My Hero

When I'm done Otis takes off his glasses and we finally get on with our portraits. It's not as intimidating as I thought it would be. He looks peaceful when he draws, and I self consciously try to compose my face to mirror that calmness. We draw three portraits each, and when he looks over at what I've done, he laughs.

"What?" I say rather defensively.

"It's nothing bad, I promise," he says. "I look like an ape there, and in that one too."

I look down and see he's right; the weight of my pencil stroke thickens around the curve of his cheeks, and I've done an unflattering representation of his beard.

"It's good though," he assures me. "I like it."

I look at his portraits of me, and see he's done them in various styles. The first is a simplistic and appealing comic book style -- sort of a mix between the stuff you'd see in Marvel comics and The Walking Dead. The second is a soft cartoonish rendition that takes five years off my age and adds a layer of innocent to my character. The third places my floating head in a tribal tattoo-styled nest of thick lines -- it continuously draws the viewer's eyes in circles.

"I've left out the bruises," he comments. He looks at me seriously. "Do you need to get a doctor to look at them? They've faded a bit, but you've had them for quite a long time."

"I just heal really slowly," I explain. "I'll never get an Adamantium skeleton at this rate."

Otis laughs at my Wolverine reference, gives me a friendly nudge in the ribs, and as simple as that we start talking again. He sure is a sucker for geek culture. There's a little tension at first. Otis is undoubtedly more guarded after my unspoken rejection, but he quickly warms up to me.

I ask him about the tattoo style he's done; it looks professional. He tells me it is. Before working as a bouncer at Exile, Otis did tattoo designs for a parlour in the city, and was doing quite well until the owner sold the place and moved to Florida.

"I've got two of my own designs on my arms. Wanna see?"

I nod, and he pushes his shirt sleeves up to his armpits to show me his hairy arms. Dark brown hair obscures some of it, but it's still clear enough to see. On one arm he's got a complex Celtic seal the size of my hand that folds in on itself endlessly, and on the other arm an emerald and ruby coloured dragon winds its way around his muscled bicep.

"Ever think about shaving or waxing all that hair?" I ask.

Otis frowns. "Why would I want to do that?"

Then I point to a third tattoo under the dragon; it's a name I can't quite make out. But Otis tugs his sleeves down and changes the subject, so I let it pass. We do some more portraits, and talk about comic books, TV and movies the entire time. Otis makes me laugh really hard, and then acts upset and tells me I'm ruining his portrait, which makes me laugh even harder.

When we're done, we're still talking about movies, and he asks if I want to see one with him now. I readily agree, and we walk down to the cinema and flash our student cards for a discount. I buy a serving of extra-large popcorn for us to share and two large sodas.

It is dark outside by the time the movie is over, and the closest bus stop is deserted. I manage to mask my fear, but there's no need; Otis stays by my side and waits for the bus with me. He doesn't comment on my decision to take public transport despite living within walking distance.

The bus makes an appearance a few minutes later.

"Dinner on Thursday?" Otis asks. "As friends."

"Yeah, I'd like that," I smile.

"Catch you later then, Pinky," he says, and my face glows red.

**

On the rainy, Thursday night after class, Otis and I have another amazing time together. Yes, it is in a crowded and noisy food court, and yes, a few strangers share the other end of our table throughout our meal, but we are having so much fun it barely registers.

Otis walks me home afterwards. I don't ask him to or plan for it, but we are so engrossed in our conversation it just sort of happens. I'm glad I've got my protector by my side, helping me face my fears.

It begins to drizzle lightly, and I wrap my arms around myself.

"You've got to get some warmer clothes, Peter," Otis sighs. He goes to take his jacket off, but I think he remembers what happened last time he tried to put one around my shoulders, and stops himself. Instead, he opens it up and offers, "C'mon, I'll warm you up the old fashioned way."

He pulls me into his arms and stretches the jacket around my slender body. I can't believe how warm he is. My arms wrap themselves around his chubby body, pressing myself closer to him. I turn my head to the side and listen to him breathing, the steady beat of his heart and the sound of the rain and the wind around us. His scent reminds me of the jerk-off session we inadvertently shared. But it doesn't only arouse me; it makes me feel safe and secure.

I know then that I'm starting to like him -- a lot. I'm addicted to the way he can make me laugh, and I've never been able to talk to someone so naturally or comfortably after such a short amount of time. There's never a dull moment with him, and he's so full of positivity he can't help but lift up those around him. He's different from my usual tastes, but in a good way.

"Thanks for walking with me," I say to the inside of his jacket. "And staying with me. I wouldn't have gotten this far after -- after Arthur. You really helped me take my mind off it." Thinking about that night at Exile doesn't even cripple me any more like it used to. "I'm glad I've got you."

"Peter..." Otis breathes my name, and I look up. He's got a wild lust in his eyes, and I'm sure I've got him matched with my own.

I raise myself up on the balls of my feet and lean in to kiss him. He leans down - and the sky opens above us.

"Fuck damn!" Otis looks up and curses as we are suddenly barraged by heavy raindrops. The concrete side-walk hisses under the assault of the rain.

We're nearly at my apartment, so I grab his hand and together we make a run for it. He's not as fast as I am, but he keeps up easily despite his bulk. We reach my place, and he hangs by the doorway while I hunt down an umbrella to loan him.

I find the umbrella and press it into his hands.

"I didn't mean to freeze on you, when you asked me out," I suddenly blurt out. "I do like being with you, Otis."

He smiles. "I know, and I like being with you too, Peter. You don't have to apologise for anything."

I invite him inside on an impulse, but he shakes his head; he has to work tonight. He gives me a big, wet bear hug and I pull him back when he starts to pull away. We eventually stop hugging and he bids me goodnight and lumbers down the hallway.

I lock the door and turn on all the lights as usual, and then clean up in my bathroom. I jump into bed and start to touch myself. The bedroom lights are too bright to recreate the moment wrapped in Otis's jacket and arms, so I turn them off for now. I think about the feel of Otis's arms around me, and his strong, masculine scent, and I start to stroke myself urgently. I come into a wad of tissues, and then lie back thinking about him.

When I wake up the next morning, I realise it's the first night in the city that I've slept with the lights off.

**

We have lunch and dinner every Monday and Thursday after class from then on, and each time Otis walks me home. Our conversations cover everything under the sun. I finally learn how he got the nick-name Goat. His friends called him Oats, and when he first started at Exile a customer confused it for Goat. Ralph overheard, and after repeating it as a barbed joke one day it became a friendly way of teasing him.

We talk about past art works, which leads to high school, and that of course leads to growing up and coming out. Otis learns that I haven't yet come out to my parents, and insists that I should. He tells me of his own experience, where his mother disowned him on the spot and his father and brother beat him senseless and gave him the scar on his forehead, which terrifies me.

I'm sure my parents would understand, I tell myself, so there's no need to tell them. Otis tells me to consider it, but doesn't pressure me.

He also finds out I'm still an anal virgin -- with both giving and receiving - when I don't have a first-time story to share. I start telling him about the first dick I sucked, but I think it sounds desperate in comparison and I stop. He laughs and encourages me to go on, and I finish the story.

"You're so easy to talk to, Otis. There aren't many people that know I haven't had sex yet... It's embarrassing. I used to let my friends call me Pinky and think I was a slut instead of a virgin."

"There's nothing wrong with being a virgin," Otis promises me solemnly.

He tells me about his job as a bouncer for Exile. The most important thing isn't being big and intimidating, but being able to read people and talk to them. With those two alone, he can solve most situations without the need for any violence.

I start to like him as more than just an exciting new thing to lust over, or the guy who saved my life. Every time we hang out, I can feel my perception of beauty changing, and I start seeing him and the world around us in new and exciting ways.

However I've found such a good friend in Otis that I'm afraid of messing things up and losing him. Otis similarly seems to be holding back. We talk and laugh and flirt a lot, and all our hugs linger far too long, but that's the extent of our friendship. Relationship. Whatever it is.

Then one Thursday night at dinner, he asks me to help him with his end-of-class exhibition. It's a public showing for all students enrolled in the art school. I say yes, and he gives me his address and tells me to come over tomorrow afternoon.

**

Otis lives close to the art school, so I take my usual route to get there. He greets me at the door with a hug, and I twist away to get a better look at him. He's shaved -- a first for me. I've never seen his cheeks look so smooth. There's no more stubble to distract from his warm, puppy dog eyes. His hair is also shorter and neater. Otis rubs his chin self-consciously while I admire him and he lets me in.

His apartment is similar to mine, in that there are art supplies strewn about all over the place, and there's a distinct sense of organised chaos. I can quickly work out where he sits in the living room to draw, and where he sits to paint based on the tools lying around. Nearly all of the surfaces are covered with loose pages filled with thumbnails, illustrations, water-colours and ideas born from a ball-point pen.

"I'm going to do a photography piece," he says, reaching for a case on top of a wall cabinet that contains the equipment. When his shirt lifts up I can see his hairy belly hanging slightly over his pants. Once that would have made me laugh disdainfully, but now it's just another image I store away for my own private time.

Otis's bedroom is slightly neater, with white bed sheets and a few garments on the floor. We use the second bedroom though, which is empty. Otis sets up the white backdrop and I take care of the lighting he borrowed from the school earlier today. Soon we have close to studio quality lighting in the small bedroom.

"Who else lives here?" I ask. The apartment is much too big for one person alone.

"Just me," Otis replies. "It's close to my work and school, and I make enough to cover the rent."

"Why don't you find a room-mate and split the cost?"

Otis falls silent as he pulls out the digital camera, and I assume it's something else he doesn't want to discuss, like the name tattooed on his arm. I ask him about the piece he plans on doing instead, and with a wide grin he reveals it's going to be topless.

I splutter and make sounds, but secretly I can't wait to see him without his shirt on.

"You ready?" he asks jokingly, as he starts to tug his shirt over his head. He takes it off, and I try not to stare his body too much.

Of course, I fail right away.

Otis has a thick-set, hairy body which comes as no surprise, and his height helps him wear his bulk well. But there is hard muscle under the fat of his belly which shifts the proportions; the fat does not hang off his frame to give him a pear shape, but rather spreads itself evenly making him look solid and impenetrable.

His chest is ruggedly built. A thick forest of chest hair sprouts between his pecs and spreads across his chest and all the way up to his shoulders and down to the hem of his pants. There's an extra hairy line running down the middle of his belly. I can see two dark nipples peeking at me under all the thick fur. His muscular chest presses against the bulge of his belly when he leans forwards to take his pants off, and when his pants slide down his tree-trunk thighs I can see the pouch in his boxer-briefs jutting out from his endowment. Even while flaccid, it looks like his cock is straining to burst free from its cotton confines.

Otis catches me gawking at him when he straightens and grins at me, looking pleased. His modest confidence is incredibly sexy to me.

I can't believe how turned on I am right now.

He faces the other way for a second and I see even more body hair running down his back. I want to reach out and stroke it. I've never been with a guy who didn't spend countless hours waxing, shaving and meticulously plucking every hair from their bodies. I'm more than fond of Otis's mind and personality, but right now simple lust is winning.

I sit down to hide my erection, shake my hair from my eyes and start taking pictures of him. He has about fifty ideas and wants to explore them all, so I snap several images for all of them. He checks each set after I take them, but I must be doing what he has in mind because he soon gives me full reign of the camera. My lust slowly fades to a simmer as he puts me through my paces and it's safe for me to stand up when the required camera angle calls for it.

We finish with Otis pulling his underpants down so a sliver of his penis is visible. He has a thick bed of dark pubes. He makes a loose fist in each hand and makes sure I've got both of his artistic tattoos in the frame. "Make it look like I'm not wearing anything," he instructs me.

I lower the shot until the waistband of his underwear is just out of frame and then take the photo.

He does one final review before putting his clothes back on and tells me the last one is a winner. "Hopefully that wasn't too uncomfortable for you. There was a lot less left to the imagination compared to a shadow."

That makes me blush crimson red, and he laughs as he goes to make us sandwiches for lunch.

I'm suddenly struck by an idea while we eat. "Hey, can I paint you?"

He seems genuinely surprised. "You want to paint me? What for?"

I nod. "For the exhibition. And I want to paint you while we've still got one of them light things."

"Yeah, I'll do that," he says agreeably.

We finish our food and pack away all but one of the lights in the bedroom. I relocate the light to the living room, where Otis is starting up the first season of Game of Thrones on the television so he has something to pass the time with. He finds me a primed canvas and I gather black and white paint, brushes and pencils from around the apartment.

"Have you seen this show yet?" he asks.

"No. I recognise the intro music though, I think I've heard a YouTube cover of it."

"You'll thank me for not spoiling it," he promises, and changes it to another show. He turns the volume way down so it's not distracting. "How do you want me -- fully nude? Superman pose?"

I giggle nervously and tell him topless and sitting on a stool is fine. He strips with a flourish for me and sits under the light, and as expected, his chest hair catches the incandescence beautifully. The hairs on his shoulders glow silver and give him an almost ethereal cloak of light. I sketch with pencil first and lay down the base tones quickly, and slather on the brightest highlights and the darkest shadows. The mid-tones will take care of themselves.

I paint for hours without realising it. It's nearly midnight and Otis's phone alarm sounds. He stretches with a grunt. "I've got work in 15 minutes. I've gotta get ready."

I get up with a cry, flustered. "You should have told me!" I start to pack everything away, but he's more concerned about me.

"I can't walk you home this time, Peter. Have you got money for a cab?"

"No," I say in a small voice. I grip the paintbrush in my hand tightly before I return it to its proper place. Be brave, I tell myself, for Otis. "It's fine. I can walk."

"Yeah?" There's a congratulatory note in his voice.

"I'll pretend you're by my side." That comes out much more romantic than it sounded in my head and I feel my neck turn red.

Otis holds out his hand. "Give me your phone. I'm adding my number and I want you to call me if anything happens. If you're in trouble or if you need me to come over or whatever -- I'll be there in five minutes."

I pass my phone over. "You'd do that for me?"

"I thought my crush on you was obvious, Peter," he says with a small smile.

I swallow, empty mouthed and look into his eyes. He looks back, and I know it's more than a crush.

He suddenly holds the camera out, taps the screen, and takes a shirtless photo of himself. "In case you need a reference image," he says with a wink as he passes it back to me.

I call his number to make sure it works, and his phone buzzes.

"I've got your number now," says Otis playfully, checking his phone.

"Then you better give me a call some time."

Otis is grinning like a drunken fool. "Okay Peter, I've got to take a shower before work, but I'll see you on Monday?"

"Have a good night, Otis." I hug him goodbye, run my hands down his back and breathe him in, wishing that my own shirt was off.

Canvas painting in hand and Otis on my mind, I brave the dark streets and make my way home. I find another use for his reference image that night when I'm alone in my bed, and suspect that was what he had intended all along.

**

We don't see each other until Monday, but that doesn't mean we don't hear from each other.

Otis and I text each other back and forth on Saturday, and then he calls me in the late afternoon and we talk until he has to go to work. We do the same on Sunday, but at the end of our hour-long conversation he asks me if I want to have lunch with him tomorrow after class.

"We already do."

"I don't mean the cafeteria. I mean a proper restaurant, with plates that don't have different sections for your food, and cutlery that isn't plastic. I'll drive us there and back. As a thank you for helping me out with my project."

"Like a date?" I ask him.

Otis stumbles for a bit, and then says, "Yeah, like a date. But only if you want to."

"I do. I'll see you tomorrow, Otis."

I dive into my meagre wardrobe and try to put together an outfit that will impress him. Nothing skimpy or too tight and nothing I haven't already worn to class. It doesn't leave much, but I dig out a white dress shirt that goes well with my jeans. Then I wonder if the place we're going is a no-jeans sort of place.

I try the same shirt with my black jeans. It's as fancy as I can get with my budget.

**

I wear my fine clothes to class on Monday, and when I see Otis I can feel my jaw drop. He's wearing a grey button-up shirt that fits him perfectly. It's unbelievably sexy and shows off his broad, muscled shoulders and arms. The way his shirt is tucked in makes the fabric hug his body, and is like seeing him without any shirt at all. To my relief, he has completed his outfit with a pair of jeans. He hasn't shaved his beard since Friday, and a dense scruff claims his face once again.

We do messy emotional painting that day in class. The tables and chairs have all been pushed to the side of the room, and about 25 painting easels now fill the room. There's a set of headphones for each of us, each connected to an iPod -- property of the school -- filled with various types of music, and there are pots of various paints and inks.