Kipling

Kipling F. Holliday IV Part 2 By Bald Hairy Man

This is a story for adult men. It depicts gay sex. If this offends or bothers you, DO NOT READ IT. It is a fantasy and is not a sex manual, or a discussion of safe sex. If you have comments send them to rwinarch47@google.com

I discovered that being a complete fuck-up and a disappointment to everyone I knew wasn't the best life choice for me. It was vastly superior to be up-and-coming artis. I was surprised to be interested in art and I had totally unexpected talent.

For years I made it a rule that since I was so superior having any interest other than myself was a waste of my precious time. I discovered I enjoyed sketching and painting. It seemed others enjoyed my works too.

My parents shocked me by asking me to spend Christmas with them in Florida. My old self thought I should punish them. My new self called them and said I would like to be there for the holiday. They would be there for the Christmas-New Year's holiday, and then go on a cruise for ten days. They asked if I would like to stay at their apartment for some sun and fun. I said yes.

Roger, my partner was going to the Greek Islands for the holiday. I had a feeling he was on the hunt to find my replacement. His boy toys typically lasted two to three years. My "Serve By" date had expired.

I found an old photograph my parent's favorite dog Dusty. I did a pencil and charcoal drawing of him and found a frame for it. When they opened it on Christmas day Mom cried. I don't know it that was because of the drawing, of if it was a present. Technically I had never given them a present before.

When they left on the cruise on New Year's Day, I stayed another week. I had never gone that far from home. It was important that the police and the judges know my name. More correctly, my parents were well known and admired. I could get away with things there.

Miami Beach was a different place. I don't think a space alien could have landed on a new planet and been as foreign as I was in Miami.

The day after my parents left, I decided to go to the beach. They lived in a suburban area just to the north of Miami. A friend from home suggested I go to Haulover Beach. He said a portion was mostly male and the dress code was minimal.

It was easy to find. I hadn't realized Miami Beach had one major street, Colins Avenue, so finding the beach was easy. I also found the gay area and quickly discovered the minimal dress code was an understatement.

I had a towel and suntan lotion. I was obviously not a native, but a man came over and told me my lotion was worth shit and invited me to sit under an umbrella with his pals. I joined them. The men were forty or fiftyish, tanned and attractively hung.

They had the right suntan lotion. They were very complete in applying it. One man, Art, applied it where the sun doesn't shine. He noticed there was no objection from me. I went swimming a few times. I had no idea the water could be so warm. I had a pad and pencil and did sketches of the men. Another member of the group, Pablo, was a hairy bear. I had my sketch pad with me and did a sketch of him. That was a success. My drawing of Pablo showed him with a semi-erect cock. Apparently, Pablo was normally semi-hard. I admit I was good about drawings of cocks in the "maybe it's hard or maybe it's not" state.

It is safe to say that the new friends I found under the umbrella were not standoffish. I realized being a naked guy on a nude gay beach would present opportunities. I should have realized that drawing nude pictures would be a good conversation starter.

My drawing of Pablo seemed to cause a sensation. Pablo was getting older and heavier. He wasn't in bad shape, but he was showing his age. My drawing showed him as an attractive, masculine, hairy man. He was not centerfold material, but you could sense a roll in the hay was an attractive possibility. The drawing showed him as man not a male model, or a porn star.

A thunderstorm came up. Art lived in a high-rise apartment next to the beach, so we went there to get out of the rain. Once we were in the apartment the sexual potential, I suspected on the beach became real. I was attractive enough. Luckily, all men look better erect. They didn't pretend to be uninterested. I didn't pretend I wasn't a slut. It was magic.

No one was a virgin. Art asked if I was interested in a late afternoon frolic. "I know there are four of us. are you uncomfortable with that?" he asked.

"It has never been a problem before," I said. The men smiled.

"For your information we've all been recently tested," Pablo said. "I'm a public health nurse."

"My partner is a urologist. He likes bareback sex, so I was tested a week ago," I said. "Are you guys into bare back play?"

"Damn, I've died and gone to heaven," Eddie said. He was with us on the beach, but Eddie didn't talk much. He was a watcher.

We had a nice hour and a half of enjoyable sex punctuated by moments of great intensity, and generous exchange of sperm. It was the sort of sex I had when I was drunk, except for one thing. I could remember what I was doing. I tasted the cocks and precum. I could feel sperm pumping into my ass and taste the semen as it flooded into my mouth.

Since I was sober, I could remember which cock did what. Eddie was quiet but he let his cock do the talking. Some men fuck, Eddie gently caressed and massaged my ass and left a liquid token of his love deep in me. Pablo was aggressive. He was shocked when my sphincter gripped his cock and he slowed down. Eventually he his sperm exploded in me like fireworks. I though he had completely drained his balls. Apparently, he had a quick refill option.

I always enjoyed sex with men. Now I remembered why.

We got together several times over the week. Art was a retired real estate broker. Eddie was a big-time accountant, who specialized in cultural groups and institutions. He collected art. Pablo was the head nurse at a major hospital.

I did sketches of people at the beach. Only the northern part of the beaches was nude, but the dress code at the beach did not tend toward baggy shorts, or one-piece swimsuits for women. There was a competition for who could have the least amount of fabric in a bikini. The men's trunks made a jock strap look like something only your granddad would wear.

I draw quickly and produce work effortlessly. My professor, Ralph liked the look of spontaneousness in the drawings. That was good in his estimation.

While most of my drawings were of nudes, people didn't see that way. I drew men and women who were flesh and blood. They happened to be nude, but that was not the reason for the picture. They weren't porn.

Eddie new some gallery owners and showed them some of my work. They were interested.

I was back with Roger a few days later. He told me he had found a young Greek man who he had hired to replace me. I was expecting that, so I told him I was planning to move on, and I appreciated all that he had done for me. Roger did not hide his relief that there was no scene, no drama.

I went to see Ralph Dewing, my studio art professor. I told him I was considering a move to Miami. Ralph was a bit crusty and direct, but he was a straight shooter. I had taken all the useful classes and most talented artist learn by doing after a point. He understood leaving.

"You excel in drawing and painting nudes. I assume you know the market for nude paintings is limited here. I seriously doubt there are any limits in Miami," he said. "If you want to make a living as an artist Miami is a better market." We talked for a while. I was worried that I wouldn't have a degree.

"If you are going to teach, a degree is required. If you want to paint and draw, you know the techniques. That gets you going. I wouldn't worry about a degree. Rembrandt didn't sell paintings because he had an MFA."

My meeting with Art, Pablo and Eddie was fortunate. They were gay and involved in the gay community. They had been around, and knew some men who were real people, some who were posers, and who should be avoided. That evening I called Art and told him of my plans. I needed a place to stay. He was excited I might move to Florida and said he would ask around. A half hour later Pedro called. He had an extra bedroom. I asked about the cost.

"I hate to be vulgar, but I would like to trade sperm two or three times a week," He replied. "Is that too much?"

"Shit, I would give you that for free!" I said. He told me he had guessed that.

Two weeks later I was in Pedro's apartment in Miami Beach. Roger gave me a farewell gift of $5,000.00. I told him that was too much. He told me the last time he broke up with a houseboy it had cost fifteen thousand plus legal fees.

My parents were glad I would be near. They were also relieved I wasn't moving in. The years I had lived with them were what my father described as, "a bit stressful." This new arrangement was good for all of us. Dad told me I had a trust fund given to me by my grandfather when I was an infant.

"It was a small amount, a hundred thousand. It had appreciated in the last thirty years," he explained. "I am the sole trustee and have complete discretion on it's distribution. I can transfer it to you, but it is still appreciating. As a financial advisor I would recommend you leave it in my control. When I die, it will automatically transfer to you. Whenever you have immediate need, you will have the money withing three days."

I was briefly insulted, but my financial skills were limited to getting a good deal on drugs and finding the cheapest price for booze. I left things as they were.

Pablo lived in a house he inherited from his parents. They were refugees from Cuba in 1960. His father had been an English teacher in Cuba. That gave him as running start in Miami. He became a highly respected member of the community. His mother was from a wealthy family, and they had managed to get some money into banks in Miami. Pablo inherited their house. He was house rich and cash poor. His six brothers and sisters inherited the cash and investments from their parents.

The third floor of the house had four vacant bedrooms. I asked if I could use it as a studio. I would rent and make some modifications to it to meet my needs. Pablo was fine with that. It was a 1920's style Mediterranean style house the third floor was treated an enclosed loggia. That was a porch to me. It had beautiful light.

I did nude sketches of Pablo's friends, and they were the perfect gift for your lover. I sold them and did well. Eddie showed my work to one of his clients who owned an art gallery. Six months later I had a show at his gallery.

My little show named Nude but Not Naked, had been a success at home. A show of well-drawn and painted nude men was a stunning success in Miami Beach. It turned into an auction with guests bidding to get works they desired. I realized my understanding of the value of art in my hometown did not apply to Miami. One oil went for thirty thousand. When the gallery put a price of ten thousand, I thought it was crazy.

Ralph's advice to keep my mouth shut and look moody worked like magic. The reviews in the newspapers described me as aloof and taciturn. One reviewer described my work as skillful and natural. The men were comfortable, nude and reserved. There was a slight eroticism, but the men might have been relaxing after a shower. Men and women liked them as did gay and straight people.

My career was on automatic pilot after the show. I had commissions for informal portraits. They would not grace the board room of a corporate leader, but they might be in his bedroom at the beach. Several professional athletes wanted a portrait, as did a wrestler.

There was one strange episode involving my parents. They showed off the picture their dog Dusty. I thought that gay men and athletes were obsessive about nude portraits. The number of people who wanted a picture of their dog was stunning. I did a few and gave the fee to the ASPCA. That did nothing to reduce my popularity.

My work with a professional wrestler was the beginning of my career with straight guys. Rocky Mountain was a classic bad guy on the wrestling circuit. He was six-five, 280 pounds with an additional 20 pounds of black hair. Rocky was bald, had a beaver sized beard and a body hair covering everything but his fingernails. Rocky was his real first name, his real last name was Jones. His trademark attire was an all but transparent bikini brief. The bikini displayed his equipment but was just short of being unacceptable on the television.

He came in loud and obnoxious until he entered the studio.

"Can you get out of character and be still for an hour or so" I asked.

He glared at me and then smiled. "I can if you don't tell anyone," he replied.

"Your secret is safe with me," I said laughing. "Why don't you get naked and tell me what you want to use the painting for?"

Rocky had no problem stripping. "I want to be something special for my fans. It will be a pricy souvenir. It can't be porn. I've seen your work. The guys are naked, but not porn," he explained.

I showed him a picture of the Farnese Hercules statue. I had taken an Ancient Art History class, and Rocky physique was similar to the sculpture. "How about this as a pose?" I asked.

"Shit that's exactly what I want," Rocky replied.

Rocky was a good model. He stood still and we talked when I wasn't working on his head. He was country boy who was brought up near Chattanooga. He was poorly educated, but his athletic ability made him a popular figure. A talent scout for a wrestling promoter found him. The bad boy attitude was all theater. We got along well. I asked if he could come back the next day. He had a match that day, but he was free the next. That worked for me.

The next day I worked on the preliminary drawing and began work on the finished work. He was perfect for the Hercules pose. Rocky was slimmer but quite similar otherwise. His dark body hair turned the drawing almost a negative of the original statue. Rocky's balls hung lower, and his uncut cock was larger, but not so much as to focus too much attention.

When Rocky returned, he was shocked and pleased. He posed for another hour, and I had what I needed to complete the work.

Out from nowhere he asked me if I was gay. I said yes and asked if that was a problem.

He said no. "You didn't make a pass at me, and I wondered," he said.

"If I told you that usually man make passes at me, would you be shocked?" I asked.

"Did I upset you?" he asked. "You are a good-looking guy. Most of the guys who make passes at me are trophy hunters. Actually, they aren't as bad as the women. At least they don't want to have my baby!" Rusty paused briefly. "I'm kind of interested. I like sex but hell will freeze over before I fuck a wrestler groupie."

"Have you taken trips on the wild side?" I asked.

"Only kid stuff," he replied. "I did have a little fun with the wresting coach for another school's team. It was okay."

"Somehow Rocky, I have a suspicion it was more than okay," I said. "Don't worry, I've been there. My pal was a janitor."

"Other guys had fucked me, you know, the winner fucked the looser stuff. The coach did it right," Rocky said.

I laughed and said, "My janitor may have been a dirty old man, but he told me he like repeat customers. He knew how to get his cock up an ass, I loved it."

"My coach told me he rarely shot off up an ass. If he did it would because I was a good bottom." Rocky said.

"Let me guess, you got the creamy version of a gold medal," I said.

"I assume you got the same?" Rocky asked. I nodded and somehow a few minutes his cock was probing my ass. Rocky was a lover not a fucker. I assumed he copied the coach's technique. He must have shot off a few pints of sperm deep in my hole. I almost shot off hands free as he rear-loaded me.

He asked if there would be another posing session. Of course, I said yes. Eventually I did a series of Hercules themed painting. They were modernized versions of the Labors of Hercules. Rocky became a friend. some of that was due to me, but most of it was to be in a quiet place where he didn't need to be the bad guy in a wrestling match.