Date: Sat, 26 Jul 2008 00:43:32 +0000
From: hankster1430@bellsouth.net
Subject: The Artist and the Portrait

I was twenty years old at the time of which I speak, at the height of my
sexual prowess and desires.  Perhaps if I had not been so full of
testosterone and not quite so horny, I would never have allowed it to
happen.  I don't believe in living life as a series of `what ifs?'  Anyone
who does live life that cautiously does not live life at all.  As you will
see I believe in taking chances, so as bizarre as things turned out to be,
I was willing to go along with it.  Does it sound like I am regretful?
Well, I would have to think about that, but I am inclined to say no.

I am an American.  I studied art and painting at the Sorbonne in Paris from
my nineteenth to my twenty-first year.  On the day my narrative begins, I
was viewing art work at the Louvre as part of a school assignment.  My
artistic tastes prefer genres from Impressionism to modern times, but we
were studying medieval art, and were instructed to visit that section of
the art museum to get a better understanding of the paintings of that time.

Frankly, I hated what I saw.  The artists of the time, painted as if they
were photographing what they put on canvas.  Everything had a two
dimensional look.  There were no nuances of light or texture to bring the
paintings to life.  As I walked through the wing of medieval art, I was
struck by the terrible sameness of the paintings.  The subjects in the art
work all seemed to have been run over by a steam roller.  Suddenly, at the
end of one wall, tucked away in the corner, I saw a portrait.  It looked
nothing like the others.

The entire painting was about thirty-six inches long and twenty-four inches
wide.  The frame was very plain, unlike the ornate frames of the other
paintings.  The artist captured a magnificent nude young man, who appeared
to be about my age.  In fact, at the risk of not being objective, the
subject looked very much like me, yet totally unlike me.

The first thing that struck me was how life like the nude man was.  The
artist had played with his colors so well and created shadows so
remarkable, that the young man looked alive.  He stood facing the world in
defiance.  His hands were on his hips; his feet were slightly spread apart.

How can I describe his face?  Even though he looked like me, he bore no
resemblance at all.  I know that sounds strange.  Nevertheless every word I
tell you is factual.  He had short, curly black hair.  Mine is brown and
straight.  His eyes were slate black.  Mine are blue.  His chin was square
and manly.  Guess what?  So are mine.  His pecs and abdomen were rippled
with muscle, not weight lifter muscle, so unnatural and uninviting, but
real hard muscle, the kind you want to feel and embrace.  His thighs and
calves were equally as muscular yet his feet seemed rather delicate to me.

Have you noticed I have not described his cock, his magnificent succulent
cock?  I saved it for last.  The painting, I would say, was about 50% to
scale.  Interpolating the numbers, I would guess the object of my desire
would have been seven flaccid inches in real life.  It was uncut, and so
well painted, one got the impression that it was just a second away from
engorging into a full erection.  I could not take my eyes off this
magnificent young man.

To the side of the painting was a plaque with information about the artist
and the painting.  It was in French of course, but I shall translate for
you.

THE GLADIATOR Artist Unknown c 1325-1400

`The unsigned painting was discovered by Allied Forces during World War II
in an Italian monastery which had been lying in ruins for about two
centuries.  It was in remarkably good condition. Not knowing what to do
with it, the senior officer had it shipped to The Vatican.  The curator at
The Vatican did not think it appropriate for his collection and he sent it
to the curator of the Louvre in Paris, who graciously accepted it.  Experts
have been unable to identify the artist or the young man who posed for the
portrait.'

Now why was it called, The Gladiator?  I examined the portrait carefully.
To the left of the beautiful young man was a small stool.  Carelessly
thrown on the stool was a skirt, such as a gladiator might have worn.  On
the floor next to the stool were sandals with long laces.  On the other
side of the man was a sword lying on the floor.  Most of the sword was not
visible; only the hilt was evident.  From these skimpy items, the curator
must have concluded he was a gladiator.  Certainly he looked like one.

The rest of that day, and the next, and the next, I stood in front of the
portrait unable to move or look away from it.  Are any of you young enough
to remember the classic film, Laura?  I thought not.  In the film a
handsome young detective, Dana Andrews, is investigating the disappearance
and possible murder of a beautiful young woman named Laura, Gene Tierney.
When the detective enters her house, he sees her portrait, and immediately
falls in love with Laura.  Now Gene Tierney was one of Hollywood's great
beauties, but the artist, who painted the portrait, enhanced her beauty
even more, although it was totally unnecessary.  The detective obsesses
over the portrait, all the while falling deeper and deeper in love with
Laura.

As I stood there day after day, falling deeper and deeper in love, I had an
idea.  All over the museum were young artists with easels, canvasses and
oils, copying famous painting for class assignments. I determined to do the
same with my gladiator, so that I could have him with me forever,
especially at night.

The next day I set up my work station and began to sketch my gladiator.
Never had any of my work gone so well or so rapidly.  I was painting a
genre totally unfamiliar to me, yet I might have been the original artist
himself.  It took only three days to complete my portrait.  I compared
every stroke on both canvasses.  Now I am no expert, but I thought I had
done a remarkable job.  Except for the age of the two canvasses, I would
defy anybody to tell the two portraits apart.

I rolled up the canvass, tucked my art supplies under my arm, and headed
for my one little room in the boarding house I lived in for the three years
of my stay in Paris.  Ah my room, it was so small.  It housed one twin
sized bed and a dresser There was not much room for anything else.  On the
wall facing the bed, over the dresser, there was a photograph of the Arch
of Triumph.

On the way home, I stopped at an art supply store and framed my portrait as
simply as the one in the Louvre.  When I got home, I removed the picture
which hung on the wall and slid it behind the dresser.  About two inches of
the picture stood higher than the dresser.  I placed some of my books on
the dresser to hide the top of the picture, and then I hung my newly
created portrait over the dresser.  When it was hung, I stepped back in
admiration.  It looked exactly like the portrait in The Louvre.  I can't
tell you how proud I was of myself.  Now I could stare at those piercing
eyes and that magnificent cock as long as I wanted to, without
interruption.

That night I lay in bed with the moonlight washing into my room and
illuminating the portrait.  I dreamed that the gladiator came down from the
wall and joined me in bed.  He kissed me and stroked my cock. I was so lost
in my fantasy that the next thing I knew I had a mind blowing orgasm and my
fist was full of cum.  I actually felt an intimate moment with the man in
my painting.  Then and there I determined that I had to give him a name and
stop calling him the gladiator.  I decided to name him Oswald.

Stop laughing.  There's a reason.  Harry Oswald was my fourth grade teacher
and the object of my first crush.  I worshiped Mr. Oswald.  All I could
think of in his class was taking his manly cock into my mouth and sucking
away.  I had begun to whack off by that time but had not yet produced any
cum, so unfortunately my fantasy did not have me swallowing Oswald's cum.
Too bad for me!  But remember, I had nothing to relate to.

For the period of time I had the portrait in my room, I missed school.  I
never left the room.  I hardly ate anything at all except for a box of
crackers which was on my dresser when Oswald first arrived.

The first morning Oswald shared my room, I sat on my bed staring at him
transfixed.  To my credit I admired his whole body not just his cock.  I
was almost afraid to look at his cock for fear of what it might do to me,
but of course, I'm only human.  Finally, I allowed myself to concentrate on
his beautiful rod, which gave me thought to wonder.  It seemed that his
cock was ever so slightly larger, and was standing maybe a centimeter away
from his thigh.  In short, it looked like Oswald was beginning to erect,
but we know that it impossible.

I tried to divert myself by reading some of my books, but every time I
glanced at the portrait, Oswald's wonderful love tool was more erect.  By
5PM it stood straight out and by 7PM it was facing his belly button.  The
strangest part is that as the day wore on and Oswald grew bigger and
bigger, I accepted it as a natural thing.  Of course, I pinched myself
often to make sure that I wasn't dreaming and I wasn't.

In bed that night, I stared at Oswald. Again the moonlight illuminated him,
but tonight it seemed to play like a spotlight on the dearest part of him.
I just kept staring until finally I felt myself giving in to sleep.

I was awakened to a beautiful voice speaking to me.  It almost sounded like
someone was singing to me.  Then I realized that the voice was speaking in
Italian.  Whenever I hear someone speaking Italian it sounds like singing
to me.  No matter that the voice was speaking in Italian, a strange tongue
to me, I understood every word he said to me.

"You created me," the voice said.  "You need only bid me serve you and I
will."  I paid no attention.  I was only dreaming, after all.

The voice seemed to read my thoughts.  "You are not dreaming," it said.

"Who are you?"

"Oswald!"

I stared at the portrait and said, "Speak to me."

Clear as day, or should I say, clear as moonlight, I could see Oswald's
lips move, his mouth open and close, and his tongue position itself for
whatever sound it needed to make.  He told me, "Surely you have noticed how
hard I am.  I desperately need to relieve myself."

"What can I do about it?  I can't stroke or suck a canvass."

"I told you.  You created me.  I will do whatever you want.  Just invite me
into your bed."

Now I was sure I was dreaming.  "OK then," I said, "my bed is yours too,
but we don't have much room."

"That's fortunate," Oswald said, and suddenly he was all flesh, bones and
muscle and he was lying on top of me.  I was full of questions, but at that
hot moment in time, I didn't need the answers.  All I needed was Oswald.  I
could feel his blazing hot cock rubbing against mine and I was lost in
rapture.  He crawled down my body as if he could read what I was thinking,
and began to suck my rod, which was throbbing with desire.  I just happened
to think, if only he would turn around so I could suck him too, I'd be in
even greater bliss.  Immediately, he turned his body into a sixty-nine
position.  We both sucked with equal lust, cumming simultaneously, and each
of us swallowed every drop of spunk.

Oswald returned to a position facing me.  The quarters were very cramped
and we started to kiss, our tongues playing sensuously with each other.
"After we rest a bit," I said, "I want us to fuck each other."

"I know," he said simply and went back to playing with my tongue.

I had no lube so we used spit to lubricate each other.  We both liked to be
fucked lying on our backs so we could see our partner's face and kiss his
lips.  I wasn't surprised that we liked the same things.  He was my
creation after all.  After the second time he fucked me, and before I could
fuck him for the second time, I fell asleep.

When I woke up the next morning, I was worried that Oswald would be gone,
but there he was in his frame, flaccid again, just as I had painted him.  I
looked long and hard at him, and I could swear I detected a bit of a Mona
Lisa smile and a slight growth in length and girth of his beautiful member.

Again, I sat all day admiring Oswald, and as I did his cock grew.  I swear
it was bigger than the day before.  When I got into bed, I heard Oswald's
melodious Italian voice asking me to invite him to my bed.  I gladly
extended the invitation.  Again we made lustful love all night until I fell
asleep.  In the morning Oswald had returned to his frame.  We made love
again that night.

Things seemed different with Oswald on that third night.  He was detached
from me, almost disinterested.  I asked if anything was the matter and he
said, "Yes, things cannot continue like this.  You haven't been to school
in nearly a week.  You are throwing away your career and I won't allow it.
I'm going to have to return to the painting after tonight."

I was devastated.  "If I promise to resume my life," I asked, "will you be
here when I return every night?"

Oswald did not answer at first.  After a long silence, he said, "No.  I
don't trust you.  You are just too obsessed with me.  This is our last
night together." With that he kissed me on both cheeks and then my lips,
and he continued to make love to me.  He brought me to an erotic orgasm,
and when I went to reciprocate, the unimaginable happened.  I fell asleep.

When I awoke the next morning, I screamed in horror.  My painting was gone.
In its place on the wall was the photograph of the Arch of Triumph.  The
Louvre would not open for several hours.  I thought I would go crazy if I
could not stare once again at Oswald.  I just needed to get to the museum.

I ran to the Louvre, pacing up and down the street until the museum opened
to the public.  I ran immediately to the medieval art wing.  I was
disoriented and couldn't remember which gallery Oswald had hung in.
Finally I recognized some of the pictures in one of the galleries and ran
to the end of the room, to the corner where I had first laid my eyes on
Oswald.

Oswald's painting was gone.  There was no plaque describing his origin.  In
its place there hung some medieval painting, as ugly as the rest of them.
It was a painting of the goddess, Venus.  Even Venus was not beautiful in
her two dimensional incarnation.

I spotted a guard at the door to the gallery, and ran to him.  "Excuse me
sir," I said.  "Do you know what happened to the painting of The Gladiator
that hung in that corner?"  I was so distraught that I must have sounded
terribly foolish to the bored guard.

"Monsieur," he said, "the painting of Venus is the only painting that has
ever hung in that corner.  It has been there, in the same spot for years."

You know, I expected that answer.  I was not the least bit surprised.  I
had always been a fan of "The Twilight Zone" and as a kid I believed every
tale Rod Serling told, so why not believe this one.  As I left the museum I
sighed in resignation.

For the next few years I tried to duplicate the painting of The Gladiator.
I might just have well have attempted to duplicate Mona Lisa.  I never came
close, and I finally gave up trying.  Anyway, little by little, the
memories began to fade and I seriously doubted that the event had ever
really occurred except in my vivid imagination.

A few years after I returned to New York, I was fortunate enough to land a
terrific job as assistant curator at the Museum of Modern Art.  It was a
dream job for me.  I was surrounded by modern art and had plenty of time to
do my own painting.  I lived close enough to the museum that on nice days,
and New York has lots of those, I would walk back and forth to work.  I had
to pass an Italian grocery on my way.  The smell of the cheeses and meats
wafted through the door every time someone went in or out.  It really
smelled so wonderful, but I never went in.

One day on my way home from work, a customer was leaving as I passed by.
This time I decided not to resist the marvelous, enticing odors emanating
from the shop.  Besides, I reasoned, I could buy a Hero sandwich for
dinner.  I approached the deli counter.  There was a man making a sandwich.
His back was to me, but I had a real sense that somehow I knew him.  He was
wrapping a sandwich.  He turned to give a waiting customer the sandwich,
and I looked into his face.  My knees buckled and it was all I could do to
remain upright.  I had to grab the counter top to keep my equilibrium.
There stood Oswald.

"Are you all right?" he asked with great concern, and with a fairly
pronounced Italian accent.

"Not really," I said.  "I feel faint."

He rushed around the counter and put his arms around me to support me.  He
called to one of his co-workers to cover the counter and helped me walk to
a small private room in the back of the store.  There was a sofa in the
room and he sat me down, picked up my feet, and put them on the couch.  It
was all I could do to catch my breath.

"Do I know you?" he asked.  "You look very familiar to me."  He smiled at
me and I wanted to faint again.  His black eyes sparkled, and his cheeks
dimpled.  His smile accentuated his squared jaw.  His accented English
sounded like music to me.  I couldn't help myself.  I started to cry like a
baby.

"There is something wrong," he said, and he put his arms around me again.
I buried my face in his chest, and just kept right on crying.

"Please," he said "tell me what's wrong.  Maybe I can help."

"I can't tell you, and even if I could you wouldn't believe me."

"Lie here for a while.  I get off work in a few minutes and I live just
around the corner.  I don't intend to leave you alone until you feel
better.  You'll come home with me and I'll make you some nice warm soup,"

"That's the best offer I've had in years," I told him.  He started to
leave, but I grabbed his arm.  Tell me your name please," I begged.

I will if you promise not to laugh," he answered.  "My name is Oswald Mario
Perrone.  My mother was English, and Oswald was her maiden name.  Everybody
calls me Mario."

"I prefer Oswald," I told him and we both laughed.

Oswald and I have been in a loving, monogamous relationship for over thirty
years now.  For all these years, I have kept this story to myself, but
somehow I felt compelled to tell it now.  Whether you believe it or not, it
really happened.  Some of my memories have grown dim, but I have told an
essentially factual story.

Don't ask me why I feel the story must be told after all these years, but
here it is and there you go.

The End