Thursday, October 18, 2018

Artist and Model blog post #307
Courtesy of Pixabay
Judging from the number of page views last week, Mark Wildyr’s guest post of “Hem and Haw” was well received. And he’s right (I did a reciprocal guest blog on his website, which was posted today), I didn’t give my readers his web address. It’s There, are you happy now, Mark?

Today, we’ll take a look at a story that Mark may well have written, as it hovers on the titillating side. I hope you enjoy it.

          That was the sign affixed to his front door. He’d had to seriously restrain himself to avoid adding an e to the word Artist five years ago when he first put up the discrete plaque. That’s the way he felt… like an artiste. Of the four words on that sign, Artist was the one that defined him. Certainly, more than the three names precedent. Those were mere legal necessities for signing contracts and paying bills. Ordinary, mundane titles for ordinary, mundane tasks.
          James Carson Hamner’s home reinforced that conviction. The front door to the north valley adobe opened directly into his large studio and gallery… his living quarters lay somewhere beyond. Work of his own making hung on the whitewashed walls. In one corner near the north-facing windows, he’d rigged dark curtains at right angles as a place for his subjects to pose. He disdained still life, so these subjects were living, breathing individuals.
          He’d had some interesting characters sit or stand in that alcove over the years. Most of them assumed he was homosexual and acted accordingly, either refusing to remove their briefs or flagrantly displaying themselves. Arriving at the same assumption, the women—he preferred voluptuous forms—were more casual, ergo, more natural.
          James Carson Hamner smiled, recalling Roddy the football player and Vincent the swimmer and Grace the tennis player. Among the many, these three remained uppermost in his mind… for varying reasons. He nodded and spoke to himself. “You and your naked glory brought me an even five grand…each.” Immediately, he was contrite. He did this for the art, not for the money. Still, one had to eat… even an artiste.
         The bell drew him to the front door where he hesitated a moment, taking pleasure in anticipating what its opening would reveal. He engaged his models through ads in the Journal, Alibi, and other local publications and interviewed them by telephone. He made a game of measuring the mental images formed by the voice on the line with the person arriving on his doorstep. He was pleased that they were often a close match.
          With a tingle of anticipation, he opened the door to take the measure of his latest applicant. Physically, the youth standing there was charming. Dark skin, black hair, and the brown eyes of a frightened doe. Bold, yet halting all in the same breath. He held the name Darius, an appellation as exotic and enigmatic as its bearer.
          James Carson Hamner invited the man-child inside where he inspected the boy’s driver’s license twice to confirm the charming youth was, indeed, eighteen… the minimum age he accepted for his models. He never exposed himself to possible recriminations from the law.
          He quickly reviewed the financial arrangements with the would-be model and then spent fifteen minutes talking the beautiful Darius out of his clothing. Then they argued over the boy’s boxer shorts.
          “Dear boy, I advertised for nude models. I made that clear up front.”
         “I-I know,” Darius stammered in his beautiful baritone. “But I thought I could keep some clothes on.”
         Near the point of giving up and sending this local version of Adonis away, he snorted. “Nude means nude… naked… sans clothing. Are you ashamed of what you’re hiding?”
         The boy blushed. “No, but… it’s private.”
         James Curtis Hamner threw down the piece of charcoal he held in his left hand. “Do you want the job or not? If you do, shuck the shorts. If you don’t, get dressed and go away.”
         Clearly distressed, Darius frowned, rendering himself hauntingly human instead of merely lovely. “I guess so.”
         He almost laughed aloud when his model turned away to remove his shorts, revealing two smooth, tan orbs. The boy hesitated a long moment before turning around. Breathtaking. James bit his tongue to keep from commenting on the vision standing naked before him.
         He met the youth’s hooded eyes. Darius swallowed hard. “You… uh, I don’t….”
         James Carson Hamner almost broke out laughing. He put a note of banner into his voice. “Don’t worry. Your virginity is safe. I won’t attack without an invitation.”
         “W-what if someone comes in,” Darius sent his gaze toward the door.
         “It’s locked. Remember, you had to ring the bell to gain admission. And if someone rings, there’s a robe on the table for you to cover yourself. Ready now?”
         The boy, standing with his legs apart, his fingers curled loosely into fists, nodded.
         James spent an enjoyable five minutes arranging the fetching boy in a semi-reclining position on the black shrouded sofa. Of course, this necessitated laying hands on that delectable flesh, but he was careful to stay clear of the area that would panic the boy.
         Satisfied at last, James walked to his easel. “You don’t need to hold absolutely still but try not to move more than necessary. Give me notice before you have to really move. You know, sneeze or scratch or the like.”
         James Carson Hamner totally enjoyed himself as he skillfully sketched the boy’s outline on canvas with the charcoal. As he started filling in details, he noticed the boy—whose head was pointed in his general direction—followed his movements with his eyes. Abruptly he switched and began sketching the boy’s groin, certain Darius knew where he now concentrated. He was right. Darius’s right leg twitched. He caught the alarmed look on the youth’s face as he realized something else was happening.
         James stood enjoying the drama. Once Darius had lost the battle, the handsome youngster lay back on the sofa attempting to hang onto an aura of defiance. But his semi-erection belied his struggle.
         The artist put down his charcoal, carefully wiped his hands on a rag and approached the boy. He watched as the fright in the soulful brown eyes died, replaced by another expression. Curiosity? Desire?
         “Not without an invitation,” he murmured.

So tell me what you think. Did the quivering Darius succumb to modesty or to desire? Was the invitation offered or not? Answer that in your own mind… and then continue the story to the end you want it to reach.

Please get a copy of my latest book, The Lovely Pines, and provide feedback on the novel. If you do read the book, please post a review on Amazon. Each one helps.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it.

If you would like to drop me a line, my personal links follow:

Twitter: @dontravis3

Here are some buy links to the Lovely Pines, which (as noted) was released on August 28:

Abaddon’s Locusts is scheduled for release on January 22, 2019, and the first draft of The Voxlightner Scandal is about 90 percent completed.

See you next week.


New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

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