Starting Over Again 2 By Bald Hairy Man
aThis 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 winarch47@yahoo.com
Once and a while I worried about my memory, or more correctly my missing memory. Fragments of memory popped up once and a while. They were always fragments, not a coherent image. Emmet told me that I might not ever recover major portions of memory. He also told me that nationally known doctors wanted to test and study me.
Emmet told me he would not allow that. I was a bit miffed and asked if I had any choice in the matter.
He said that I was functioning on a high level artistically and personally. Memories were returning gradually. He suspected that I was recovering at my own pace, and we should leave well enough alone.
That seemed logical to me. My time in the hospital had not been good and I didn't want to go through that again.
I had a call and was asked to meet with Mrs. Helen Rosenberg. She had been at the opening and wanted a painting to commemorate her husband's gift of a building to his alma mater. Raoul drove me to the college to meet Mrs. Rosenberg.
I had no idea who she was, but when I met her, I remembered she had been a nice woman at the gallery opening. She was with the chairman of the art department, a man named Stan and the college president Dr. Whitmore. She wanted a painting to commemorate her husband who had been a major contributer to the school. The college was near the mountains and was pretty. We talked, had a good lunch and I told them I would like to wander around the campus and then meet with them the next afternoon.
I had a canvas in the back of the car with my paints. She had given me some photographs of her husband. The college was built around a quad called the Yard. There was one 1930s era photo of a pick-up football game with a young Mr. Rosenberg.
I set up my easel. The canvas was only three by four feet, I began painting. At three, the sun was at the place that matched the sun in the old photograph. I added Mr. Rosenberg and his pals to the painting. I liked what I had done.
I didn't like it as much as Mrs. Rosenberg and the college President liked it. There was a back story. Henry Rosenberg had been the first Jew to be admitted to the College. He became the quarterback on the football team. He led them to first place in the league. This was the first, and last time they won a trophy. By accident I picked a legendary event in the college's history.
The head of the art department didn't know what he was looking at. Was it a Hudson River School, Pointillist, or Surrealist fantasy? I had a suspicion that he wanted to dislike it, but he couldn't figure out what it was. I had the commission.
I want to spend some time at the college sketching and getting a feel for the college. I was to stay with the head of the art department, Stan. He wasn't too happy about that, but he was no fool. When the president and the biggest donor to the college wanted something, he had no choice.
Emmet drove me to Stan's house. He explained my medical situation in detail to Stan. I would have thought that would be a problem. I think Stan felt better about me knowing my medical history. I found out later, he thought I had been brought in to replace him. Amnesia is a major impediment to running an art department. I was in a guest house behind Stan's house. It had a living room, two bedrooms and a bathroom.
Stan also found two students and an assistant professor to be with me. I didn't have seizures, but I could get lost, and I wasn't always stable on my feet. Anna was an Amazon goddess pretending to be a sculptor. She was available in the mornings. Thomas was a black man who was available in the afternoons. He was a trainer for the Football team.
In the evenings Vernon DeWitt Talmadge III was my companion. He was an assistant professor teaching Art History. He was tall, solid, and affable. Unexpectedly, he had been a wrestler in college. He was published and his specialty was 19th Century American landscapes. He understood my paintings. He was bearded, bald and looked sloppy. All his clothes looked well worn. Anna later told me his daddy was loaded.
Stan was away at a conference the second night I was there, so DeWitt had to sleep over. We ate at the college dining hall and returned to the cottage. We talked about the Hudson River painters. Given my memory problems, my memories of painters and their works were clear. DeWitt was interested and was a good conversationalist.
Emmet sent instructions as to my care and handling. Someone had to be nearby when I showered. Slippery surfaces were not my friend. DeWitt was to shower with me. He was much better looking naked than when he was dressed. I just happened to notice that his cock was attractive. We talked and he told me he was the black sheep of his family. His brother and sister were bankers like their father. DeWitt was an art historian. That was not good. While his mother was affectionate, his father was aloof and distant. He couldn't understand his son.
I was the same body type and size as his father. Being in the shower with a man reminded him of his father was odd. It became odder when my cock decided to get hard. I didn't think that my cock has a mind of its own, but it seemed respond to DeWitt.
I later found out that DeWitt had broken up with a long-term lover several months earlier. DeWitt stared at my cock, dropped to his knees, and began to suck my cock. I intended to tell him that was inappropriate. Somehow, I said, "Damn, that's good."
We spent the next few hours in meaningless high intensity sex. His former partner was all top, with no reciprocation. My ass was the perfect fit for his cock. My cock was a size or two bigger than his former playmates' tool. When I fucked him, DeWitt almost passed it was so pleasurable. He and I passed out after an hour or two of intense sex.
Anna, the morning amazon, called at six from her car and told me that her father had a heart attack, and she was on the way to a hospital in Buffalo. I told her not to worry, I understood and hoped her father would recover. I told DeWitt about it, and he said he would stay with me, if I promised to fuck him again. I said I would do that.
When I went out painting, DeWitt was fascinated by my painting technique. I work fast and almost never correct my work. Given that I had memory problems, I just put the paint where it belonged. That had driven my professors at art school crazy.
We were back at the cottage in the afternoon and Thomas was waiting. Thomas was a very black, black man. DeWitt was white, almost bleached white. It had been a hot day and I was sweating like a pig. We shared the shower. Both men were well hung.
Both men were beginning to get hard. I was surprised at this but when I looked down at my cock, I realized that I was showing hard. That could have been embarrassing, but Thomas and DeWitt had connected before. The duo became a trio. DeWitt's cock was longer. Thomas' cock was thicker.
"I'm a trainer and take care of the students aches and pains. If I ever did anything with a student, I would never get another job," Thomas explained. "Your student days are but a memory."
"I'm not that old!" DeWitt exclaimed.
"I am!" I exclaimed. Both men laughed.
"They told me you had a stroke. Do I need to be careful?" Thomas asked.
"It caused damage to my brain. My memory is what a friend called "problematic." I like to take cum in my mouth and up my ass." I explained. "You're a big boy but I think my brain is safe!" I paused and added. "Is your ass open for recreational use?"
Tomas laughed. "My former partner said his orgasm in my ass was an expression of eternal love. I never actually felt him shoot off.
"One of my pals from years ago complained I made a mess when I shot off in his ass. Sometimes I licked the sperm drooling from his ass. I had another pal who said my sperm was a great lubricant," I said. "I hope you guys don't think I am a crazed libertine."
"Damn, my delicate sensibilities are shocked." DeWitt said. "My cock is rock hard. I think we have a cock and an asshole on opposite sides of our body so we could entertain two men at the same time!" The three of us worked things out.
I later discovered Thomas's interest in fucking was not casual. I almost considered charging him rent he spent so much time in my ass. His cock was impressive, but it was a near perfect fit for my ass. All was well.
Thomas knew nothing about art. He watched me paint and was shocked that after an hour putting random colors on the canvas it formed a recognizable image. The campus was handsome with impressive buildings set in a manicured landscape. I am not sure Thomas ever looked at buildings as fine architecture, or that he was living in a beautiful place.
By the time Stan returned from a series of conferences and meetings, all was well with me, Thomas, and DeWitt. He had won a major award for a book he wrote on Existentialism and Abstract Expressionism. He had been gone ten days and he was shocked at the amount of work I had done. He described it as overwhelming. It wasn't his cup of tea, but he was polite.
He returned with a friend, Juan Franklin. Juan was a sculptor. Juan appeared to be 100% Latino, but his father was English and died shortly after Juan's birth. Officially Juan was a house guest. Juan took the other bedroom in the guest house. He came to bed late at night or early in the morning.
He walked in on DeWitt and me while we were showering, noted the erect cocks and joined us. Juan was Stan's lover, but he liked a little variety and he liked me. He dropped to his knees and sucked my cock. As his tongue caressed my cock head as my wide slit was oozing precum. His finger strayed and found my ass hole. I shivered a little.
"Is your ass available for business?" he asked. I said yes and his we changed positions so he could fuck me. Seconds later his long, thin cock was deep in my ass. As he fucked me, DeWitt slipped his cock into Juan's ass, and pounded him a few times.
"Damn, that's good," Juan said. A little later DeWitt injected the contents of his balls deep into Juan's ass. Seconds later Juan shot the contents of his balls into me. When Juan pulled out of my ass and Juan's cum drooled from my ass.
"It sure is pretty, isn't it?" DeWitt remarked.
"Damn right!" Juan replied.
We found out that Stan like to watch spurting sperm, but he didn't take it in his mouth or ass. He never shot off in Juan's ass.
Juan was fifteen years younger than Stan. Their relationship was purely sexual at first, but developed into a mildly father-son connection. It wasn't a "Spank me, I've been bad," relationship. Juan was a rising star before they met. I think it was an older man helping a sexually generous younger man.
DeWitt told me that Stan had hopes to move up the academic ladder and move to the Ivy League. Being open with a sexual relationship with a younger man could be a problem. DeWitt thought trading sperm was undignified in Stan's view. DeWitt also told that Stan was intelligent and supportive of his staff and students.
I laughed. "Who would ever think a gay guy would have any quirks," I said. "I like to completely drain the sperm in my balls into another man's ass the first time I connect with him."
"That's a big step up from shaking hands," DeWitt replied with a smile on his face.
I had my preliminary work done that week, so DeWitt drove me back to Emmet's house on Friday. He had a problem with the van, so he stayed to get it fixed. DeWitt met Emmet, Rufus, and Teddy. DeWitt made friends easily.
Emmet got along with DeWitt well. In our little group friendship and sex tended to merge. DeWitt connected with Rufus and Teddy too. It was a pleasant visit punctuated with periodic orgasms. It was a good weekend for DeWitt.
I spent the next month combining my sketches into a large mural. I had to make a few adjustments and changes. My memory of events and people from my past remained fuzzy or non-existent. Almost every detail from my oil sketches were clear and vivid.
Mrs. Rosenburg and the college president made an unannounced visit to see how I was doing. I was wearing sweatpants and nothing else. That surprised them. The painting left them speechless.
After a period of silence, Mrs. Rosenburg spoke. "It's stunning. It's beyond beautiful."
Emmet returned from work and offered them drinks. The painting was twelve by eight feet. It looked hyper-realistic from a distance and abstract when you were three feet from it. I tended to use pure colors in small dabs and use other color dabs to achieve the color of a leaf, face, or cloud.
Rufus stopped by with just picked vegetables and fresh fish. Emmet invited them to have dinner with us. Mrs. Rosenberg wanted to eat in the barn with the painting. Emmet was a good cook, and it was a totally successful day.
The painting was delivered a month later, and I was able to rest. Raoul oversaw the installation. He knew his stuff and it went well. I didn't go to the dedication. It was a memorial to Henry Rosenberg, and I didn't want to divert attention from him. I did get good publicity from it. The painting was much admired, but there were some newspaper references about a brilliant, reclusive, mentally impaired artist.
I was paid well for the work. Technically, it was a lot more than just well. I remained focused on painting. I liked the painting, and I was paid well. I had a vague memory that I had once had financial problems, but nothing more than that.
I did give an interview to an art critic named Devoe Rallings. He was a stunningly gay man, who turned out to be a good writer and intelligent. He described me as man who combined great technical skills and my own style. He mentioned my heart attack and stroke and said while I had little memory of the past, my understanding of art and my painter's skills were not reduced.
Rufus and Teddy dropped by as we talked. Devoe glanced at Rufus and was obviously excited by him. I had assumed he was a Queen of Heaven type fag. He saw Rufus and Teddy as rough trade. Rufus dropped off some vegetables and asked if we wanted a dip in the pool. It was a hot day.
"I would love to cool off, but I'm not dressed for swimming," Devoe said.
"We are in the country. Birthday suits are fine in the cement pond," Rufus explained. I thought Beverly Hillbilly's reference was a nice touch. We all got in Rufus's van and went to his house.
"You guys are all old friends." Devoe said. "I am not used to skinny dipping."
"We are playful men. We make friends real fast." Teddy said. "Sometimes we get a little frisky."
I explained that sometimes things get a little intimate. I told him he could avert his eyes when he did laps. He laughed.
By this time Devoe was half hard. "You are big boys," he remarked.
"Is that a problem?" Rufus asked.
"If I said that it hasn't been a problem, would you think I'm a slut?" Devoe asked.
"To be strictly truthful, I was kind of hoping you are a slut," Rufus replied. We all laughed.
"By the way," Teddy said. "This is just fun. It is not an initiation. Nothing is required."
We stripped. Devoe liked what he saw. Devoe was in good shape. Most of all he was well hung. He obviously liked what he saw. I think he thought Rufus and Teddy were hillbillies. They thought he was a flaming faggot. Luckily when you are sucking on a cock, or taking a cock up the ass that is not a problem. If you are all a bit sex crazed, everything works out fine.
It is probably wrong to say that Devoe had a split personality, but that was possible. He was an effete, delicate, effeminate man when he was an art critic fully dressed. Naked he was insatiable man who could only be satisfied when he was taking a spurting cock up is ass or in his mouth, preferably simultaneously.
Rufus, Teddy, and I tended to define a nice guy as a good sport. Devoe saw us as rednecks, he discovered that redneck cocks and redneck sperm made his life complete. Fortunately for Devoe, we were all willing to exploit his vulnerabilities.
Devoe had a good cock and oversized balls. His ass was tight. It had been well used, so it was accommodating. Even after it was sperm filled, it seemed tight. I had an odd feeling that Devoe didn't like man sex, he craved it.
Both Teddy and Rufus fucked him doggy style. After they pulled out I flipped him over on his back. After I lifted and spread his legs wide, I aimed my cock at the sperm dribbling from his hole and nudged my knob into his hole. The second my knob was past his sphincter. He moaned.
His ass was still tight, but the sperm lubrication meant he couldn't resist. He was able to tighten his sphincter to grab my cock. It was as if he was trying to massage my cock. The combination of his tight hole, the sperm lubrication and my own excitement was wonderful.
I had assumed fucking Devoe would completely occupy my attention. Since his legs were on my shoulders, my hands were free to play with Devoe's cock. Later Rufus referred to it as a quartette, consisting of Devoe's ass, my cock, and Teddy and his sperm lubricant. After five minutes or so, I contributed my bit to the sperm soup in Devoe's ass.
When I pulled out, Teddy sucked my cock drool as Rufus tenderly alternated licking Devoe's dripping cock and his cum smeared ass. Devoe was still moaning. He finally calmed down enough to talk.
"I can't believe what happened," he said, "Did I make a fool of myself?"
"You were really friendly," Rufus said. "I thought you were a bit strange, but your ass knows how to make friends. I hope you aren't offended that we spent so much time up your behind."
Devoe said all was well.
That evening, Raoul tried to explain financial things to me without success. I could remember paintings, and I assumed I was paid for them, but that was the extent of my memory. He taped recorded these conversations so there was a record. Raoul and His Uncle took charge of my financial affairs. I had no memories of selling my paintings except from my first years as an artist. Back then three of four hundred dollars excited me. Raoul talked about a hundred thousand dollars, but that meant almost nothing to me.
Raoul and his uncle promoted me. Mrs. Rosenberg was the leader of my cheerleaders. She and her late husband were well known and generous. She knew people and in her circle of friends' memorials and portraits were needed. My painting was unusual and distinctive. They also were spectacular. Dr. Whitmore, the college president, knew the paintings would get more attention than standard portrait of an aging man or woman would not.