Noah

Classes had been in session for a week, and yet, Noah still walked around in a daze. There were so many students, thousands upon thousands of students making their way to class, lined up in one of the cafeterias, or just sitting around campus reading, studying, or messing around with a cell phone. It was relentless, this constant contact with others, no room to breathe. After the first day he had one of his panic attacks, calling home to tell his mother to come get him. But she had spoken softly, soothed his fears so that by the time they hung up he was ready to go back to class.

He knew this was the start of something important. A way to a better life, one his father and mother worked tirelessly to provide for him. He was the oldest, the first in the family to go to college, and there were times he felt it as some burden. Some challenge he occasionally had doubts he could accomplish. It wasn’t the course work, for that came easy for him, even though it did demand of him more study than any class in grade school. It was the social aspects of being a student, getting to know others and making friends. He was shy, introverted, coming across as standoffish or stoic when he didn’t mean to. Even his dormmate called him a snob their first day together, later apologizing for it, when he realized the truth.

The problem was he wasn’t comfortable in his own skin. He knew he wasn’t ugly but when he looked in a mirror, he saw someone average to the point of boring. Brown hair, cut short in the common style of most others. A lean build he considered skinny in times of self-doubt, but knew by just looking around at others, he was average. Average. Boring. His green eyes, the way they looked like emeralds in the light, was one thing he liked about himself, and he wore colors that would accentuate them. But his clothes were something else. He saw those dressed differently, styles that he had never seen. He grew up outside Baskin City, and even though they were close to Charlotte, his mother didn’t splurge on clothing, preferring to buy from the local discount retailers to save money. Therefore, he wore plaid shirts, t-shirts, or simple pullovers with cheap jeans that never seemed to fit his narrow waist.

The guys on campus that captured his attention the most were those he considered exotic, different from the boys he went through grade school. The way they dressed, or the earrings that were not cheap fake diamonds, but large hoops or an unusual piece dangling from a small chain from one ear. Fueling his fears and desires, he watched these boys, the way they walked and moved, or the way they sounded when talking to someone, accents so very different from his own.

And he watched them, wondering how to break his cycle of fear, of holding back from expressing his attraction toward one of them. Back home it was so easy to not act out, for as a fourteen year old boy, whose sexuality was fully realized, there had been no outlet to express it, or a boy of sixteen, who had a driver’s license but no car, relying on his parent’s when it was available, or a boy of eighteen, graduating from high school, with classmates who made comments, both racist and homophobic, pushing him further and further away from them. There had been no other boy that was the same, not that he had crossed paths with during his teenage years, and so he felt inexperienced, naïve, a boy who was still a virgin. He had been on campus only a week, when the possibilities became evident. Two guys holding hands, some dressed in a manner that spoke to their sexuality and the stickers on car bumpers, bicycles or skateboards. He saw two boys flirting in his English class and wondered why it couldn’t be him.

Noah was an English major, knowing it would be one more thing that could make for a hard life. He wanted to write stories, to be an author. He kept a journal and sat at his computer for hours writing stories, in search of his voice, the way to tell them that would be his. He had written about far away worlds with boys lost, trying to find their way, stories about loss, the passing of his grandmother giving him the words he needed, and he wrote about boys seeking love and finding it, fairy tales he dreamed of coming true.

His other classes were the requisites of the curriculum, with World History, Calculus, Social Science and French, his foreign language. And he squeezed one more class into his schedule, one his advisor suggested he wait until he was settled into life on campus, but he saw it as just the thing he needed to help him adjust. It was a freehand drawing class in art. He didn’t feel like a true artist, but he loved to draw, to create drawings that reflected something from his stories. It was in the afternoon, starting at 1 and going two hours, three days a week, and it was in Biggin Hall, a midcentury modern building with studios facing the downtown through tall windows that span the entire rooms. And it was a class he was so excited about, like a little treat from the other prerequisites he had to take, he rushed to it each day, arriving early. He took a book and his journal, sitting in the corridor outside the room, waiting for the time for class to begin.

He could have waited in the room for there was no class in it the hour before, but he was in a place that enticed him, made him feel some sense of connection. So, he sat in the corridor, reading or writing or watching guys pass by. Guys that were more exotic to him than any from his other classes. The way they dressed, which spoke of personalities he would like to get to know. And he found, during the first week and over the period of three art classes, there was one guy that captured his attention like no other.

Monday had been the most intimidating day of his life, letting his sense of inadequacy get to him as he seemed to stumble from class to class until finally at last, he found himself waiting for the start of his art class. He had been trying to read, but the passing of one guy after the next was a distraction he couldn’t control. There were guys with blue or purple hair, some with earrings lining one ear, something intriguing but unappealing to him, and there were guys with tattoo sleeves, brightly colored images collaged up the arm. And there was their way of dressing. White dress shirts smeared with paint, black t-shirts, or casual shirts in colors he had never seen in fabrics, and shirts influenced by other cultures, in colorful patterns, or the way they were configured.

About five till the hour, novel stashed into his backpack, having given up on being able to focus, he saw him. Tall, lean, with wavy black hair just a little long. And he had skin white as marble, that reflected every chiseled feature of his face. From the right earlobe, an earring with a mythic symbol dangling from a chain. Noah wasn’t sure, but it looked Celtic or Nordic and he wondered what it meant. Then there was the long black coat, white banded collar shirt and black jeans that were tucked into black boots. He glanced up every couple of seconds as the guy approached, never daring to stare for long. He felt his desires flare up, like a stroked furnace, making his heart race in his chest. Only ten feet away, able to hear each footfall, he glanced up again and saw the dark eyes, almost black, looking back. He cut his eyes down, embarrassed to be caught looking, but had seen at that last moment of eye contact, the guy smiled.

The guy passed him, moving down the corridor, and Noah looked at the back of him, getting the full measure of his stature. Passing an open door, he saw how tall the guy was by comparing him to it, well over six feet, and his own five foot nine seemed another average thing about himself. He watched until the guy turned a corner, wondering about his story.

Wednesday arrived with a slow drizzling rain, and Noah found himself sitting in the corridor, wet umbrella by his side, sketching in his journal an image from a story he had been working on the night before. He drew the main character, a boy of sixteen, standing at the entrance of an underground place, with an ornate door surrounded by skulls and dragons and all manner of winged beasts. It allowed him to ignore most of the guys that were passing by, but about five till the hour, he saw from the corner of his eye the long black coat coming his way. He let his hand rest on his legs, pen loose in his fingers, as he looked up with quick glances at the approaching figure. The guy was wet, hair hanging down seductively, like seen in some modeling shoot, and he imagined running his fingers through it. He looked down and saw underneath the coat was a white shirt, some pullover with a low cut neck, revealing some of the upper chest, and Noah found his eyes looking at the exposed skin, following the little hollow spot below the neck then up it, until he was looking at the face, one looking back. He coughed, choking on his embarrassment, as he looked down, trying to put pen to paper, anything to look busy and not some silly boy struggling to look away. He heard a chuckle, and the guy seemed to hesitate just a step, but far too soon, he was receding down the corridor with Noah’s eyes on his back.

Friday arrived with one more blast of summer heat before giving way completely to fall. It was in the mid-eighties and everyone had pulled out their shorts and lightest shirts. Noah had on cargo shorts and a bright yellow t-shirt that looked good with his skin tone. He sat in the corridor, feet on top of his sandals, knees up, writing in his journal. A new chapter that took his boy to a place where he would finally meet someone special. He liked the scene he had created, and wrote furiously to get the story from his mind down to the page, in words that someone else could experience. Guys passed for twenty minutes without him looking up once. But at five till one, he could no longer keep his eyes down, and he almost gasp when he saw him coming down the corridor.

He wore a tank top, but not like the guys from back home with large open sides, or the guys who went to the gym and wore tank tops that were tight, revealing much of their upper bodies. This one was gray, loose fitting, that was cut low at the neck but not on the sides. It hung on the tall, lean body revealing one that had a natural muscular build. And below, black shorts, baggy and hanging down to the knees. And he still wore the boots. Noah couldn’t help but stare longer than usual, watched the guy approach until only about fifteen feet away, and he forced himself to look away, pretending to return to his writing.

The boots came into view, turned toward him and stopped, and his eyes moved up the laced fronts, then the black socks, the legs with a dusting of black hair, then the shorts. He froze, unable to look up further, afraid the guy would see it in his face. Some blatant lusting after him.

“What are you writing about?” The voice was husky, deep, with a slight southern accent.

Noah looked up and saw a smiling face. “I…I huh…it’s nothing really. Just a story.”

“A story? Are you writing a novel?”

“I…huh…sort of,” Noah replied, thinking he should divert his eyes but unable, staring up at the dark brown eyes looking down. He saw the relaxed expression, with a gentle smile. “I’m just practicing, you know, trying to find a style that is…mine.”

“Nice. I see you here but not in any other classes. Are you an art major?”

“No; English.”

“Interesting. But you’re taking Ms. Jenkins class.”

“Yes. It’s really nice to have something different from all my other classes.”

A step closer, the body squatting down in front of him until they were almost face to face. “I’m Dylan.”

“Noah.”

“Noah,” Dylan repeated. He leaned closer, “do you have any plans later? It’s Friday and, well, would you like to go grab dinner somewhere?”

“Seriously?” Noah replied, and his tone revealed his surprise at being asked. Dylan smiled at him, nodding his head.

“Yes. Do you have plans for the evening already?”

“No! No, I don’t have any plans.”

Noah watched Dylan slip his satchel from the right shoulder and dig out a composition notebook. He tore out a page and laid it on top, then reached in, pulling out a black marker. Noah watched him write neatly across the page in large block letters.

Dylan Davenport

Below it a telephone number. Dylan tore the page in half, then handed both to Noah.

“Give me your number and address. I’ll pick you up at seven. Okay?”

“Okay,” Noah replied, taking the two sheets, tucking one in his journal and writing on the blank one.

Noah Shelton

Stanton Hall, Room 324

            Noah then wrote his telephone number, the first time he had ever given it out to someone who wasn’t’ family. His hand shook and he found himself holding his breath. He handed the sheet back to Dylan, and watched it get folded and slipped into a side pocket of the satchel.

“Well, Noah, I have to get to class. I’ll see you at seven.”

Noah sat on the floor, dumbstruck, mouth hanging open, as he stared down the corridor where moments before Dylan had turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Then he smiled to the point of laughing, as he climbed to his feet to get into the class.

Noah stood at his closet, staring at the clothes hanging inside. He flipped through them again, and still none of his shirts looked appropriate. He had ran into town after class knowing there were two clothing stores for men, and grimace at the cost of the black jeans he had laid down on the counter, wondering how he’d keep them secret from his mother, when his account dropped so much after only a week of classes. His textbooks had been expensive, but he had bought used for everything, saving a few dollars, and hoped he could hide the cost of the jeans within the expenses of those books. He wanted a shirt too, but dared not tempt fate and settled just on the jeans. He assumed something in his closet would look okay with them. But sliding the last shirt across the rod, he knew none of them would do. He thought about how Dylan and others had been dressed over the last week, and realized simple t-shirts were worn at times, so he pulled out one, and slipped it on. Looking in the mirror, something wasn’t right. He rolled up the sleeves, shortening them, revealing his skinny arms, thinking it was a mistake, but looking in the mirror, he liked the way he looked. He tucked the t-shirt into his jeans and picked up the cheap black belt he wore and considered whether, or not to wear it. He looked at the buckle with its brand name stamped in it and tossed it down into the drawer, and closed it.

He didn’t own any boots, but he did have some black dress shoes that were plain, and with the jeans felt they would do. Wallet and keys in his pocket and cell phone in hand, so he could glance at the time, he watched the minutes pass, one at a time. Seven o’clock arrived and he began to panic, thinking Dylan had been teasing him in some way, but two minutes past the hour, a knock.

Dylan stood at the door in a black shirt and shorts, and those heavy black boots. The shirt was buttoned up all the way, giving it a formal look, contrasting with the shorts and boots, and to Noah’s eyes, looking perfect.

“Hey, you ready to go?”

“Yes,” Noah replied and stepped out, locking his door and falling in beside Dylan.

“I was afraid I’d be really late. I had trouble parking nearby.”

“You’re not late.”

“It was close. I found a parking spot in some visitors lot below Benefield Hall.”

“Geez, all the way over there? There’s another visitor’s lot to the west of Clifton.”

“There is? I’ll have to remember for next time.”

Next time, Noah thought, and his heart began to race in his chest.

Outside, the day still warm, even with the sun set to bring it to an end, they made their way across the commons between the dorms until circling Benefield, and moving out into the small visitor’s parking lot.

They strolled past SUV’s, sports cars, sedans handed down, and trucks. It was a cross section of what could be in any parking lot. But down at the end of the row, next to the island, there sat a black roadster with an off-white lower body. It was a convertible, with red leather interior and knock-off wire wheels. Noah’s eyes were drawn to the car, one he had never seen before, admiring the way it stood out among all the others. When Dylan turned to go to its driver’s door, he froze behind it.

“This is your car?”

Dylan smiled, nodding his head. “It belonged to a great uncle, and when he died, I bought it from the family, so, yes, it’s mine.”

“What is it?” Noah asked as he eased down the passenger side, seeing the lower white color ended at the front wheel opening.

“Austin Healey, a 3000 MK1 to be exact. You like it?”

“Shit…its…great.”

“Well, get in and let’s go.”

Noah felt vulnerable, exposed, riding along the road that separated campus from town. The sidewalks were busy with students heading into town and he saw the stares. The looks of envy or jealousy, as Dylan navigated through the traffic and pedestrians crossed the street at every crosswalk. They cut through downtown, and out to the Stonehaven neighborhood, where the shops, restaurants and bars catered more to the professors and residents of the town, and even here, Noah felt eyes watching them.

Dylan pulled into a small parking lot and Noah saw their destination was across the street. An old drugstore building, its original sign still hanging out front, that had been converted to a restaurant. Inside he found the space tall and airy, with the original tin ceiling and wood paneled walls painted a deep red. Seated in a booth, Noah scanned the room, seeing no other students.

“We’re the only students in here,” Noah whispered.

“I know; isn’t it great,” Dylan replied, winking at Noah.

Noah was shocked at the prices, wondering how he could afford such a meal, when he saw Dylan lean forward. “Noah, this is on me. I know it is pricey but I’m sick of eating cafeteria food and glad to have someone with me to enjoy it. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“Okay,” Noah replied, not sure he could avoid worrying about the cost. He scanned the menu, looking at the price by each item, when he felt a tap on his hand.

“Hey, do you like prime rib?”

“Steak? Yeah.”

Dylan smiled. “I say we each get a prime rib with the mash and a salad. A simple American meal. What do you think?”

“Yeah, that works,” Noah replied, glad to have the decision taken from him, and he sensed Dylan knew it.

 It was nearly nine by the time they finished dessert, something Dylan had insisted on, and were making their way out. There was a crowd outside waiting to get seated, and they made their way through them until near the curb.

“Dylan? Dylan Davenport?” a voice called out.

They turned to see a man and woman coming toward them.

“Mr. Beaumont; how are you this evening?” said Dylan, taking a step toward them.

“Good, good. This is my wife, Natalie. Natalie, this is Dylan, one of my students, and a promising one, I hope. And I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” looking at Noah.

“I’m Noah.”

“Are you an art major too?” Natalie asked.

“No’ mam; English.”

“Oh, a writer in the making,” Natalie replied.

“So, what brings you out here?” Elliot Beaumont asked, looking at Dylan.

“A decent restaurant that affords one the opportunity to converse,” Dylan replied, smiling at his professor.

“I guess burgers and pizza do get old.”

“Tell me about it,” Noah blurted out, and everyone looked his way, grinning. He blushed and Natalie smiled at him, putting a hand on his arm.

“You’re so cute,” she whispered, then looked at Dylan with a knowing smile.

“We need to get inside, but you guys enjoy your evening,” said Elliot, leading his wife to the front door.

They were halfway back to the campus when Dylan looked over to Noah, seeing him watch the scenes of night life along the street.

“Hey, its still early and since a bar is out of the question, you want to come back to my place and hang out?”

Noah turned and seemed to be trying to process what Dylan had asked. “Your dormmate won’t be home?”

“Dormmate? I don’t live in a dorm. I rent one of the old homes near campus.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I wanted space for a studio, so I rent the house. One of the bedrooms is my studio.”

“Wow, must be nice.”

“What do you say? It’s not even nine thirty.”

“Okay.”

Noah sat on the sofa as Dylan stirred around in the kitchen. He had been shown around the living and dining room, the small kitchen and looked out the back where a small porch overlooked a yard. But he had not seen the studio, Dylan saving it for later, telling him it was time to relax.

When Dylan came into the living room, he carried glasses not quite half full. The golden liquid had one large cube of ice and two cherries.

“What is this?” Noah asked.

“Manhattans.”

Dylan settled on the other end of the sofa as they sipped the drinks, feeling the warming that coursed through them with each one.

“So, you’re from a small town in North Carolina. Must have been tough.”

“It was okay. Where are you from?” Noah asked, finally getting past his anxiousness to ask Dylan about his life.

“I grew up in Nashville.”

“Nashville?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” Dylan replied, grinning. “We’re not all country music fanatics. I appreciate some of it, but my taste in music is different.”

“What do your parents do?”

“Dad owns a small restaurant in downtown and mom teaches art at the university.”

“Sounds interesting,” Noah uttered, thinking of his own life, and his parents, and how ordinary they were compared to Dylan’s.

“Mom is the one that originally pushed me doing art, but surprisingly she changed her tune when I announced I was majoring in it. Dad…well, he wasn’t around much, working in the restaurant all hours, seven days a week.”

“Dad was upset with me majoring in English. A wasted opportunity, he called it.”

“It’s all about the money.”

“Well, we were poor for a long time, and it influences all their decisions.”

“What was it like growing up gay?”

“What?!” Noah exclaimed, shocked at the bluntness of the question.

“I’m sorry but I thought you were…”

“I…am…it’s just I never…” Noah stammered, unsure how to confess to Dylan he was still closeted. That he left home an isolated teenager, still a virgin.

“Oh, you’ve never came out, or had a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“It’s okay to admit it. I’ve only had one, and he turned out to be a prick.”

“What happened?”

“The usual, I guess. He dumped me to pursue someone else. Some older guy who worked in a recording studio, so I know Mark was angling for something. But honestly, I think the guy was just a tech support who liked luring younger guys with false hopes.”

“So….do you like me?” Noah asked.

“Yes, I do. What I know so far is someone who is different from me, someone with a different past. I like that. And I like the fact you’re pursuing what you want regardless of the odds.”

Noah smiled, despite himself. Dylan moved across the sofa, setting his empty glass on the coffee table, settling next to Noah.

“I’ve seen how nervous you’ve been, but really, Noah, relax. Just be yourself; it’ll be okay.”

Noah nodded, looking at Dylan. He saw him move toward him, closer and closer and when only about a foot apart, he closed the distance, feeling lips press against his own. A simple kiss, lingering just long enough to show Dylan was serious.

Dylan sat back, looking at Noah. “Will you do something for me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Will you pose for me? Let me draw you. I know it might sound silly or some fucking cliché, but…will you pose for me?”

“Seriously. You want to draw me?”

“Yes. It is how I really look at someone. See everything about them. The things that they think are flaws that make them human. And by drawing them, I see their beauty.”

“Did Mark pose?”

“Not at first, but eventually, but by then. I knew there was something between us.”

“Okay.”

Dylan stood, holding out a hand to help Noah up. He led him to the small hall off the dining room, and to the back bedroom that functioned as a studio. Cutting on the lights with their white reflectors, the room became bright, its white walls seeming to glow. There were two easels set up, one with a painting in progress and the other holding a large sketch pad. There was a chair and small desk on the interior wall and in the far corner, a platform about eighteen inches high. Dylan opened the closet door taking out a white blanket and spread it neatly over the platform.

“Okay, take off your clothes,” said Dylan as he stepped up to the desk taking out a pencil case.

“What? You want me to remove…I don’t know. Dylan, I can’t…”

“Why? Don’t be embarrassed. Besides, would you not get naked with me later? Will you not stay with me tonight?”

Noah saw Dylan as someone who didn’t hold back. No hesitation, or pretending there was nothing going on between them. But to get naked, in those bright lights, for him to draw. It was too much.

“Noah,” Dylan whispered, moving up close. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

Noah looked up, knowing his answer. “Yes.”

“Then this is just us feeling each other out. If it helps,” said Dylan, as he began to unbutton his own shirt. Noah watched as each button was slipped free, until the shirt fell open, and he was holding his breath as thoughts of reaching out and touching him raced through his mind. “You can touch me; it’s okay.”

Noah reached out and grazed fingertips over Dylan’s chest, feeling the smoot firm skin. He followed the sternum, then the collarbone to the right.

Dylan undid his shorts and let them fall to his ankles, kicking them off. Noah took the waistband of his t-shirt, and pulled it over his head, revealing himself to another guy in a manner driven by sexual arousal. He undid his jeans as he watched Dylan’s boxers fall around ankles and get kicked off. He stared at Dylan’s cock, the way it hung flaccid over the sac. He worked his jeans down, and off each leg, tossing them to the side. He took a deep breath, stared at Dylan as he lowered his boxers, letting go when the waistband loosened, letting them drop. He saw Dylan look at him as he stood before him. Then he felt fingers touch him, slowly, gently, manipulating his cock till he felt his arousal grow.

“You want to wait a little while before posing for me?” Dylan asked as he stroked Noah’s cock to full erection.

“Yes,” Noah replied, breathlessly.

Dylan led him to the small platform and lay him back on the blanket covering it. Easing down to his knees, Dylan took him in his mouth. Noah shuddered at the feel of it, a sensation never felt before and he struggled not to push upward. Hands held his thighs as mouth moved on his cock. Fast, slow, then fast again, lips moved up and down the hard shaft. Dylan held Noah in a tight grip and tongued the head, bore his tongue into the slit making him shiver. With lips around the head, he sank Noah back into his mouth.

It was too much. Too fast. The feel of Dylan’s mouth on his cock. He bucked upward. Then fell back, eyes closed and shuddered with release. As he came, cock spurting wad after wad, lips tightened around the head and took every ejaculation. Then fingers milked the shaft to draw out the last drop.

Noah felt his sexuality like never before. It was overpowering, made all the times he masturbated pale in comparison. He thought of his most intimate moments masturbating, the times he felt secure enough to strip naked and jack off slowly, and to slip his other hand down between his legs and toy with his hole. The times he fingered himself and how he fantasized about a guy fucking him. And how over the last few hours he imagined it again, only this time it was Dylan fucking him.

Leaning up, looking down his lean body, cock still hard, wet from Dylan’s ministrations, he stared at him, still on knees between his legs. “Fuck me…please.”

Dylan looked at him, smiled softly, then moved up. Legs on each shoulder, he rose, lifting them up until he was standing before Noah, legs held to his chest and Noah’s ass pulled up, spread open in front of him. He leaned down to it, put his cock to the tight opening and rubbed it, circling his cock head over it, then raking it up and down until Noah was wet with his precum. He pushed against the tight opening and watched Noah, the change in expression as he breached the tightness of it, and pushed the head of his cock into him. He saw Noah grimace, shivering from the penetration, and he held still. Noah seemed to relax to him, opened his eyes and leaned up.

“Put it in me…all of it…I want it,” Noah stammered, staring into Dylan’s eyes.

Dylan pushed slowly with his hips and felt every inch squeeze through the tightness and sink into the heat of Noah’s body. He pushed until hips pressed against ass, then moved over him, folding him in half. He let his body press down on Noah’s legs until thighs were tight against the lean torso, and he began to fuck.

He moved slowly inside of Noah, pushed cock into the depths of his body. He shivered too, at the tight grip on his cock, how Noah milked his shaft as he tugged outward then pushed back in. Over and over, until he had to speed up, his arousal too great, this need to feel his cock manipulated by Noah’s hole. He kissed Noah, dragged lips along the side of his face, over the ear, tugging on it with his teeth. All the while fucking his ass.

And Noah responded. Dylan felt lips push back against his own, felt them moved down and over his chin and down his neck. He felt hands move up his sides, then fingers dig into flesh, desperate, letting him feel this urgency for their sex. The lean body began to move, to undulate with his fuck, increasing the contact between them. It was never like this with Mark, who lay passive. It was more than he could imagine, to have someone so responsive to his ministrations. He heard the soft mutterings that grew louder and louder until he could understand Noah’s pleadings for him to fuck faster. Harder. And he did, rising up on hands and worked his hips until his muscles burned and skin grew hot, wet, sweat trickling down it. He looked down to see Noah masturbating, hand a blur, keeping pace with his fuck. Then he saw cum fly from Noah’s cock, already releasing his second load, and it was as the first, thick wads spurting from his cock. It rained down on chest and stomach until puddles covered both. Dylan leaned down, let their bodies rub together, slickly with Noah’s cum. The scent filled the room, as he rubbed his body over Noah’s until it felt bathed in it. Then he shoved into Noah’s depths and came.

It was nearly two in the morning and Noah lay back on the platform, propped up on pillows, naked, nothing concealed from Dylan, who was at his easel, eyes going from Noah to his drawing, working furiously to capture the moment. He stood at the easel naked, cum flaking off his chest as he drew. He had Noah shower after their sex, wanting his skin clean. He was capturing the innocent Noah, the pure soul who gave himself to him. He drew the flaccid cock that lay heavy over the sac, the legs splayed apart and the lean torso with the small nipples and prominent collarbone. And he drew the languid expression of the face. Eyes partially closed, with head tilted back. He drew it while thinking of the places he wanted to touch Noah with his lips.

Dylan would draw for another hour, then he would move to Noah and do those things imagined. They would have sex again and again until the sun cast morning light through the blinds, then they would shower and fall into Dylan’s bed for the rest of the day.

Four Years Later

The city was bright with artificial light, as always on any given night. The streets glistened wetly from a late afternoon rain, but the sky was now clear, the brightest stars visible despite the city’s lights. The gallery on 26th was busy, the night a grand opening of a new exhibit by a new artist. The crowd was fellow teachers, friends, and acquaintances, and those just curious about a new exhibit. There had been an interview for a local publication, with a photo of the least risqué image, the model on his stomach, and coming into the gallery two journalist that covered the art scene. The interior was lit up brightly, the large canvases and pencil drawings covering the walls standing out in stark relief. From the entrance, one large pencil drawing could be seen. It was a nude, the subject laying back, appearing relaxed, unconcerned with his exposure. It was simply titled “First.”

The images were arranged by mood in one area, and time frame in another, spanning a three-year period. They were always the same model, all nude, with various degrees of exposure. The rumors floated around about the artist and the model, what kind of relationship they may have. And how they met. Some say the model was a hustler from Atlanta, others say they simply met in a bar. Others say it was in art, the model luring the artist to his bed after posing for his class.

In the front window beside the entry, a large poster for the exhibit, and in it a painting of the model, nude of course, but this time provocative in his pose. Legs were spread concealing nothing. The shadows and use of color were vivid and many stared at the painting wondering if something was in the model’s ass. The artist wouldn’t say. At the top, the name of the exhibit, written out in the artist’s neat block style lettering: Noah.