An Artist from the Past

Given how close his studio was to my condo, we repeated often in the next few weeks. (I learned that he had been sleeping on the old Victorian couch in his studio—strictly against the no-residency policies of the building—and using the old children's bath to wash up. As a grammar school, it had no shower, so he had been sponging off for weeks at the tiny knee-height sinks.) Within a month he had moved in, and we often showered together. He loved having my fingers deep in his hole, teasing his prostate. He liked to be finger fucked, but rarely did he actually bottom.

Given his artistic nature and attitude, we were nude usually in the condo. And we couldn't get enough sex. He would return from a day painting beautiful nude men and women, often feigning sexual activity. That always turned him on, and I suspect he may have relieved himself more than once during the day. But he was indefatigable. He was ready always. Only I demanded a bit of foreplay. Ultimately, I cajoled him into letting me top. And I can say without question, looking back on that time, that he was the most active and dominant bottom that I've ever had at the business end of my cock. We did it a few more times, and he was beginning to enjoy it, I thought. Certainly he came to appreciate and love the ass play that I used to arouse him in foreplay.

In all we had about six months of the most intense sex of my life. But, we both knew it wasn't love. It was pure lust. A chance to experiment with the most exotic dreams that we had ever had about sex.

Once I arrived home to find him fucking in our bed. She was an incredibly gorgeous blonde woman—with blonde ringlets almost to her waist, full rounded breasts and long legs ending in one of the most spectacular pear-shaped asses I've ever seen. He motioned me to the bed and arched his eyes in question. I stripped and took his ass while he pumped her. She loved it. And I think he loved it. He was willing to bottom for me so long as his dick was buried deep inside a woman. It was an experience I will never forget.

Another time it was a man, or rather a boy, probably just out of high school and just barely legal. He was a swimmer and diver with long stringy muscles, an incredibly small tight ass, and of course a big dick, with a snow white complexion and blonde hair. (Jerry tended to like to paint curly blondes for some reason. He had absolutely perfected the brush strokes which created highlights on the tips and outsides of the tight curls.) He pulled out and motioned me to plunge. I did and, as I was stroking, I felt his monster knocking at my back door. It didn't take long. By then, I was becoming accustomed to his size and impatience. He plunged, filling me like always, crowding my prostate like always and started stroking. We got into an incredible synergistic tempo as I fucked and was fucked. Finally, I exploded as the young guy orgasmed and his ass muscles squeezed my dick. And of course my own explosion began the milking of Jerry's horse dick.

Toward the end of our time together, I arranged for a show of his work at the East Village gallery. He exhibited more than a dozen realistic, nearly life size scenes of intimate hetero sex, homo sex and orgies. In the largest, there were eight figures, all acting like it was an everyday part of their lives: drinking, smoking (what was obviously weed) and stroking each other. Two couples, one hetero, one homosexual, were in full intercourse. The others barely seemed to notice. In fact all the characters appeared to be incredibly bored by the whole thing.

The show was a smash—although the major critics didn't use photos of the work in their reviews. Jerry was not only an accomplished "photo-realist" but also a social commentator. The liberal press loved it. And every painting sold opening night—three to museums.

I didn't realize it at the time, but that was the beginning of the end of our relationship. Jerry had money now. He didn't like any feeling of dependence. And he definitely was not monogamous ("an invention of the female side of bourgeois society".) Jerry started bringing home partners almost every night—even when I was away on business.

Several months later, he told me, after fucking the shit out of me for nearly an hour, that he was moving out. He had enough money and wanted some "independence."

I didn't protest. I knew it was coming. We had a few dates after he moved out the following week, but we started drifting apart.

My gallery gave him two more shows. They were both successful. And I bought three of the paintings. He never did paint me.

A few years later, I married again, and we now have two kids. She's well-educated, beautiful and a very good mother to our two boys—now both in school. I had always wanted kids, and these two boys became my life. We are happy, and we typically find occasion to have sex a few times a week, maybe a little more often when we take winter Caribbean vacations. We moved to the burbs. I sold the gallery for an enormous price—to a developer who was going to combine it with other properties and build a mid-rise condo. And ultimately I became CEO of the start-up I had joined many years before.

About this time, my wife convinced me I needed another intellectual track in my life, and at her suggestion, I enrolled in PhD studies. A few years later it was Dr. MacIntosh. I had enough money. So I quit my CEO job, took a golden parachute and signed on as an Assistant Prof at a southern university. Julie and the kids moved with me. But our lives were never the same again. Our marriage had simply fizzled out. We had occasional sex, but I'm pretty sure that she knew I wasn't there. I was pretty sure she knew I was bi and that I had occasional guys, but she never mentioned a word. We stayed together for the kids.

I never seduced one of my students. That was an absolute NO. But there were three universities in our town, and through social media, I signed on to "tutor" athletes at the other schools—mostly test prep and assistance with term papers. More than a few paid me with a willing or semi-reluctant fuck on my office sofa. Oh the wonders of "transactional" sex with a new generation!

I continued to follow Jerry's career, but not too closely. I was busy and very happy in academe, often hosting students (not mine) on my couch. Jerry moved to Miami after a few years, seduced by a big international gallery with a large foreign clientele (which apparently was much less squeamish than Americans were with male full-frontal nudity, orgies and vivid portrayals of foreplay and intercourse.

Then it was Berlin. I knew he was a success in Europe, but didn't have the details. A few years later, I heard he had married and was living in California with an heiress. I had to assume she had either tamed him or permitted him to have discrete liaisons on the side. He had always be a pan-sexual. There were a few museum shows, but except for Miami, none in the South. All were rated X. One or two were actually picketed and closed early. (Great publicity for an artist.) Children under 18 were not permitted without parental supervision. Jerry had become the archetypal painter of the high class free love movement. The works were beautiful, but deeply cynical, often described as the "Eurotrash community in Miami." Some people just love having their life styles shat upon. And most of his paintings ended up in master bedrooms, rather than gallery walls.

But, today as I read the story of the auction in Europe, I was prompted to remember the very good nights we had together for almost a year. Jerry was certainly one of the loves of my life. I've never had a bigger dick inside me; never had more talented fingers stroking my stuff and diddling my nipples; never had more powerful orgasms. He was simply the embodiment of sex—sex on a paintbrush, so to speak. And I certainly had the best sex with him that I've ever had—before or since.

I think maybe I'm going to try some clubbing in the next couple of days. I'm still young enough to attract some of the best. BD

This is a quick piece that I typed off in a few hours after reading the article referred to in the first paragraph. I often wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn't taken a second wife, had children and let Jerry get away. I guess I'll never know. Sorry there's no HEA, but this is my life after all.