Chapter 21

The following fictional narrative involves sexually-explicit erotic events between men.  If you shouldn't be reading this, please move on.

In the world of this story, the characters don't always use condoms.  In the real world, you should care enough about yourself and others to always practice safe sex.

The author retains all rights.  No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the author's consent.  

The town of Stafford, the Sunrise Arts Center, and the characters in this story are fictitious.

Special thanks to Mickey and Drew, who have provided inspiration, advice, and encouragement throughout the writing of this series.


Mr. Cummings, my English teacher, gave our class an assignment in description.  He told us to write, in about 500 words, a physical description of someone we knew well.  Not personality or character, just physical details.  He said we were to describe the "subject" in such a way that anyone reading our essay would be able to visualize him or her.  He also suggested we try to incorporate the other senses beside sight.  And, finally, we weren't to give the name of the "subject."

There was no question who was going to be my subject.  I really threw myself into the assignment.  When I was finished, I couldn't believe I'd written some of the things I did.  I also couldn't believe I was going to hand it in to Mr. Cummings.  A couple of months earlier I'd never have had the nerve to write something like that, but then a couple of months before I hadn't found my lover.

I entitled my essay "Dark Adonis."  Here is what I wrote:

My subject is an eighteen-year-old male.  He has a beautiful baritone voice and although he doesn't sing in a choir or other vocal group, he could.  I keep telling him he should.  Even his speaking voice is sexy.  He usually smells like soap and shampoo, but even when he's sweaty, he smells wonderful.  I should also point out that he tastes better than any food I've ever eaten, any drink I've ever had.  His lips, his pits, his nipples -- all these are delicious to lick and chew.  Best of all, though, is his cock.  I'll tell about how beautiful it is later, but here I need only say that its sweet, salty, musky taste is better than anything I've ever had in my mouth except for the thick, warm, white cream that comes out of it.  

Then there's his feel.  I love to run my fingers through his tightly curly hair.  Better still, I love to stick my nose into it, thus satisfying my senses of touch and smell at the same time.  His ears are smallish, perfectly formed, inviting to the tongue.  His skin is warm and smooth, but underneath there's the hardness of muscle, almost like silk stretched over marble.  In addition to his beard, which he shaves daily, and the hair on his head, which he keeps cut short, he has hair in his pits, on his forearms and calves, his pubic region, and a little in his ass crack.  I love to feel the smooth parts and the hair-covered parts of his body.  Sometimes when I stroke him, he moans, and sometimes he giggles.  Almost always he becomes erect.

But in addition to the tactile, olfactory, auditory, and gustatory pleasures offered by this smorgasbord of male delights, there is his visual beauty.  He has mahogany, almost black, skin and brown eyes that are sometimes soulful and sometimes dancing.  He does not have the usual full lips and broad, flattened nose of his race.  Instead, he has fine, almost delicate facial features, rather like a Frenchman who happens to have dark skin.  

He stands about five feet eleven inches tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips.  He isn't heavily muscled, but the muscles he has are well defined.  His pecs are flat, not at all breast-like, he has visible but not prominent abs, and his pelvic girdle makes him look like a Greek or Roman statue, though he's less bulky than most classical statues.  Below the pubes is a cock that makes those old statues look like boys.  It's straight, cut, not bumpy or veiny like some, and except for the head, black, darker than his skin.  

His legs are long, smooth, sturdy without being overly muscled, and graceful.  His feet, like his hands and his manhood, are large.

Last but not least (forgive the cliché), is his ass.  It is small, round, tight, muscular, erotic.  Under his clothes it seems to have a life of its own as it flexes, wiggles, and tempts.  Unclad it makes me salivate.

I got the paper back from Mr. Cummings with an A minus and the following note:  "You Pup!  You've got a lot of nerve handing this in.  You're lucky I don't make you read it in class.  You're also lucky to have a friend who is that attractive and is such a nice guy --  F. Cummings."

I didn't have time to show the essay to Louis before I handed it in.  In fact, I don't think I even mentioned it to him.  Oh, well, I was sure he'd enjoy all the good things I'd thought of to say about him, and I left it on my desk to show him when he came over.  


In those early January days Frank and I, having consummated our relationship during the holidays, gradually settled into some patterns of behavior.  Since it was easier for him to get ready for school at his place, I spent most weeknights there.  I'd often go home during the day to use my computer, to read, to pay bills, check my mail, and that sort of thing.  And, of course, there was always my Thursday half-day at Sunrise.  I usually did some grocery shopping on Friday morning because Frank spent weekends at my house.  Monday mornings I did grocery shopping from a list we'd put together, things for us to fix together and eat at his condo during the week.  It wasn't the best arrangement in the world, but until he was ready to have it known that we were lovers, it was the best we could do.  Besides, I don't think either of us was ready to give up his place, so before we could live together, we'd have to decide where.

Going to bed and waking up with Frank was warm and satisfying, something I hadn't experienced since Will, my long-time partner, had died ten years before.  Frank had kept himself in good shape.  He worked out twice a week and insisted that I do the same.  Thus began our Tuesday and Saturday morning trips to the gym.  I wasn't happy about it, but I realized he was right.  

To be honest, the body of a sixty-something man doesn't look like a boy's body, no matter how much he works out.  But there was no flab on my lover, and he still had good muscle definition.  Although his hair was still mostly dark brown with a little gray mixed in, a lot of the hair on his body was gray.  All in all, I found him very sexy.

I've never had a weight problem, though I've always been careful about what I eat.  I confess when Frank started dragging me to the gym with him, I'd developed some love handles, and I didn't have defined muscles.  I think I looked good in my clothes, but naked I just looked old and skinny.  As that winter progressed, I could see some changes in my body, and I was glad Frank had insisted that I begin working out more often and more regularly, particularly if it made me more attractive to him.

We had sex most evenings and on weekend mornings.  No one wants to hear the details of sex between a couple of sexagenarians, so I'm not going to say anything more about that.

Like most conscientious teachers, Frank usually had papers to grade or lessons to plan. Thus, even when I was at his house, he spent a part of most evenings preparing for the next day.  I usually sat with him and read.  Or else relaxed and listened to something on his stereo at a volume level that wouldn't disturb or distract him.

Burke called from Charlotte, where he'd spent the holidays with his daughter, during that first week of classes after the New Year.  He explained that he'd told Cindi and Ray, her husband, the whole story about his and my friendship in high school, about Marcy's reaction to my moving back to Stafford, the time he'd spent at my house the evening before his coronary.

"And how did they take all of that, bud?"

"They were wonderful.  I told Cindi first, and she insisted that I tell Ray when he got home from work.  So, after the kids had gone upstairs to do their homework, I went through the whole thing again."

"It must have been a shock for them, especially Cindi."

"Yes, she said she'd never had any idea.  Then she asked me to reiterate that I'd never been unfaithful to her mother with a man or a woman, and I was able to do that.  She asked if I planned to leave Marcy for you."

"Ouch!  What did you tell her?"

"I said you had a partner and that even if you didn't, I'd honor my vows to Marcy.  Finally, she seemed convinced that whatever urges I may have had I never acted on them.  Which is the God's truth."

"Burke, my heart goes out to you, old friend.  What a rotten situation that is for you."

"Thanks, Jonny.  It wouldn't be such a rotten situation if Marcy were the woman I've loved for all these years.  But she's become obsessed, and, frankly, I don't see how we can live together unless or until she gets over her hysteria."

"What's in the immediate future?"

"Cindi and Ray have asked me to stay with them for a while longer, but I just can't.  There's my practice to think of.  My assistant has been putting clients off and patching things together since I was hospitalized.  Now I've got to go back to work."

"Why?  I know you're my age, over 65.  I can't believe you haven't been preparing for a comfortable retirement all these years.  Why not just close or sell your practice?"

He paused.  "I could do that.  I'd need to come back to Stafford, of course, but, yeah, it could be done.  And, frankly, both Cindi and my doctor are urging me to retire."

"But . . . ?"

"But what would I do then?  I don't want to be in that house with Marcy any more than I have to.  And if I were retired, we'd be together even more often."

"Are you thinking of separating?"

"Yes, I'm thinking of it.  But I doubt that Marcy would stand for that.  She's such a stickler for propriety."

"How about living separate lives, but staying in the same house for appearance's sake?"

He didn't respond for a moment.  "You know, Jon, that might work.  I could ask for a divorce and then when she shits a brick over that, negotiate with her some sort of deal where we appeared to stay together but stayed out of each other's way as much as possible, living our own lives.  I still haven't told my other kids about any of this, but it strikes me that they might be less upset by that than by a divorce."

"Well, Burke, you're in my prayers.  And if there's anything I can do, I hope you'll let me know."

"You can count on that.  It's such a relief that Ray and Cindi are being supportive.  But you're still my oldest and best friend, and I'll need your advice and sometimes just a sympathetic ear.  Thanks, Jonny, for being there."

"Always, Burke."

When Frank had finished his preps, I told him about that conversation.  

"I feel sorry for the guy, lover.  And I can't understand that wife of his.  He says he's never been unfaithful to her in all their years of marriage.  What's she so upset about?  Does she seriously think you and Burke are getting it on?"

"I can't even guess.  I know she's from one of the old local families, where public image is very important.  But she must have pretty deep-seated insecurities, worries she's been repressing all these years but that have come out since she's had to cope with Burke having a former lover back in town.  I'd say she needs to see a counselor of some kind, but my impression is that she'd find that unthinkable."

"Poor Burke."


"Yeah, love?"

"I have a feeling Burke's going to need us a lot when he gets back to town.  You won't mind, will you?"

"He'll need you, Jon.  He hardly knows me.  But I understand that you have to be there when he needs you.  I confess it makes me a little nervous, but I'll manage."

I got out of my chair and went over to where he'd been sitting.  I held out my hands.  When he took them, I pulled him up, gave him a tight hug and a kiss that went far beyond being affectionate.  "You have nothing to be nervous about.  We didn't become partners impulsively.  We both knew what we were doing.  I promise you my feelings for Burke are and remain those of a friend, nothing more.  You're my mate, my partner, my lover.  And that, teach, ain't gonna change."

He chuckled and we kissed again.  "Tsk!  Such grammar!  I'm going to have to teach you something about good English, Professor Baker."


Stuart had left my house hurt and angry on Friday evening.  I had tried over the weekend and again Monday evening to get him on the phone, but either he wasn't answering or he wasn't there.  Tuesday at work I decided I needed to do something besides continually hitting the redial button.  He could ignore my phone calls, but he wasn't churlish enough to ignore me if I presented myself at his door.

About 6:00 that evening I grabbed a bottle of merlot from my wine rack and got into the car.  I stopped at Pizza Hut and got a large pizza to go.  When I approached Stuart's house, I saw a car I didn't recognize in his drive.  It definitely wasn't his, so, cursing to myself, I returned home, where I ate half the pizza and drank most of the wine.

There were all sorts of reasons why someone could have been at Stu's house that evening.  But I couldn't help thinking he might have another fuck buddy/friend or whatever he and I had been.  

And there was the question.  What were he and I to each other?  Which was followed by another question:  What did I want?  Whom did I want?

What I wanted was a fairly easy question to answer.  I wanted a mate, someone who'd be a permanent part of my life.  I wanted domesticity and enduring love.  Someone to take showers with.  To cook with.  To travel with.  To hash over the day's events or non-events with.  To have passionate sex with.  To make tender love with.  

Was there such a man in Stafford?

I thought of the men to whom I'd been attracted.  First was Jerome.  I loved Jerome, honestly I did.  He was sexy and sweet.  The fact that he worked as the chief custodian at Sunrise was no problem for me.  The fact that he seemed interested in Father Gary at Holy Trinity was a problem.  I knew the two had been seeing each other privately, and since I liked Gary and felt the way I did about Jerome, I could only wish them well.  Both of them had to be discreet.  While Gary's being gay was known to his congregation, his having an affair with another man wouldn't have gone over too well with many of them.  Jerome was active in a big church with a mixed congregation.  He sang in the choir and was involved in many of the activities there.  He had told me that coming out would be a problem for him with his Black friends and with many of his church friends.  I think he would risk it all if he were truly in love.  I don't think he was truly in love with me.  And, though I loved Jerome and wanted the best for him, I realized I wasn't really in love with him.  I also wondered whether, if the circumstances were right, I might be able to fall in love with him.  

Then there was Chave MacPherson.  Why did his name/face/body/dick/ass even come to mind?  I had disliked him when I first saw him.  Then he had managed to charm me, and I decided that my initial reaction was wrong.  He was unquestionably handsome, sexy, witty, sophisticated, sexy, and, well, sexy.  I had willingly, maybe even eagerly, had sex with him at his condo.  But I felt cheap, degraded as I looked back on that night.  My first reaction to him was probably right, I thought.  He had taken me as if I were another notch on his metaphorical bed post.  I tingled with shame as I thought that Stuart could have been right when he accused me of selling myself to Chave for the big checks to the Arts Alliance, for his agreeing to be on the Alliance Board of Directors.  As I thought back over all this, however, I was horrified to realize that my cock was rigid.  `Admit it, Whitney,' I said to myself, `you find the bastard almost irresistible.'  I decided that the best thing to do was to stay away from MacPherson as much as possible.  But then I'd have to deal with him at Board meetings, even if we never saw each other except for then.  Again, I tingled with shame, and perhaps another feeling, as I thought of the power that man had over me.  He was dangerous, and that, I realized almost helplessly, was part of his attraction.

Which brought me to Stuart.  How did I really feel about him?  We'd been having, what?  An affair?  That seemed a tawdry term.  Before Christmas we'd been getting together often.  For companionship. Stuart was intelligent, funny, and sweet.  Besides that, of course, was our shared interest in art.  For sex.  He was big, gorgeous, sexy.  Despite his size, there was a certain boyishness about his appearance which I found captivating.  And though I don't consider myself a bottom, at least not exclusively, he had me craving his beautiful long cock in my ass from one day to the next.  As I've said, when he's on top, there's no doubt who's running the show, but he's also caring and gentle.  And I'd gone and fucked that up by admitting to him I'd slept with Chave.  

The problem was that I hadn't realized Stuart thought we were in an exclusive relationship.  We'd never talked about it.  Technically, I was right and he was wrong.  But I could see, looking back on it, how absorbed in each other we'd been before the holiday break and his trip to visit his in-laws.  We weren't seeing anyone else.  We were spending as much time with each other as our jobs permitted.  And, I confess freely, I was loving the hell out of every minute we spent together.  Apparently he was, too.  The question was, how I was going to make it up to him?

No, the question was, did I want Stuart and me to be a couple, a monogamous couple, a committed couple?  I wanted more than anything to be in such a relationship.  Was it Stuart, or had the right man not come along yet?

And then there was my "secret admirer."  Who the fuck was that?  It almost had to be Chave.  Certainly it wasn't Jerome or Stuart.  And I couldn't believe there was some gay guy I didn't know in Stafford who was sending me those expensive presents.  But my gut told me Chave was telling the truth when he denied sending me the roses on Christmas Eve.  Well, perhaps Mr. "S. A." had had his fun and would give up his little prank.  But I was intrigued.  I really wanted to know who it was.

I threw out the uneaten portion of the pizza.  In college I might have had it for breakfast, but that was unthinkable now.

I poured the rest of the red, threw the bottle in the recycle basket, and took my glass to the living room.  I'd started a fire when I got home, and it was now mostly embers.  I threw another log on and poked it up a bit.  Then I sat on the sofa, putting my feet, as usual, on the coffee table.

I thought I had reviewed all the candidates for Whitney Pell's permanent mate, but another face came to mind unbidden.  A plain face in some ways, but a sensitive face.  A face with sad eyes.

There was a dichotomy between the abilities of the man I knew to be a reporter almost too good to be on the local newspaper and the wounded man I had met the day before.  His face had haunted me.  Why?  He wasn't sexy by any of the usual standards.  Not well built.  Smaller even than me.  Not handsome.  

He had a very pleasant personality.  He was good company, obviously intelligent and good at his job.  Yet there was nothing extraordinary about him . . . except that I wanted to take him in my arms and tell him everything would be okay.  

And that was absurd.  I was no doubt imagining things.  My gaydar was pinging the whole time we were together, but it had been wrong before, and I certainly wasn't going to trust it very far.  I could rule out Jerome and Chave as possible mates, but how could I make it up with Stuart, reestablish our relationship, which had certainly been more than that of just fuck buddies, when I was constantly bothered with thoughts of Asa Dean?

I didn't take time to read the Sentinel before leaving home on Wednesday morning.  When I got to work Jean had put a copy on my desk.  On the front page was Dean's article.  It had been a week to the day since the letter by "Revolted" had appeared in the paper.

Asa's piece was a model of fair and accurate reporting.  He had interviewed Henry Estes, one of the senior partners of Chave's firm, about the claim that there were a lot of gay lawyers in town.  "If ten percent of the population is gay," Estes was quoted as saying, "it stands to reason that there are some gay members of the legal profession in Stafford.  I just don't know of any.  And if I did know, it wouldn't matter to me or to anybody in this firm."  Good for you, counselor!  

I couldn't fault the way he'd handled our interview.  I was quoted accurately and fairly.

Dean had also been to Holy Trinity.  He'd mentioned that the clergy there had insisted that, while there may have been a few gay students at the New Year's Eve party, no alcohol had been available, there had been no evidence of drug use and no inappropriate sexual behavior had been observed by the dozen or so adults there.

He'd gone to the high school, too.  He mentioned that one member of the faculty, whom he didn't name, was unobtrusively but admittedly gay.  Said teacher was, he reported, a respected senior member who was loved by students.  He also wrote about the efforts to set up a club for straight and gay students.

Dean didn't editorialize.  Opinion wouldn't have been appropriate in a front-page news article.  Yet he managed to leave the clear idea that, while there were gay people in Stafford, nothing scandalous was happening and that "Revolted" was making much out of nothing.

Eager to congratulate Asa on his article, I phoned the Sentinel and asked for him.  I should have known better. Of course he wasn't at his desk.  I left my number and asked him to call me.

About 1:00 that afternoon he returned my call.  

"Asa, thanks for calling back.  I just wanted to tell you how much I admired your article this morning.  That was a brilliant job of accurate, unbiased reporting."

"Thanks, Whitney.  I'm glad you liked it.  Ben Ferris, my editor, liked it, too."

"Good for him."

"Yeah.  But now let's see what kind of reaction we get from the vox populi."

"I'll be looking at your op/ed section with renewed interest.  Now, there was another reason for my call."


"Yeah.  I'd like to take you to dinner when you're available, if that's okay with you."

There was a hesitation on the other end, and I wondered if I'd made a big mistake.

"Actually, Whitney, I'd like to have dinner with you, but I'm not sure it would be a good idea for us to be seen together in public right now."

I was nonplussed for a moment.  "Because I'm gay, Asa?"

"Oh, no!  But I've got to protect my objectivity, and having just interviewed you, you know, it might look, uh . . . "

"Yes, of course!  I see.  Well, I understand your problem.  So.  Congratulations again on your article."

"Whitney, wait!  I said I didn't think we should be seen in public together just now.  I didn't say I don't want to have dinner with you."

"Okay, then would you let me fix dinner for you some evening this week?"

"Sounds nice, if you're sure you don't mind."

"If you'll risk my cooking, I'll look forward to it."

"It's gotta be better than my own cooking," he said with a quiet chuckle.

"What evening is good for you?"

"Hang a sec."  He came back almost immediately, having checked his palm pilot or something of the sort, I supposed.  "Looks like tomorrow would be best for me.  Is that too soon?"

"I've got a meeting with the committee that's planning our upcoming gala late tomorrow afternoon, so it will take me a while.  But, yes, tomorrow's fine.  I'll have to do something I can do quickly.  Do you like lamb?"

"Yeah, love it!"

"Great.  I'll broil lamb chops.  How does 7:00 sound?"

"No problem.  Now tell me where you live."

I gave him directions.  We both said we'd look forward to it and hung up.

I hadn't had any communication with Stuart since the previous Friday evening, and it was now Wednesday.  I was really worried by this point.  I assumed he was okay.  He was, after all, only thirty and the picture of health.  He was probably not ill, since he'd had company the evening before, as attested by the car in his driveway.  I grabbed the phone and called the high school.  I was told that Mr. Blount was in class.  Of course, where else would I expect him to be at 11:00 AM?  I gave my number and asked that he call me.  I suggested it was important.

I hadn't brought lunch, so I asked Jean if she wanted anything from Mickey D's.  She asked me to get her a salad and a cola.  I got two of each and brought them back to the office.  We ate together, one of us on each side of her desk.

"So, boss," she asked, grinning, "how's Stuart taking it that you slept with that hot lawyer?"

I nearly choked on a piece of chicken.  

"Woman, you know too much.  And that came dangerously close to insubordination.  You're lucky I don't fire you."  I grinned to show I was teasing.

"It's not gonna happen, boss.  As you say, I know too much."  

Fortunately, the phone rang.  It was Stuart, returning my call on his lunch hour.


It was a weeknight, so I was expected to be home by 11:00, but that gave Judd and me almost three hours from the time I got there.  I'd done my homework and he'd told me he had, too.  After asking how I was and whether I was hungry, Judd's mother told me to go on downstairs, that he was expecting me.

Judd wasn't in sight when I got down there, but his bathroom door was closed, so I could guess where he was.  

"Hey, babe.  I'm here."

"I'm having a crap, dude.  Sorry.  I'll be out in a few."

"Okay if I use your `puter?"


I sat down at his desk.  The pc was already on and the screensaver was flashing.  Before I could grab the mouse, I saw a piece of printer paper sticking out from underneath a textbook.  The title at the top said "Dark Adonis."  Curious, I pulled the paper out.  It was an essay.  It had a grade on it and a note from Mr. Cummings.  I suppose I shouldn't have read it without permission, but it seemed to be about me, and I couldn't help it.  I just read it.

I knew it was me he was talking about, but I couldn't believe it.  Obviously Mr. Cummings knew who Judd was talking about too, and I was embarrassed by that.  But he'd also said that I was a nice guy.  You can't see it when I blush, but the skin in my face, neck, shoulders, and chest tingled.  I was pleased and touched.  Yet something about that essay bothered me.  How could I be unhappy with something as flattering as what Judd had written about me?

Just then I heard the toilet flush.  There was a pause while my lover got himself together and washed his hands, and then he came out.  

I stood, and we kissed.

"Sorry about that, but when ya gotta go, ya gotta go."

"Yeah, babe.  Can't fight Mother Nature."

"So, `sup?" he asked.

"Did you see the article in the paper this morning by that Asa Dean dude?"

"Oh, yeah.  Mr. Cummings had copies for all of us, just in case somebody had missed it.  He wants us to read the paper before class, but some kids just slide from bed to school, so Cummings doesn't take any chances."

"I thought it was a good article.  What about your class?"

"Well, a few of the homophobes thought Dean had to be gay.  Mr. Cummings just asked if anyone wanted to respond to that idea.  The rest of the period the class demolished those anti-gay people.  They pointed out how reasonable, fair, and accurate the article seemed to be."

I grinned.  "And you helped, I'm sure."

He grinned back.  "Nope.  I let the others do the talking.  I figure they'd think I'm prejudiced."

"Shit, man, I thought the point of the whole thing was to be able to put aside your biases and look at the logic behind something."

"Louis, you'd think you'd been in that class."

"Not in Mr. Cummings's class, but I had a pretty good English class myself last year.  So why didn't you get involved in the discussion?"

"Like I said, the others were doing fine without me, and I didn't want to be the poster boy for the gay team."

I hugged him and licked his ear.  "You're the poster boy for my team, baby."

He shivered and held me tight around the chest.  "I'm so glad we're on the same team, dude."

I sat in his reading chair, and he sat in his desk chair, swiveling it to face me.

He must have seen something in my face.  

"Louis, something's on your mind.  Tell me!"

"Nah, it's nothin'."

He got up and came over toward me.  I stood to meet him.  We slowly undressed each other, looking and occasionally licking as we did.

He pushed me face down on the bed.  Then he climbed on behind me, straddling my legs.  With amazing ease, he pulled my ass up into the air.  He leaned over and offered me his index finger.  I sucked on it obediently.  Then he withdrew it and gradually stuck it in my bung hole.

"Now, Lefevre, tell me what is bothering you!"

I was pushing my ass back so hard to get his finger up inside me that I couldn't do anything but squeak

Later, Judd had brought a towel to put under my butt to catch the jizz that was seeping out of it.  I was lying on my back, my hands clasped behind my head.  He was lying on his side, his right hand slowly moving across my belly and chest.

"Now, Louis, tell me what is bothering you."

"I saw `Dark Adonis.'"

"Yeah?  What did you think?"

He obviously wasn't pissed because I'd read it.

I turned on my side facing him.  "Baby, I love you for writing that.  You make me sound so good."

"I couldn't begin to do justice to you, Louis."

"That description shows how much you love me.  I'm not sure it's accurate about my looks."

He lightly pinched one of my nipples.  "You'll have to let me be the judge of that."  He paused.  "But, there's something wrong, isn't there?"

"Well, yeah.  Why didn't you show it to me before you handed it in?  Or at least tell me what you were gonna do?"

"I wrote it after you left here one evening, and it was due the next day.  So what's the problem?  I thought you'd like it."

"You remember how you reacted when I suggested sending some of those pics I took of you to UNC in my portfolio?"


"Well, I guess that's sort of how I feel about you giving that description of me to Mr. Cummings.  I feel as if that shows me more naked than any picture I would ever take of you."

"Oh, shit, Louis!  I never thought of that.  I'm sooo sorry, lover."

"Yeah.  Now I know how you felt about those pix I took.  I was insensitive, Judd.  I promise I won't put them in my portfolio.  I'll just include other stuff."

"You were gonna take some of me with better lighting, weren't you?"

"Uh huh, but I won't do that now."

"No, man, you gotta.  And you gotta send them to Chapel Hill if you think they're good enough."


"'Cause I want to do anything I can to help you get into the art program you've decided on.  I won't let a few nudie pics stand in the way.  But I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't send any that show my willie."

"Ya sure, baby?"


I turned and grabbed his cock.  "Okay, I promise, no shots of your schlong.  I'll just put those up all over my room."

"You wouldn't!?"

"Nah, lover, just yanking yer chain."  With that I tugged on his cock.  "I'll put them on my pc so I can look at them whenever I want and Maman won't be shocked."

"Deal.  Now, kiss me, Adonis!"

To be continued.