For Art's Sake Ch. 01

Introducing a horny young man.

This tale starts slow, but is bound to get juicier in future installments. It is not meant to be taken seriously despite the weighty matters it deals with. All characters are fictional and are over eighteen.

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The young man tramped along the sand immune to the charms of his surroundings. The bright blue sky, the soothing tumbling of the waves, and the cooling breeze, which did it's best to make the lad comfortable on a warm day, was lost on the troubled strider. An observer would be excused for supposing the man to be one of those severe brooding types.

The fact was more tragic in all respects. James Wheatley, for such was the young man's name, was at the end of his rope. He had gambled and lost. There seemed to be no way forward in life. There were no coins in his pockets, and he couldn't see a way to get any, short of robbery. Whatever else he was, he wasn't a criminal. He might be starving, but that didn't give him a license to do unto others what he wouldn't want to be done to himself.

James was alone in the world and had no relatives or friends to fall back on in times of need. Indeed it was the passing of his last relative that had led to his present straits. A one thousand pound legacy from a distant uncle had fallen into his lap at that critical stage of a young man's life when it could prove to be most dangerous. It had definitely proved to be disastrous in this case.

If an itemization of each of his purchases or costly decisions were supplied to you, dear reader, there's no doubt the foolishness of youth would be readily apparent. Especially to those of you who long ago through wisdom or timidity chose not to pursue your own dreams. Even the much fewer of you, which had your hopes cruelly crushed while chasing yours, might find fault with one or two of the lad's choices. As for the tiny handful of you who achieved your dreams, well, bully for you.

For it was the pursuit of a dream that led to the present tragedy. The unlikely figure tramping along the beach had been given the heart and soul of an artist. It proved to be a nasty trick by whoever was responsible for the gift because the necessary talent had not been supplied with it.

There are those scoffing out there who will say, "Where's the problem with that?" No doubt you are thinking of the scads of untalented actors or actresses who've made it big on the stage or screen. If such was Wheatley's dream, lack of talent wouldn't be an adequate excuse, for he had the good looks required for that. He had the goods in spades.

Alas, it wasn't something as banal as a matinee idol he dreamed of becoming. It was as a painter he wished to express his soul to the world. The world was not impressed. Remember, dear reader, when this story takes place, and you will understand the problem. It is the 1920's and, therefore, before the time when a painter can throw paint at a canvas and call it Art. There might have been some, and perhaps there were many paint flingers. These painters undoubtedly suffered Wheatley's affliction, namely hunger. The notion that such productions were Art hadn't taken hold as of yet.

Paintings, at least the kind which sold, had to actually look like something one might encounter in the real world. Even the Impressionist daubs had a fuzzy resemblance to reality. The paintings that really sold were of people, things, or places rendered skillfully.

Perhaps a description of the would-be artist's oeuvre is in order. Let it pass. It would only depress you even further. Alas, he wasn't a painter flinger, for then he would have only been ahead of his time. It was worse than that. Such was the lack of skill of his rendering, it was impossible to discern what the subjects were. James had no conception of line or color. It was as if the idea of composition wasn't in his lexicon. As for perspective, his work made it look as if the Renaissance had been a mere rumor.

Early on in his career as an artist, when he'd been flush with cash, he found models, both male and female, willing to doff their clothes. The results of these endless sittings, for the paid victims, were so unlike their reality, he was forced to cover up his work so they couldn't see it. He did this to avoid a repetition of the abuse heaped upon him by an outraged model. She was convinced by his lack of skill that he was just a pervert posing as an artist for prurient reasons.

This accusation was untrue, but it was an unfortunate fact that he did become sexually aroused during these nude sessions. The response was beyond his control. It was a natural reaction of a young male virgin to being in the presence of nakedness. He wished he could convey that feeling through his work. The formless blobs of vaguely flesh-colored paint somehow failed to arouse any emotion at all. Unless the viewer had recently eaten oysters. Then the unfortunate one would suffer an acute case of a queasy stomach.

Suffice to relate, he had never been close to making painting a paying proposition. No dealer would take his paintings. Even the promise to use them as payment or collateral for the previous months' rent had been a nonstarter. He was forced to leave his work behind with the none too happy landlady when she'd thrown him out. He couldn't carry it all because if nothing else, he'd been prolific. Where would he move it to? It was two years of creative labor lost.

Turning our gaze back to James on the beach, we find that he has run out it. He had come to a headland jutting into the sea that blocked any further progress in that direction. Wheatley is stymied and sits on the sand to consider. Of course, the beach couldn't go on forever, but now that he wasn't walking, he had to think.

He could turn around and head back to the French village he'd been lodging in, but what was the point. It was a fact that he could starve here as well as there. Though he was no sluggard, it seemed a shame to undo what he'd spent hours to accomplish. So the first concrete decision he made on his future was to sit in the warm sun and the comfortable breeze.

He thought of all the treasure buried in the world. Why shouldn't some of it be buried on the beach he was sitting on. It was unlikely, and even if some of it was, how would he find it? That was the rub. They say X marks the spot. From where he sat, no X, Y, or Z could be seen.

James Wheatley pondered his future while gazing out to the blue Mediterranean. In all respects, it seemed grim. If it wasn't for a curious faith that things would work out somehow, he might have contemplated a desperate act. Not as dire as looking for a job, but suicide. As it was, he thought he might as well smoke his last cigarette.

Necessity had driven Wheatley to pawn his beloved Meerschaum pipe and brass trench lighter. He was left with one cigarette and three matches. The first match was a dud. It merely fizzled then gave up the ghost. The second match broke in the middle. When he struck the shortened stick, he didn't have time to get the smoke lit. His fingers were scorched before he was forced to toss the flame away.

Often times, the third try is the lucky one. Alas, for James, the maxim failed in this case. The breeze, which until then had proved a comfort, suddenly showed its true colors by dousing the flame as soon as the last match was struck.

This would not have been a problem for a so-called Primitive Man. There was plenty of driftwood about. It would be the work of a moment for such a man to rub two sticks together to produce a light for his cigarette. It would also serve as a flame over which to cook his wooly mammoth. But nowadays, this skill isn't taught in the most renowned schools. No, not even in Oxford or Cambridge. Never mind the unremarkable schools James had attended.

No one watching James would be able to detect it, but the lad suddenly snapped. No one knows what genuine frustration is until he finds himself in a similar situation. There he was, down to his last gasper, and he couldn't even enjoy it. Enough is enough.

James calmly took off his battered shoes and socks. He stood with his bare feet in the warm sand, took off his paint-splattered shirt, and removed his worn trousers. As he stood there in just his linen underwear, anyone could see a manly physique. One could surmise in an instant he was meant for something physical. Perhaps football, rugby, or even boxing could have been his path to success.

The next thing he did might shock those modest spectators of this scene from Northern climes. He pushed down his drawers and kicked them from his feet. Standing naked, he was a sight to behold. James was a well-knit lad. Perhaps he was a tad too pale for some tastes. For that very reason, he might have reminded viewers of a pinkish Michelangelo's David, although in one respect, much improved over the original.

Not to be mysterious about it, his member was considerably larger. This became clearer as it stood to attention. Before long, it became apparent the member made the owner a member of an exclusive club, the Foot-Long Club. It is said that there's a secret handshake known only to members of this club. That may just be a fable told by jealous outsiders.

It should not be surprising that outdoor nudity affected Wheatley in such a fashion. There is a liberating sensation to the practice of public nudism. The wonder is that it is not more commonly indulged in. All of his nerve endings were tingling, for he was a sensitive sort. He was young and, to be honest about it, horny. As horny as only a twenty-three-year-old male virgin could be.

A more fainthearted chronicler might pass over what occurred next, but not this one. To James' shame, he couldn't leave such a boner alone. It might surprise the female of the species to learn this, but it is generally known among the male. Once a man touches it, it is next to impossible for him to stop. Until he reaches the reward, his pleasure keeps building more and more. Some men become practically addicted to doing this, or so it's told. Only after the finish comes can he let go.

The process didn't take long for James was young and not yet jaded. It was the first time he'd shamed himself in over a week. The added excitement of doing it in the open where people might pass by made it much more enjoyable for some reason. He looked around half-hoping to see some spectators. Except for assorted waterfowl, there was no one, but no matter. He was soon coming.

The less said about it, the better. There is no need to describe the eruption that took place. If it was scaled up somewhat, it would have done credit to one of Yellowstone's famous geysers. Even at its current size, it was a wonder James wasn't knocked over by the recoil. It was awe-inspiring, no words can do it justice. Enough said.

The high-stepping frolic was not his manner of entering the light surf. Instead, he strode purposely in, until he was chest-deep. Then with a sudden resolve, he leaped forward into the next wave and began swimming out to sea.

James had no plan, much less one that included doing away with himself. He just felt as if he had to do something. Since he couldn't walk any further, he might as well swim. At first, it was pleasant. The water of the Med was much warmer than that found along England's dreary shore. True, he wasn't fit, but he was young, so it took three hundred yards of vigorous strokes before he was spent.

Out past the tip of the headland, James could now see anchored in the distance a biggish sailing yacht. It does the lad credit that as tired as he was, he never considered turning back. After resting by floating on his back, looking at the sky for a few minutes, the swimmer struck off for the yacht. He had forgotten that he wasn't suitably dressed to meet strangers.

Wheatley had covered half of the gap when he realized his oversight. If he had his paintings with him, cleverly stacked, they would make a proper raft. It would be at least as buoyant as the scrap of decking was for the mariners on the Wreck of the Medusa. Given time he might have been able to construct a serviceable canvas canoe out of them. A shipwright, with a few screws and rope thrown in, might make a smallish sloop. In short, he began to consider the possibility he might not stay afloat much longer.

It was fatigue, hunger, and cramp throughout his physical being, which was betraying James. His spiritual self never gave up. It was willing, even eager to make it to the yacht. He made it to within ten yards from his goal under his own power, before sinking below the surface of that famous sea.

Just before sinking, he seemed to see an angel from heaven. She, for this angel, appeared distinctly female, stared into his eyes from over the sloping side of the wooden boat. A lovely face surrounded by billows of golden-red hair, peered down at him. With such a charming creature in it, he decided heaven just might suit him.

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Pappy Bones