Contact the author: phluphee@sbcglobal.net

Justin sits in a green plastic chair outside Starbucks, his face twisted up in a focused glare, as he strokes long lines of charcoal against textured paper. The air is crisp, like edges of sharp glass, cutting into the lining of his pea coat. He shrugs it off, though, intent on shading in the knotty bark of the old oak tree that’s grounded awkwardly in the middle of the strip mall’s parking lot.

The philosophical irony of this amuses him in a way that makes him want to put oak trees in all of his sketches.

Or it could be the coffee buzz.

So, he sips, sits, drinks, and draws until the evening’s light turns pink and orangey. For Justin, there’s nothing better than wasting a day doing that one thing that makes you feel alive, vibrant and passionate. Art is the way that Brian fucks him, his eyes closed, mouth hung open, in a euphoric hazy bliss; that softens him the way that Justin smudges shadows on oak trees.

Drawing is like fucking is like living. Everything is symbiotic.

Just as the sun descends on the horizon, Justin spots Ben and Michael walking out of Baskin Robbins a few doors down. He watches the couple intently, as Michael smiles, coyly, licking pink ice cream from the corner of Ben’s mouth. They lock lips and kiss each other with their eyes closed, unaware of passersby.

It’s Ben that Justin is intrigued by. The way he sees into Michael with an intensity that could move mountains. The way his body language speaks volumes though he hardly says a word. The way he silently screams sex through bulges in tight white t-shirts and dark jeans.

He studies Ben like a marble statue, taking in each contour and curve, the solidarity of his stance, the straight edge of his nose, and the wiry round rims of his glasses.

Justin bites his lip, wantonly. He rolls the charcoal in his hand between his thumb and forefinger, exorcising the tactile energy that has now taken over. He wants to taste, touch, and feel.

And fuck.

Ben is like a piece of art, like an oak tree in the middle of a parking lot. He must be experienced.

Justin imagines his hands sliding over Ben’s firm, well-defined biceps, gliding over the hills of his pecs, lingering on his hard, tight, pink nipples that peek out begging to be tongued, and licked, and bit, and gnawed, and devoured.

Justin drags his mouth down Ben's torso, tracing circles around his belly button, the soft fuzz of his hairline tickling Justin's chin.

Justin imagines pushing him down onto a bed, the soft flow of amber light casting highlights and shadows on Ben's silhouette, emphasizing the squareness of his jaw, the chiseled fold of his six pack, the throbbing bulge in his jeans.

He unbuttons Ben's pants with nimble fingers, pulls them over the firm roundness of his ass, over his knees and drops them to the floor. He climbs between the V in Ben’s legs, grabs the base of his stiff shaft, covering the head with his mouth. He slides down Ben’s cock, pushing past his soft palette, then slides up, and then down again, as he pumps his fist in a rhythmic pulse.

Ben’s fingers grasp at patches of silken hair, his throaty growls puncture the air in staccato waves. His hips buck forward spearing his cock deeper into Justin’s mouth. His hands moving down pale skin across shoulder blades, scratching into skin.

Justin’s own cock stiffens from the friction of rubbing against blue sheets. He aches for the kinetic sensation of skin against his dick and his balls tingle with a pent up frustration. He quickens his movements, pumping harder and faster, focusing on the head of Ben’s cock in an almost compulsive frenzy.

Ben’s fingers press deeply into Justin’s scalp, now, digging and pleading. His guttural moans become louder, and the neighbors now know what Ben sounds like when he comes, his eyes closed, mouth hung open, in a euphoric hazy bliss.

Justin comes from the thrill of the moment leaving a sticky round stain on Brian’s sheets…..

Brian’s sheets…..Brian’s hands….Brian’s moans…..in the glow of amber lights….

Justin smirks, wryly, averting his eyes from Ben’s frame, and idly brushes a black stained finger across the drawing of the old oak tree.

Drawing is like fucking is like living.

And there would be no life without Brian.