Kipling F. Holliday IV Part 5 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 had a meeting with the bishop and the committee on the memorial chapel commission. They were all good, intelligent, and sincere people. They wanted a one-hundred-percent Christian, Episcopalian, non-denominational chapel. At the end of the meeting, I told them the only thing I could say; that would not be a problem. I wasn't sure how that could be, but my youth spent as a bullshit artist came to the fore.
The general thought was I should use abstract symbols of reconciliation and sorrow to express the message of the chapel. Two nights later I woke up during a typical Miami, middle of the night thunderstorm and had an idea. They wanted a dove as a central image. It symbolized peace, love, and the holy spirit. I would surround it with ring of images of the victims of hatred, genocide, and prejudice.
I didn't want these to be abstract images, but portraits of the dead. This would focus on twentieth and twenty-first century victims. My thinking was that abstract people were not killed; actual human beings were killed.
The next day I looked up photographic images of horrific events. There is an unending supply of such images. I made pencil drawings and then oil sketches. I am not a painter who looks at every brushstroke to make sure it is perfect. I draw or paint a picture, and then stand back and see if it's good or not.
I spent two weeks working on quarter sized mock-up of the painting. That was six-by-six feet, and I could see the way the full-sized painting might look. From a distance it was brilliant white dove enclosed by a multicolored wreath, against a moody sky. As you got closer, you saw that the wreath was made up faces. These were paintings made from photographs of victims. The photos were of them when they were alive. All had been murdered, but I tried to give a sense of them as real, living people. That would add up to 800 to 1,000 portraits.
The overall painting was abstract, but the abstraction came from portraits of real persons. When the committee from the Cathedral made a surprise visit, they were stunned. They hadn't expected anything like it. I had the commission.
Lightning can strike anywhere and at any time. A week later my parent's next-door neighbor called me. my father had a heart attack. Mom wasn't thinking right, she didn't want to bother me. I rushed over to the hospital.
It was bad. Dad had a serious heart attack and the doctors thought he might have had a stroke too. When I got to the hospital dad was still in critical condition. Mom was fine. After five minutes I realized that all was not well. She didn't seem to realize dad, or she were in the hospital. I talked to a nurse and five minutes later a doctor came to see her. They went off to his office.
An hour later the doctor, Randall Smith, came to see me. He told me that my father's heart attack was too much for her and she had what might best be described as a mental breakdown. It wasn't a dramatic breakdown. She just rejected the bad news and acted as if nothing happened. It was mess.
Two weeks later, dad was in a rehab home and mom was in a memory unit at the same home. I am not sure either realized the other was there, or if the other existed.
I moved into their house so I could visit regularly. Both thought I was a nice boy who came to see them. The man who built their house in the forties included an oversized garage and shop. I never found out if he was an inventor or a mad scientist type in it was his lab. There was a big room with a high ceiling that I easily converted into a studio.
The Bishop's Committee contacted groups to find photographs of victims of racial and ethnic hatred. The 9-11 groups, Jewish, Armenians, African American, and American Indian organizations were involved. When possible, I wanted names and personal information too. Russians sent photos of Stalin's victims; Cambodians sent photos of Pol Pots' mass murder. Many of the pictures came in with their stories. The organizing committee made the choices and sent them to me.
It treated them as quick, lively oil studies, not formal portraits. I want to show them as living persons, not static images. I found several studio assistants. Billy-Bob was art school dropout. His problem at school had been his subject matter, clouds. He was not into people, landscapes, or abstracts. He liked clouds. His only other interest was cock sucking. I discovered his cock sucking skills before I found out about his cloud fixation.
My other assistant was Joey. He was a skilled artist, but he lacked imagination. If I sketched out an object, he could paint it beautifully. If I hadn't found him, he would have been doing forgeries. He could copy anything beautifully, including my style. Joey was a bottom.
I paint quickly. Both Billy-Bob and Joey painted quickly too. They both loved to paint, but they liked the physical act of painting more than the creative aspect. Joey could paint a portrait, but not without a sitter. He couldn't invent an imaginative portrait.
We got along well. They knew they would not be a success as an artist. Both had been waiters and dish washers before. I gave them a chance to do what they loved for a good salary. They like sex too, but I was more imaginative and adaptable. They were just as adaptable.
Being at my parents' house in a quiet suburb was good. It was an older house in a ninety percent, cul-de-sac, nightmare suburb. There was nothing to suggest there was an artist in the neighborhood. For dining you has a vast array of fast-food outlets.
Rocky, Tyler, and Pablo visited individually and as a group often. I was surprised that Rutherford visited as did his carpenter friend Marco. I was also surprised that Marco sometimes came on his own after work. Father Salvatore and Father O'Brien also came by.
The painting was a secret, but they offered good advice. I don't want to sound stupid but painting hundreds of portraits of men women and children who had been horribly murdered can get you down. I prided myself as being unemotional and none too sensitive. I had the letters and life stories of the people I was painting.
I discovered meaningless sex was a perfect cure for depression. My friends were sensible and helpful, but good advice about painting victims, didn't erase their deaths.
I do not know if this was pure expediency or lust, but I became more enthusiastic about work after a blowout sexual interlude. I was refreshed and wanted to paint again. I talked about this with Tyler who suggested sex was the best medicine.
O'Brien and Salvatore dropped in. I was explaining my problem to them. Salvatore said that Michelangelo carried on with his own life as he painted the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel. "You are a painter. You work with paint, not souls," he said. "Just because Frederic Remington painted cowboys, he didn't become a cowboy. Painters don't become their subjects."
As we were talking, Marco and Rutherford dropped in. They were hoping for sex, but Rutherford got interested in our conversation. He wondered if Andy Warhol's art would have been better if he turned into a Xerox machine.
That amused everyone, most of all me. I knew the priests were hoping for a sexual interlude as were Rutherford and Marco.
Since I was in the mood, I decided to be direct. "This has been a good conversation, but I was hoping to have some fun this afternoon. We all share the same interests and urges. I can tell you we have the same interests." I said, "I am off to my bedroom. Anyone who wants to join me please do. There are five of us. I am quite sure no one will be left out."
"Count me in," Rutherford said. "I love the subtle approach." We went to my bedroom, and no one was left out. I thought that was because I could take a cock in my mouth as another cock visited my ass. It turned out I was not the only one in the group who had the skill. I had sex with all of them individually. That had been good. Somehow as a fivesome it was magic. Every cock turned into a magic wand. They were the perfect fit for every ass and every mouth. Each cock spurted elixir of the gods or fairy dust.
Salvatore tended to be more of a lover than a fucker, but when I saw him slipping his cock into Rutherford's ass, I felt something special was happening. Rutherford was a top. He only took my cock to prove he could take it. Rutherford was a defensive, up-tight, asshole most of the time. He almost looked calm and relaxed as Salvatore massaged the hard-to-reach places in his ass.
I knew Salvatore paid particular attention to the prostate. I could tell each time the priest's oversized knob rubbed the tender gland. Rutherford shivered and took a deep beath. I almost said something about it. I didn't. I was afraid that if Rutherford discovered he had human feelings, he would stomp them out.
Marco had been working in the sun all day. He went to take a shower. Father O'Brien joined him. He had been working at a food bank all day. Both were erect when the returned to my bedroom. I bent over to suck O'Brien. I wrapped my lips around his cock head and licked his slit. I tasted precum. He was ready.
From that position my asshole was exposed. I knew Marco loved the top, and like many men, he could resist anything except temptation. His cock was both big and easy to take. As it slipped into me, he and O'Brien embraced, and soon were kissing. It was not a platonic kiss.
In some ways this was the prefect first date for them. Both were getting more excited as they kissed. They were both rock hard, but one was in my mouth and the other was deep in my ass. I knew that they would soon be sucking or fucking each other, but I was the perfect neutral territory. I don't know how they did it, but they shot off together, filling my mouth and ass simultaneously. It was good for all three of us.
When we broke apart, Rutherford came over and began to suck me. Salvatore was right behind him and nudged his cock into Rutherford's ass. Salvatore's cock activated Rutherford's ability to feel emotion. I shot off flooding his mouth. Seconds later Salvatore rear loaded him. It was getting late so everyone had to go, except for Rutherford.
"I kind of got carried away," Rutherford said. "You won't tell anyone will you?"
"I don't kiss and tell," I replied. "I have a question for you. Did you enjoy taking and swallowing my sperm?"
He looked at me for a long time and said, "I did, I didn't expect that."
"If I told you that Salvatore's cock cream would taste a lot better, would you be surprised?" I asked.
"I'm afraid of that," he said. "Have you taken his load?"
I nodded. "I need to warn you. His sperm tastes of kindness and compassion," I said. "You might catch some of that."
"Maybe I should avoid him?" Rutherford asked.
"Rutherford, you could try to do that, but you know as well as I, that your cock craves it," I said. "Turning into a nice person isn't the worst thing that could happen to you."
He looked at me and laughed. "You are fucking smarter than you look." He went home.
My enthusiasm for painting rekindled. Billy-Bob and Joey found additional assistants. They were quirky and eccentric, but they could tell a talented guy from a house painter. Gofer was tall, skinny, and had a terrible looking beard. He could paint and had good artistic taste. He could draw like the wind.
Gofer would take a photograph and draw it on a canvas. Somehow his sketch was of a living person, not of faded photograph. We would discuss it and I would change it if necessary and then paint it. After a week I just worked with his sketch. He was always right.
Joey had a friend, Monique. Monique had a brilliant color sense. She looked at the completed portraits and mixed colors that she thought were right to link them. She was eighty percent right. Gofer and Monique didn't care if I didn't like what they did. They worked at lightning speed and could change whatever I didn't like.
Gofer was shy and quiet. Monique was outgoing and loud. Monique wore a hand embroidered jock strap to keep her seven-inch cock in place. It seemed that she had trained her ass to do massages for visiting cocks. Monique wasn't pretending to be a woman. She was a woman, except for the cock and balls thing. Her cock was her clitoris, and her balls were her ovaries. God is just, and Monique was a lesbian who was looking for a good woman.
Mom and dad died four months after dad's heart attack. He lived longer than the doctors anticipated. Mom died a day after dad. One of the nurses said that happened sometimes. Even though she didn't know what day it was or who she had married, the nurse said there was a disturbance in the force. Somehow, she sensed he was dead. We had a simple quiet funeral. They had outlived most of their relatives and friends. I asked for donations be made to my parent's favorite charities.
There was a massive outbreak of food at the house. That was nice, but I was glad that I had four assistants who were overjoyed at the supply of home-made food. Billy-Bob and Joey were at the studio when food arrived. Somehow, they made friends with the Presbyterian horde. They all but oozed lost souls, and they found the loving parents they lacked in the disappointed actual parents.
There were two large donations to the chapel project in their name. They were anonymous and I had no idea who gave them. I didn't think my parents had many wealthy friends, but I knew they and their friends thought being showy was vulgar.
Dad described their financial situation as being comfortable. That turned out to be like describing your forty-foot cabin cruiser as a rowboat. As I would have guessed, the will was perfect, and sensible. I only had to sign some papers.
I took a few days off after the funeral and went to my Miami Beach studio. Life had been easier when I could spend days drawing nude pictures of Rocky and Pablo. Pablo had a new friend, Giorgio. He was a young, up and coming chef in an Italian restaurant. He had a wife, who she became pregnant easily. They had three kids in five years. His wife was one hundred percent Catholic and did not believe in birth control. He needed a safe outlet for his other urges. Pablo was perfect and Giorgio found having Pablo drain his balls after work was a good method of birth control. I was all natural, but not in an orthodox Catholic way.
We discovered that if I fucked Giorgio and Pablo sucked him, there was hardly a sperm left in his balls. Giorgio didn't think that playing with men was sex. He liked Pablo, but it wasn't love. It was nice to be a horny bastard and a humanitarian at the same time.
I visited the Cathedral and saw that the architectural modifications were moving along well. I went to see the bishop and gave him a progress report. He was with the Senior Warden, Elizabeth Worden. She was an attractive woman in her late sixties. She had been a noted Tennis player in her younger years, personable and knowledgeable. She wasn't interested in art or architecture, but she had an eye. She wondered if the lighting was adequate. There was a problem. The lighting was fine for quiet meditation, but if there was a service in the chapel, few could see the painting.
Since it was a side chapel, she though they should remove the pews in the area and install more flexible chairs, so more people could see in the chapel. That was right, it drove some of the older members crazy, but no one who knew her knew she wasn't to be trifled with.
Ultra conservatives were making a stink and were attracting crazies. Born again fundamentalist were attracted to the conservatives like iron filings to a magnet. They objected to remembering Holocaust victims in a Christian church. The bishop took the high road. He believes in God' s love for all creation.
Elizabeth was on a local television discussion, and in dealing with a particularly outlandish claim, said that her grandson would say they were full of shit, adding that she regrettably found she agreed with him. That caused a tempest in a tea pot. The cathedral had a surge in membership.
I was back at my studio at my parent's house, and we were doing well. We had a system that produced high quality work at a fast pace. Monique had standards and was not afraid to express them. That statement is not right. Monique never considered not expressing herself. She was ninety percent right.
One of Elizabeth Worden's grandsons came to look at what we were doing. Elizabeth had no opinion about art at all. Her star, football player, grandson was the artistic type. When I heard that I thought oh shit, a guy who likes naked women on black velvet is coming to judge my work.
Willy Worden was six-four and over two hundred pounds of muscle. He looked at the painting that was over half-finished and said, "Shit, it's beautiful. It sounded odd when Grandma described it, but wow. ."
We talked and he went up the scaffold with me to look closely at the portraits. "I thought they would be fucking cartoons or clip art from the Saturday Evening Post. They are lovely."
Gofer was with us. I did the portraits which we attached to the back board of the painting, He filled in the space between the portraits. He told Willy, "This is Ruth Cohen who was killed at Auschwitz. She was fourteen. She has delicate coloring, so I have to adjust the background slightly to relate to her neighbors," he explained.
"You have information on all of them?" he asked.
"For some of them we have little. We know he or she was Jewish, Armenian of Cambodian. For the people who died in the twin towers we have full biographies," I explained. Willy turned out to be a smart man. He was supposed to go home, but he spent the night. We had dinner and he said he has seen my Rocky inspired works in a magazine. I had a few of them with me so I showed him the originals.
"He posed nude?" he asked.
"Well, you may know that there is little difference in what he wore in the ring and being naked," I said.
"Now you see it, now you don't attire?" he said.
I laughed and said. "I saw all of Rocky if you are into that."
"I guess you could say I'm into that," he said. "The first day I was in a shower in JV football there we played peek-a-boo. By the time I was in college we let it all hang out." He paused, "Did you get close to Rocky?"
"We are good friends. Sometimes were more than that," I said. "We were playmates. Not lovers."
"I'm a player who isn't a lover," he said. "It's hard for me to go all the way. Do you take cum? I've never done that,"
"Let's just say I'm full service," I said.
"I'm top only," he said. "A pal told me it would be nice if I bottomed. He was a good bottom, but he said it would like it if his cock could tickle my prostate some time." He was silent for a few seconds. "Do you give lessons?"
I smiled and said that I did, but there was no real difference between my lessons and a plain old fuck complete with an orgasm deep in a behind. Willy was unbuttoning his shirt by then, so we went to my bedroom. We showered since it had been hot in the studio. That was complicated since my cock was down Willy's throat. I got him to stand, hold onto a grab bar as assume the position.
"You know that a man you barely know is going to shove his cock up your ass and then drain his balls in you?" I asked.
"Do I get to fuck you later?" he asked.
"You could fuck me for the rest of the night if you want to." I gave him a firm, thrust and my cock vanished in his ass. he moaned and all was well.