The Art Of The Heart (7 page)

He began to shake. Hard. He didn
’t know why. He couldn’t discern the difference between fear and excitement. They seemed to be identical twins of emotion for him in that moment.

“
There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Rory said as he rose and sat on the bed next to Zac. He surrounded him with his arms like a protective cocoon. “I’ll hold you.”

The harder he shook, the tighter Rory
’s embrace became. His nose was pressed against the cushion of a pectoral. The fine hair prickled a nostril. He smelled of lingering bath soap and the discarded, freshly laundered shirt. The thud of Rory’s heart beat unevenly against his cheek. He’d never put his arms around anyone and it was a tentative gesture as his own hands found their way to the naked flesh of Rory’s back. His skin was soft but the muscles beneath were hard. He was like a furnace with waves of heat warming him slowly outward.

Gradually
, Zac’s nerves eased and his panic subsided. Rory nuzzled his hair. When his presence of mind returned, he realized he was seated on his bed with his idol, who was naked. That undeniable pull of need began in his groin. It grew, pushing forward in his pajamas where it couldn’t be concealed. In a matter of seconds his racing blood expanded it to its full size. It commanded attention against Rory’s thigh.

The older boy leaned back, allowing himself enough room to unbutton Zac
’s pajama shirt. The experience turned even more dreamlike as the shirt slid off of Zac’s shoulders. Hands found his neck, pushing his head to the side to expose the tenderness there. Feather-soft lips made their way to that sensitive spot and gingerly sucked above the pulse of a vein. Each new experience held a perplexing union of surprise and unimaginable pleasure.

“
I’m under love’s spell,” Rory said as a whiskered cheek met his own. “I’ll do as it tells me. I’m helpless in its grasp.”

An odd thought crossed Zac
’s mind with those words. Could his story be writing itself? Had the plot held within the pages of his sketchbook possessed the two of them to provide the ending? Had the imaginary arrow truly infected the gorgeous object of his adoration? Was the spell real?

Strong arms lowered him to the softness of his pillow. Rory knelt on the bed above him.

Thunder cracked and with a fierce gust of wind, a shutter was unhinged and burst open. The filtered light of the storm as seen from the window behind Rory framed him in silhouette, and once again the moving clouds gave him the illusion of large luminous wings as he hovered above Zac. The image left him awestruck. Rory looked like a seductive, long-haired angel. Incandescent eyes like pools of starlight glittered down upon him. He read genuine passion in them. Zac thought there was no more resplendent a creature in heaven or earth. It was unbelievable that his own heart had captured him.

While inside this hypnotic vision, he
’d somehow been divested of the rest of his clothes. He lay bare beneath his winged paramour. His hands had found the hollow of Rory’s lower back and the soft curve of the lightly haired buttocks. There was an exchange of countless earnest, opened mouth kisses. Zac savored the abundance of new sensations. A nipple found his lips and he sucked it. Rory’s body responded with a clench of muscle, his erection bearing down upon Zac’s own. A slick trail stuck to his navel.

The sketches of the encounter between Eros and the boy would show that he had given himself completely to him. That he had used his supernatural body to teach the boy about his own mortal vessel. The knowledge he
’d acquired while observing others for those long lonely years of his life’s quest, the skill honed through his own attempts to experience love. That was his gift to the boy in exchange for the ability to really feel love for the first time. And it was an extensive knowledge. Their orgasms were those that had purpose beyond mere pleasure. It was a sharing of souls that had each been lonely for disparate reasons.

The same gentle mouth that uttered affirmations in his ear, pulled ecstasy from the younger soul until the muscles of his legs trembled. It was as if every wonderful feeling he could share with another flowed from him into Eros with that pouring of thick fluid from himself. It contained his dreams, thoughts, discarded fragments of poetry and songs.
All at once. It was his gift to Eros and it was delivered in a rapturous moan of consummate pleasure that left him quaking. Eros took it all. Each time he tasted him it brought a new light to his eyes. The complete understanding of another individual.

As with all things joyous, they couldn
’t get enough. It was a feast for the ravenous. There were so many varieties of things to try, and they tried them all. Their bodies found every tangle and embrace. Each gave, each sacrificed, each demanded and took. Before they’d spent themselves, they had sampled everything at the sensual banquet.

The morning after, Zac awakened smiling. That had never happened to him before. The storm had passed and sunlight struggled to find its way through the shutters. He saw the lines of it on the opposite wall. And from some sleepy corner of his mind he thought that strange. He turned to look at the window and the shutters that were still fastened securely. Something wasn’t registering properly with him and he sat up quickly, hoping the rush of blood would clear his thought process.

He was in his pajamas. They were buttoned to the last button as was his habit. Nothing in his room was out of place. His bed sheets had been tucked neatly about him and his sketchbook was lying at his side. His fingers were stained with lead from the pencils. His door was shut. He could hear the sounds of people moving about downstairs. Had he fallen asleep after he finished drawing? Had everything he thought had happened been the fantasy-driven illusion of a dream? He wouldn
’t have that. He couldn’t have that. It was the most important thing that had ever happened to him.

He touched his lips. He didn
’t want to believe the kisses he experienced hadn’t been real; the words he’d heard something conjured from his own need. He rose and slid his window open, tried the shutter. It was still latched from the inside. He turned to look at his bed. There were only the creases where he had slept, seemingly undisturbed in any other way.

Disappointment dropped upon him like a wet canopy. His smile faded. Barefoot, he padded to his door and opened it just as Rory walked past it. The young man turned to smile at him.

“Mornin’ there Two-Tone. Breakfast is just about ready if you wanna join us all. Bring your lantern down when you come.” And he was gone down the stairs.

Closing the door, he leaned against
it, feeling sadness clot his thoughts. He’d gone from waking with a smile to wanting to cry in a matter of moments.

“
All a dream,” he sighed, morosely. A dream that had felt more real than any other in his life. His body suddenly seemed heavy, weighted down with his disillusionment as he carried himself back to his bed and sat.

It was all still so fresh in his mind. He looked at his fingertips smudged with pencil. Picking up the sketchbook he opened it, flipping quickly through to near the end of the book. He stopped at the last scene he remembered drawing.
Eros falling on his own arrow and seeing the boy in the bed. His hand hesitated to turn the page.

Finally he flipped the page. And there it was, the beginning of his dream.
Eros’s seduction of the boy. Their kisses. Their intimacies, all drawn with the detail he’d mistaken as reality. Everything was included, even the heart-shaped mole at the corner of the superhero’s mouth. The scenes were erotic, but tasteful. What did not show in the sketches he remembered feeling, tasting, experiencing. How could a dream cross over into sensation so strongly, he wondered? How had a dream exhausted his body with orgasms inside a fantasy? He lovingly studied each new frame of the story in the book through to its conclusion. How could he have drawn it all and not remembered committing it to paper? What coy magic could cross between the real world and that of make believe?

He did know one thing for certain. Whatever the reality of the experience, it had truly changed him. He felt different; stronger, more confident. For those moments inside whatever it
had
been, he’d felt desired and loved, and...normal. Because of the experience, he was a man who now knew his purpose. It had happened in these moments, inside these drawn squares, he thought as he looked down at the story in front of him. Inside here he had become a whole person. Even if it had no logical explanation, the changes that came as a result still had happened. Perhaps love is like that: able to transcend all limitations, body or mind. It didn’t limit itself to form or space. It could change the molecules of both with its miraculous essence.

A finger traced the outline of Eros
’s lips as he kissed his eyelids in the sketchbook. “These are for your dreams,” he’d said. He touched his lips, remembering the feeling of the other’s lips pressed against them. “This is to remember when you’re awake.” Something for both worlds.

A tear spilled down his cheek and he wiped it away as he closed the book.

He opened the window wide in the bathroom to bathe in the morning sunlight. The breeze was cool and refreshing after the storm. He brushed his hair backward and out of his eyes to reveal his face. In the mirror it was as if he was seeing himself for the first time. It made him smile.

He dressed and readied himself for breakfast. He had almost walked out of the room when he remembered the lantern Rory had asked him to bring downstairs. He picked it up and saw something fall from the nightstand and hit the floor. He bent to pick it up.

It was a rubber band with a twisted knot of long blond hair wound in it. He smiled. There was indeed a path for him out of Sweetwater. He would draw it.

~~The End~~

Memorizing You

From acclaimed m/m romance photographer, Dan Skinner, a coming of age tale unfolds against the colorful, stylish, and turbulent backdrop of free love, revolution, and The Beatles.

Two high school boys from different walks of life: Ryan, a handsome athlete, and David, an average joe from a blue collar family, discover their desires, stealing their kisses under the cover of an old oak at night. Their love begins a secret life, hidden from their families, friends, and classmates. As their passion grows, so does the danger of their discovery. Their only hope is to create a separate world where every kiss is a treasure and every moment...memorable.

First love. Secret love. Unforgettable love.

~*~

The Price of Dick

His name is Richard but he
’ll say, “Call me Dick.” He’s a big, butch, brainy guy in an executive suit, hotter than spit on a skillet. The type of guy you can see fully dressed and imagine buck naked in the throes of an orgasm - every six-feet-two, muscular, sexually intoxicating inch of him. He’s an ambitious freshman in a prominent brokerage firm who’s figured out he can use more than his smarts to get ahead. He’s perfected a surefire method to drive home a hard deal. No one can resist him. And he’s got one really big secret. But that will cost you.

For photographer J.J. Johnstone, the price of Dick just might cost him everything.

If you enjoyed The Art of the Heart, try this free sample of Memorizing You, also by Dan Skinner.
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PROLOGUE

I’m David.

This is my story. It’s true. Every word. I can’t imagine trying to embellish it, make it different; better. Just the actual stuff of real people. It’s how I came to love. My first love. The memory of great love.

The mental images returned with the rustle of saved scraps of paper and a black and white photograph, slightly faded, fluttering out of a forgotten album cover, pulling me back to that time like thumbing through the pages of dusty scrapbook.

I grew up in a different time. An era when cars were still made of steel and had real style. Not like the cars today that I really can’t tell which one is which. Back then, you could instantly spot a Plymouth, a Ford or a Chevrolet. I remember big box televisions that were black and white, and when we, as kids, rode bikes with cards clipped to our spokes with clothespins, pretending to be Steve McQueen. Innocent times. And no one was more innocent than me. In every way.

Prior to the summer of ‘67, I knew nothing of physical longings. Even though I heard my grade school mates make declarations of having girlfriends. Dating. I looked at it, like from some great distance, as a game of pretend because I had none of those inclinations. I saw their
hand-holding and awkward kisses behind trees in the park and paid it no great mind. It was foreign to me. Nothing that had crossed the path of my instincts.

When I see the old black and white pictures of myself back then, I’m struck by how fresh-faced, full-cheeked and pure I looked. My eyes were wide, held no
secrets. I can even laugh at the snapshots of me in my prized sweatshirts bearing portraits of Marvel superheroes, Aquaman and The Hulk.

I remember how cool I felt I looked wearing those with my first striped pair of hip-huggers. I had brown suede cowboy boots. I actually thought this gave me “personality.” The strange thing is, that as important as I remember them being to me now, without the photos they’d have surely been forgotten in the vapors of time. Things like that just slip away from us.