Ups and Downs

The Reclusive Brock Archer

My time at my first art show was drawing to a close. Following the resoundingly successful auction of my sketches, I was again practically mobbed by attendees who wanted to see more of my work, have me model for them, have me sketch their likenesses, or have me drop my pants for them. Several asked me if the man in the sketches who was fucking me (Tyler) was my boyfriend. Sadly, I informed them that he was not, and that fact just motivated them more to get my attention.

Ward asked me if I wanted to grab some lunch and then go back to the hotel to pick up where we had left off the night before, but I informed him that I could not. “We’re heading back to Manhattan in a couple of hours,” I explained. “We’re going to have a late lunch/early dinner when we get back.” And I was also looking forward to Rocky’s concert that night at Madison Square Garden.

Just as Rafael was approaching us, I asked Ward when he was planning to return to the city, and he replied. “Not sure. I hitched a ride up, and I guess I’ll have to hitch a ride back.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Rafael chastised him. “We can all ride back in Papi’s limo. He wants to confer with Mr. Block before tomorrow’s session at the U.N., so he’s going to ride back on the train with them, which means we can have the limo all to ourselves.

“And when we get to our hotel, you can show me all the things you have been bragging about doing to my buddy Joe,” he added.

“Or maybe I can do them to you,” Ward smirked.

“Or maybe you and I can tag team Joe,” Rafael rejoindered.

“All right, guys,” I dismissed them. “We’ve only got a couple of hours before the show closes, and I still haven’t had more than a cursory look at the exhibits, so you guys can plot your revenge while I do that.”

Ward was still wearing nothing but his very sexy jock strap, so like the Pied Piper, he strolled through the dwindling crowd of men and enticed a couple of them to follow him and Rafael into the changing room. Imagining what they were going to do in there almost gave me another erection.

Though many of the artworks at the show had been sold, most were still on exhibit—not just the ones that had not been sold, but many of the customers had agreed to pick up their purchases after the close of the show or asked to have them shipped to them, so they were still available to view.

The exhibit was very eclectic. There were sculptures, large and small, novelty items, jewelry, carvings, and, of course, paintings in every imaginable medium and style. There were classical nudes (most with bigger-than-average dicks, of course), romantic couplings, ribald group scenes, close-ups of various sex acts, and some abstracts where I couldn’t tell what the fuck was going on. For the most part, though, the pieces were extremely good, and I was honored to have my sketches displayed alongside the works of very talented artists.

One cluster grabbed my attention above all the others. “They’re marvelous, aren’t they?” asked the gentleman who had sidled up next to me. Actually, it was more of a commentary than a question...and a very apt one at that.

“Yes, but whose work are they? I don’t see a signature.”

“They’re Brock Archer’s,” he replied. “That’s his signature right there,” he added, pointing to a stylized letter A with an arrow through it.

“Brock Archer, the writer? I love his stories.”

“I’ve heard that he is a talented writer, but I am much more familiar with his paintings.”

“I had no idea,” I commented. “Are these acrylics?”

“They’re actually prints of digital paintings. He takes photographs and paints them on a computer.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s a lot more complicated than it sounds. Each painting is constructed in layers, sometimes a dozen or more layers, and on each layer, all the variables—composition, lighting, color, texture and so on—are meticulously calibrated. As he writes in his book, Brock Archer’s Men, the entire process is one of calibration, reflection, and re-calibration until he has achieved a result—a new creative work—that is both erotic and aesthetic.”

“Wow! That’s dope,” I exclaimed. “I’m delighted to see his paintings, but I really wish he had been here himself. I would love to meet him.”

“But he’s been here the whole time,” said the pleasant stranger.

“Really?” I gasped. “Why didn’t Aaron introduce him at the reception?”

“He’s rather reclusive,” he explained. “He shies away from the limelight, but he’s here. That’s him over there,” he nodded.

I turned quickly in the direction of his gesture, where I saw Mr. Block and Woody chatting with a couple of handsome, well-dressed men by the exit. “Which one is he?” I asked, but when I turned to put the question to the man, I discovered that he had stepped away to chat with someone else, leaving me talking to the air.

I debated whether or not I should just go over there and ask which of the two men was Brock Archer, but I didn’t want to appear impolite to Mr. Block or Woody.

“I can’t believe you’ve been around him all this weekend and didn’t know who Brock Archer is,” said the man returning to my conversation space. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Suddenly the pleasant gentleman was starting to sound a bit condescending, but I ventured forth. “No, I don’t, and if you know him, I would appreciate it very much if you would introduce me.”

“That man over there—”

“Which one?” I snapped in frustration.

“Who did you come here with?” he tested my patience.

“Arthur Block and Morgan Woodward...Woody.”

“OK. Arthur Block. Repeat it.”

The guy was starting to seem like a jerk, but I did as he instructed and spoke the name Arthur Block.

“OK, now say it in reverse order, last name first.”

“Block Arthur,” I said.

“Now say it fast three times.”

“Block Arthur. Block Arthur. Block Ar.... Oh, fuck! You don’t mean...you’re not telling me that—”

“Arthur Block is Brock Archer.”

“Holy shit!”

To be continued..