desire to be dirty tonight.