HOW TO DRAW THE PROPHET MOHAMMED
By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM
WWW.TOMMYHAWKSROGUEMOON.COM
I skated up Speedway, across 18th Street and onto Mildred Avenue. Around me were plenty of other skaters, along with skateboarders, bicyclists, scooter-drivers, and the occasional oddity on wheels, for this was Venice, California, and in Venice, art was more than just an expression of life...art WAS life.
Hank's studio apartment was down a side-alley on the right. I got to his landing, sat down long enough to take off my skates and, wearing only my socks, padded up the stairs. I didn't bother knocking, Hank was either home (which meant his door would be unlocked) or he wasn't (in which case the door would be locked...maybe, if he remembered to lock it. More than once, I had walked in on Hank sound asleep, another time in the shower. He just stepped out, naked and wet, said, "Hi, Jerry!" to me and toweled himself off.
We were sometime lovers. Hank was too busy with his art to be a full-time anything. He worked at odd jobs when he had to. But now, he was working on a showing he had arranged for his works, and was hard at work on them right now. So I'd decided on my day off (I work at a little bistro down by the beach, six days a week, but only for four hours each day, it fit my lifestyle) to drop by and see how he was doing.
I walked in to see Hank seated on his work stool, pondering a project. Barely sketched out as yet, a nearly bare, sensual, man with a rather prominent beard and a turban, sitting in a rather provocative pose.
"Hey, Hank!" I called out.
Hank didn't turn. "Hey, Jerry!" he called. "Tell me something."
"Yeah?"
"What did Mohammed look like?"
"Which one?"
"The original. You know, the prophet, wrote the Koran, that sort of thing. What did he look like?"
"I don't know." I admitted. Then I considered it. "Hey, the prophet Mohammed, don't the Muslims get kind of get pissed when you draw him?"
"Yeah." Hank agreed. "Death threats, protests, riots, you name it."
"So why do you want to know what he looked like?"
"I can't draw a true portrait of Mohammed unless I know what he looks like." Hank explained patiently.
"But Hank, you...." I sputtered and stopped. Telling an artist like Hank he can't do something is a sure-fire way to make him want to do it. "I guess if you want to draw Mohammed, all you really have to do is draw someone Arabic-looking and call him Mohammed. That ought to do it." Ought to get a bomb flung at him, that is.
"That's what I've done." Hank pointed at his image in progress. "There he is, the prophet Mohammed, posing for his portrait. Preening, wanting to be drawn by artists, a true model."
"Is that what your showing is going to be?" I said. "A bunch of portraits of Mohammed?"
"Nah." Hank said. "That'd be boring. I don't just want to piss off the Muslims. I want to piss them all off."
"Oh." I said, seeing the other artwork he had produced. "I guess this is to get the Jews mad at you, too?" A Jewish man sitting down at a table at which a large, roast pig was waiting.
"Right." Hank agreed. "Do you think if I put a glass of milk on the table, too, that'd help? It'll unbalance the imagery some."
"I think they'll get the point without it." I said.
"And for the Christians, specifically, the Mexicans who just love the Virgin of Guadalupe, I give them my own version." The woman in that image was nothing like a virgin, she was naked, putting on makeup. Only the headddress and background rays of glory identified her as the Virgin.
"That ought to do it for them." I agreed dubiously.
"What's wrong, Jerry?" Hank asked me.
"You mean, other than wondering if you're crazy, or just have a death wish?" I said. "You get a showing at a gallery, you stand a chance to sell some works, make some money, and you try to piss everyone off. Who's going to want these images after your show is done?"
"I'm not trying to sell any art at the show." Hank said with scorn.
"Then what are you trying to do?"
"Make a point!" Hank said, exasperated that I didn't see it. "What do these images have in common?"
"They're offensive?"
"They all point out the constant incongruous nature of religions." Hank said.
"Nobody wants to hear you make fun of what they believe." I said. "They'll think you're blasphemous."
"But I'm not, don't you see?" Hank said, getting worked up. "I am the most religious man in the world!"
"You have a funny way of showing it."
"What all these images have in common is their pointing out the pettiness of their religions. You're Muslim, therefore, you cannot have a portrait of Mohammed anywhere around, and you hate anyone who does! You're Jewish, so you can't even think of eating pork, no good reason, it's just not allowed! You're Catholic, you have to venerate the woman who had a child they consider the Savior of Mankind, even though she never did anything or wrote anything or performed any feats of kindness or truth or beauty in her lifetime."
"Whoa there!" Hank had brushed against my own Catholic upbringing. I hadn't been to Mass or confession in over a decade, much less said a rosary, but this was making me twitch! "That's not true..."
"Yes, it is!" Hank said. "Everything they say about her is all stuff written centuries after she died, all stories told by people who claim miracles being performed. All stories, myths, fables!"
"If you say so." I said uncomfortably.
"The trouble is, Jerry." Hank said to me, his eyes peering earnestly into mine. "The trouble is, that the fables are so big and so complex and so overpowering, they drown out the truth that lies underneath."
"Truth?"
"And in every religion, it's the same. Be good to each other, love one another, do good things in the world, try to take care of those who are sick or hurt, try to help make the world a better place. That's all they're trying to say, and nobody can hear it anymore through all the garbage that's been piled on top of it! And what do you get, for all your fables and funny stories about weird things that other people have seen, have done, have written? You get wars, hatred, bigotry, bombs on school buses, women and children gunned down in the street. You get everything that religion tries so hard to stop."
Hank stopped, brooding, and I thought about it. "So you're saying religion is its own worst enemy?"
"I'm saying it keeps getting perverted away from its purpose. I'm saying someone has to show how perverted it is. I'm saying we have to show the perversions for what they are, that it's okay to pose for a picture even if you are a prophet, that you have to enjoy food of all kinds, even if does have hooves the wrong shape, that you can enjoy your body's beauty and don't have to cover it up and be ashamed of it or never have sex...Virgin Mother, pfui!" Hank said it just like that.
I ventured a smile. "That's what bugs you most about religion, isn't it?"
Hank laughed, a single expelled breath of laugh that is. "Hah!" He was quiet a second, then said, "That's one part of it. Every religion in the world nowadays, the biggest ones anyway, all tell you to never have sex unless it's been pre-examined, pre-approved and pre-authorized with all the proper clearances given. Only sanctified marriages are allowed, between a man and a woman and nothing else. Like your cock is radioactive or something."
"Now we're getting to the crux of the matter." I said. "Is your cock radioactive?"
"Hell, no." Hank said. "But that's something I can do for my next work. How ludicrous it is that we're so afraid of sex."
"You still haven't picked on the Protestants." I pointed out. "You can have Martin Luther cornholing a young novice."
"Hmmm...nah!" Hank said. "Nobody would recognize the guy. Have to do it about Billy Graham."
"Billy Graham?"
"Sure, why not?" Hank said. "You think Protestant, who do you think of first? Billy Graham. Have him...have him butt-fucking a young girl, or maybe a donkey, him with that big smile he always wearing. Something for him to smile about."
"That's my favorite artist." I said. "You're not prejudiced, you'll smear everyone."
"Of course." Hank said, grinning widely now. "It's what any good artist does, make you look at things with a new eye."
"I'm seeing something with a new eye." I said.
Hank didn't have to have that explained. "I'm trying to get my works done. The showing opens the end of next month, and I have to have another dozen pieces done by then. I still need a central piece, one to be the showcase of the exhibit."
"So let me try to inspire you, then." I said, kneeling down. On my knees, I didn't have to bend any further to get to Hank's crotch. I unzipped his well-worn, soft, baggy jeans and reached in. "Every artist needs to get to the source of his soul to be truly inspired, you know."
"You're a hungry horn-dog, aren't you?" Hank said.
"Just exercising my own brand of searching for nirvana." I said. "Don't forget you also have to piss off the Hindus."
"And the Buddists, and the Confucians." Hank agreed. "And let's not forget Santa Claus, I have to do one with him and the Easter Bunny raiding the manger and slaughtering the Holy Family. That fairy-tale nonsense has really sucked all the meaning out of the two most important holidays of the.... Oh, God!" That was when I got his cock out of his pants and briefs, and scarfed it down! Long, hard, warm, that tool tasted so damned good going down, I didn't have to force my spit to flood over it, it was drooling all on its own! I wished to hell Hank would let me move in with him, or him move in with me, I made it over to see him at least three times a week and it wasn't enough, it just wasn't enough! I wanted this dick every night, I wanted to wake up with it throbbing against my thigh, I wanted to have it slap my cheek while I was watching television, I wanted to just hold it while watching television, waiting for it to recover, swell and stiffen in my hand, ready for more action!
Instead, I had these trips to Hank's art studio, these usually frantic thrusts of my body against his. Hank always acquiesced...but it left me hungry for more. Maybe that was the idea.
My current plan was to get Hank so used to my attentions, so attuned to my ministrations, that he couldn't imagine having sex with anyone else. The day that he called me, the day that he reached for me...then I could start thinking about a studio for two.
My hunger for this magnificent body with its magnificent (if quirky, artistic) mind, it drove my mouth down and onto the bulbous head, to swoop up and down the flare of the glans, and up the small indentation there onto the shaft, feeling the veins like so many speed bumps on the freeway of his dong, then when it was halfway down my mouth, the head would impact the junction of my throat, there would be a brief catch, then the glans would bend and it would slide on down my gullet, and that was when Hank would moan. I lived for that moan, it was my ticket to my dreams, my passport to my ambitions, my key to unlock the door of his heart.
Hank moaned every time I thrust him all the way down, and I managed that every second or third time (the cock had to hit my throat just right), and he sighed when I compensated on the missed strokes by a little tongue action on the underside of his prick or by rocking my mouth as I pulled back again. I was going to win him over, I was going to win him, I was, I was!
Hank's hand reached down and threaded its fingers into my hair, a sure sign of his building passion. For now, he was only stroking my head, but as he got more excited, closer to his climax, those fingers would begin to take possession of my head, then the other hand would come in and he would take charge, usually by holding me still and ramming his cock into my mouth and throat. It would be unpleasant, a bit, but it always meant he was on the very verge, I would endure it and he would cream into my mouth with a heavy, sticky, thick load, a chore to swallow, but when it was done, I'd have a drained, happy artist-type stud panting and exhausted. If he wasn't too tired, he'd return the favor, that was only about once a week or so, though.
Hank's hand began to stroke over my head, now it was rubbing me pretty hard. My mouth was hobbled by that motion in some ways, I had to settle for my lip-work and tongue-work to make up the slack, and after some of that, Hank placed his second hand on my head and I braced for the impact of his dong ramming into me.
But this time, Hank surprised me. He touched me, paused, then took his hand away again. And then the other one. In a glory of realization, I returned to shoving his prod all the way down my throat, and I was soon managing every second time, then every time.
Hank broke down at the last second, he was moaning and grunting and panting and his chest was heaving, he reached for me with both hands, grabbed my head and pulled me down tight...and that was when he blasted me. Way down deep, his cock buried in me to an inch shy of its base, he squirted his jizz into me while he moaned and rutted against me, sharp little jabs that barely moved his body. I didn't taste a thing of his spunk, all of it was too far down.
I was getting dizzy from the lack of air when he let go and fell backwards with a "whoosh!" sound and I gulped and gasped air, looking at him all soft-faced and gentle-eyed, and I wished I was right at his face so I could kiss him in that moment, it was always so fleeting, that softness, and before I could get to my feet, his features hardened again, a man in control of himself and his passions once more.
"That inspire you any?" I asked him, cocking one eyebrow higher than the other and putting a hopefully mischievous grin on my face.
"Yeah, that inspired me, all right." Hank said, and he slid off his bench onto the floor and his hands were at my shorts before I could garner my thoughts.
They slid down my thighs like butter, and I wasn't wearing anything underneath them (hey, you only get lucky every third time or so, you don't want to slow down the opportunity when it does come along!), and his hands stroked my legs as he lowered my shorts down to my ankles. Looked up at me and his face was the soft, beneficient shine of an angel, as he reached upwards, his face first let my cock touch his cheek, and he nuzzled it like that once or twice, like a cat nuzzles your cheek if you're lucky enough for the cat to feel like doing it, and Hank, who was cat-like in his affections, nuzzled my prick, and then he reached up and softly, slowly, took it into his mouth.
Oh, God, the feeling of his mouth on me! I wanted to do like he had done me so many times, grab his head and pump him hard, but God, no, this was a gift he was giving me, I had to let him do it his way, his way! Oh, God, I want him, I want him now, but let him do it his way! In this, too, Hank kept his control. I crooned and keened as his mouth slowly, so slowly, worked on my prick, it was less like sucking and more like he was feeling it out, getting to know it, like he wanted to savor every bit of it at every stage, and I could only groan and let him work me at his own pace.
Little by little, such delicate increments I barely realized they were happening, Hank began to suck me quicker. It was still so slow, so deliberate, that I was taking my pleasure from the way his lips moved upon my flesh, the way that every wrinkle on his lips puckered around my dong made itself known as a discrete sensation. There was joy in that feeling, but not enough, not nearly enough, and I let out a groan that was extraordinary in its loudness! Not just an "ohhhh!" it was an "OHHHH!"
Having broken the sound barrier, so to speak, I started talking, "Oh, God, Hank, faster, please, man, faster, you're driving me crazy here, man, crazy, I need you to move faster, please, Hank, please!"
I guess that was what he was waiting for, or maybe my abject pleading touched him in some way, for Hank gave a little chuckle and began to work me faster. Now I had the delights of a warm mouth on my pud, milking at me, sucking and making my balls churn with the creamy broth that they would soon enough erupt into the world, a mixture of life and lust in equal measures, and I wanted it now, now, shit, now!
But Hank was the cook of my broth and he had managed with that teasing to desensitize me somehow, for my climax built only slowly, a little at a time, even though Hank was now building up a good head of steam, still I crept in agonizing torpitude up my mountain of lust, touching the peak of climax, and then, only then, did it slowly churn my guts into spaghetti in my belly, and then, only at the very last, was there that exquisite torment that we call orgasm and which we breathe our every breath for the hope of experiencing.
I clutched it to my bosom with every dreg of energy in my body, the climax was as frightened as a virgin whose mother had told her horror stories about her wedding night, I coaxed it out of myself with iron will, holding back my ejaculation, making it wait, keeping it back until my brain could bathe in the waters of orgasm, and when I had wetted it in my joy, then I unclenched my abdominal muscles and let the flood ensue. It poured out of me rather than squirting, all its force had been stymied by my holding action, but I let it flow from me and Hank was kind enough to suckle it out of me and lick me clean.
"Hoo, man!" I gasped when he finished, stood up again. "You had me hanging on the ropes there!"
"I thought I'd try something different." Hank admitted. "What did you think of it?"
"A little of that goes a long way." I judged. "Too much and your body gets confused." I saw his pain and hastily added, "But it was a hell of a feeling, though."
Hank shrugged. "We artists are always trying something new."
"That was certainly new." I said. "A bit more of that and I'd have been joining the angels."
Hank chuckled, then he tensed. "That's it, that's it!"
"What is?"
"My centerpiece. That's what I'll do."
"What?"
"Two guys having sex in the center. All around them, every major religious figure there is, watching them, smiling and offering their approval. Let the fundamentalists chew on that one."
"Every major figure?" I said.
"Yep, Jesus will be right there with Krishna and Moses and, hell, I'll even throw in Joseph Smith, just to keep the Mormons from feeling left out!"
"Even Mohammed?" I asked him.
"Yeah, even Mohammed." Hank said. "He's got to be there to keep it all complete."
I sighed. Well, maybe nobody would notice Mohammed's portrait at the exhibit, stuck in there among all the other offensive things Hank was doing. Or if the Muslim clerics did show up to protest, they could share the sidewalks with the priests and rabbis and preachers, not to mention old Mrs. Grundy and her sisters who condemn sex on general principles (the main one being, they're pissed because they don't get any), and I figured that, more than anything else, would get Hank's point across about religion he was trying to make.
After all, how do you draw Mohammed? How can we know who he was after all these years, with his words and philosophies strained through so many people over the centuries, all of them with their own agendas to promote? And all those people out there today, with their own agenda, who would be offended at what Hank painted, they would stand and chant and shout and drown out any hope of anyone really seeing Hank's message!
And how is anyone ever going to be able to see the truth that Mohammed, Moses, and Jesus were trying to tell everyone all along? Hank was right, all the nonsense buries the message. Hank was trying in his way to make it shine through by mocking the nonsense, showing it for the preposterous thing it was.
"You're right." I said. "You have to put Mohammed in at the gathering."
"I'm going to want you to pose for one of the guys having the sex." Hank informed me.
"Why not?" I sighed. It'd get me closer to Hank. Of course, when I died, there'd be one major battle about which religion got to put me in their own brand of Hell! I just hoped it would be worth it!
THE END
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