LGBTQRSUVWMYZ+

I understood the "L" and the "G"—well, I sort of understood the "L." It stands for "lesbian." But, since "G" stands for "gay" and lesbians are gay, doesn't that make the "L" redundant?

"B" is for "bisexual," and "T" is for "transgender." (Sounds like those children's alphabet books.) That makes sense, I guess, except that bisexual people are partly gay, aren't they? And why isn't there an "S" for "straight" people?

And "Q" for "questioning"? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Skeptical of (and more than a little confused) by the LGBTQ acronym, I once jokingly poked fun at it by suggesting the addition of the letters "R," "S," "U," "V," "W," "X," "Y," and "Z," and, just to round things out, the + that sometimes appears at the end of the actual acronym. I figured the way genders are popping up, left and right, there'd be one, sooner or later, for these letters, anyway. Why not add them to the existing acronym. Like the Boy Scouts, the LGBTQ+ community could be prepared.

To be honest, I'm still a bit confused by the acronym, but I certainly understand the "Q" part now—and the "B" part—and I'm not quite so flip about the rest of things as I was before—well, before I realized that a couple of letters in "LGBTQ" describe me.

Let me explain.

Even though I notice handsome men and men who have dynamic personalities and men who achieve and men—well, maybe I just notice a lot of men, men in general—I never really thought of myself as "gay" or "bisexual," eve after I began to notice—and admire—other things about men, such as their hair, eyes, builds, muscles, hands, legs, butts, and, yes, their sexy crotch bulges. I told myself other men also notice such attributes but deny it, even to themselves. I was just more honest. That's what I told myself, but I know, now, that I was being anything but honest. I was in denial, as they say, whomever "they" are.

I was attracted to other men, plain and simple, just as I was to women, I liked women, but I liked men, too. I appreciated a woman's breasts and bottoms, but I also admired men's genitals and buttocks—and chests and legs and hands and eyes and hair and—well, you get the picture, even if I, at the time, didn't.

Although I admired and appreciated women, I was discovering that I was also interested in (make that "attracted to") members of my own sex. I began to question my sexuality. Now, I understood what the "Q" in "LGBTQ" meant. I was living it.

Brian Beaumont, or "BB" to his friends. Early twenties. Dark hair with a sexy Superman curl and a physique to match: broad shoulders, chiseled pecs, six-pack abs, bulging thighs, tapering calves, a very manly bulge, and firm, compact buttocks—an ass, let me be frank, to die for.

He was in my art class (I'm a fine arts major). A model. A nude model, hired so we could practice drawing and painting the male physique. He posed with our nude female model, Monica Williams: long blonde, curly tresses; cute, smallish boobs (more than a handful's a waste, they say—whoever they are); flaring hips, a shaved pair of nether lips, and a full, feminine ass. She was a pretty as Brian was handsome, and they were a pair. Not only did they work for the same agency, but they were married. (So much for my fantasies of getting intimate with Brian! Just my luck.) They retained their original names for professional purposes.

Even though I knew they were a couple, and a married couple, at that, I couldn't help stop thinking about—okay, dreaming about—intimate moments with Brian. (I wouldn't have kicked Monica out of bed, either, no way, but my fantasies were about her better half—then, suddenly, they were about both of them, both of them and me. In my fantasies, Brian and I went from being a gay couple to Brian, Monica, and me being a threesome. Now, I knew what the "B" in "LGBTQ" meant. Maybe the acronym wasn't as confusing as it had first seemed. Some things need to be experienced (and felt) to be understood, I'd learned.

Well, I'd certainly felt the meaning of "Q" and "B," and I'd even lived the "Q" part, but I hadn't experienced the "B," and, it seemed, now that I knew that Brian and Monica were married, I never would, or, at least, not with them.

My painting, though, had attracted Brian and Monica. After modeling for twenty minutes, the couple took a five-minute break, during which they separated, roaming the classroom to look at our work. Although it was cool in the air-conditioned room—Brian's cock had dwindled within a few minutes of his arrival, and Monica's nipples were erect—I draped my smock across my lap as Brian approached my easel. The duster didn't quite conceal my burgeoning erection; the sight of his and Monica's beautiful nude bodies had, quite obviously, affected me. I shifted on my stool, tugging at the smock, to no avail. The outline of my bulging manhood was still evident; the smock was tented over my lap.

If Brian noticed (I wasn't sure how he couldn't have), he said nothing. Instead, he studied my portrait of him and Monica. "Excellent!" he said. "Your use of color, the brushstrokes, the perspective, the way the negative space enhances our figures—spectacular!"

I blushed. "Thank you, sir."

"Brain's the name," he said.

I corrected myself: "Thank you, Brian."

He walked back to his place on the dais at the center of the room. I watched his every step, the rise and fall of each of his bronzed buttocks, the slight swivel of his hips, and, as he stepped onto the platform the jiggle and sway of his cock and balls. Although it was just as cool in the room, it seemed his penis had swelled a bit and his balls appeared slightly lower, his scrotum less bunched. I would like to have thought his tumescent state had had something to do with his appreciation of my artwork—and the tent that my own prick made of the smock I'd draped over my lap.

It was odd how much I was attracted to him. I'd always admired beauty, in all its forms. I appreciated wildflowers, sunsets, mountain ranges and mesas, sand dunes, the pounding of breakers over the beach, the plaintive cry of seagulls wheeling against a cloudless azure sky. But I also enjoyed the beauty of naked women—and, yes, of naked men. Before, though, my appreciation had always been objective, impersonal, intellectual; with Brian and Monica, it was personal, emotional, and sensual. In my mind, I had stood between the couple, my left hand on Monica's ass, my right on Brian's buttocks, as Monica, cupping my balls in the palm of her hand, licked my left ear and her husband, his fist grasping my erect cock, kissed my right cheek.

With Monica back at his side, the couple assumed their positions, becoming as motionless as marble statues. For another twenty minutes, I painted. My feelings seemed to energize me, guide me, inspire me, and I surprised myself at how intensely I captured not only the wonder and majesty of the naked couple, but also the joy I myself felt as I painted the glory of their beautiful nakedness.

During the next break, Monica came to my easel. My erection had subsided, but in her presence—she stood only inches from me—my dick began to stiffen and swell, and I pulled my smock over the rising organ, embarrassed again. "Brian is right," she told me. Your work is superb."

From the corner of my eye, I saw her breasts, her concave tummy, her bald groin, the curves of her thigh—I could barely speak, as I thanked her.

For the next twenty minutes, my mind was full of fantasies, and the time flew by as I focused on getting the pink of Monica's nipples and labia right, in adding shades to the hues of Brian's penis and scrotum. To me, their figures seemed three dimensional, as if I painted them as the painter in Rene Magritte's Attempting the Impossible painted his model.

At the end of their modeling session, both Brian and Monica, still naked, appeared beside my stool to take a final look at my painting. Brian shook his head. "You are magnificent!"

Not nearly as magnificent as you, I thought, but I said only, "Thank you."

"A genius!" Monica agreed with her husband's assessment.

Blushing, I muttered another thank you. "But this is only a study, in watercolors. The final painting will be in oil."

"You know our names"—the professor had introduced our models at the beginning of class—"but we don't know yours," Monica remarked.

"Ben," I said. "Ben Martin."

"Do you accept commissions, Ben?" Brian asked.

"I've never had one, but I'd sure accept one, and gladly," I replied.

Monica handed me a business card. She must have been holding it, but I hadn't noticed. I couldn't see anything but them. "Call us; we may know some people who are apt to be interested in commissioning you do paint their portraits."

"Thank you." I put her card in my wallet and watched them, a god and goddess, walk across the room, beautiful, naked, and sexier than I'd ever known was possible. I'd call them, all right! They could count on that!

* * *

Three weeks later, before I lost my nerve, I called the number on the card Monica had given me. She answered—I'd know her seductive voice anywhere. "Can you come over now?"

I had no calendar, but, if I had, there'd be nothing on it. Painting and masturbation) was pretty much my whole life. "Love to."

She gave me their address. A half an hour later, I rang their doorbell. I brought a gift with me—their portrait, finished, in oil, and framed.

The door opened. "Ben," Monica greeted me, smiling.

I probably resembled the lusty animated cartoon wolf whose eyes nearly pop out of their sockets when he sees a sexy babe.

Monica was stark naked!

Blushing, I tried not to stare, but it was impossible.

She chuckled. "You look as though you've never seen a naked woman before, but I know better."

"I, uh, hadn't expected you to be, uh—I mean, I thought—"

She saw my painting. "Is that what I think it is?"

"My portrait of you and Brian, yes. It's a gift, from me to you."

Brian entered the foyer. Like his wife, he was naked, too. "We're nudists," he explained. "I guess we should have mentioned that to you, but we thought, since you paint nudes, it wouldn't be a big deal."

"Brian, look at this! Ben's giving us his portrait of us."

Brian frowned. "That's much too generous, Brian."

"I want you to have it."

"Ben, it's much too much," Monica objected.

"Please, accept it, with my compliments."

She shook her head. "We'd love to."

Brian helped me bring the painting into the house. (It was a big painting.) We unwrapped it, and Brian and Monica ooohed and aaahed over it to the point that it was beyond embarrassing and my face had to have been crimson.

"Do you accept commissions, Ben?" Brian asked.

In all my life, I'd painted exactly one nude portrait, the one of Brian and Monica I'd done a week ago, but I didn't tell him that. "Sure."

"If you want to slip out of your clothes and join us, you're welcome to do so," Monica invited.

Despite the air-conditioning, I felt a bit warm, and my cock had already grown a couple of inches. "Maybe later."

"We just want you to be comfortable," Brian said.

"I appreciate that."

"Can I offer you a drink, Ben?"

"No, thanks." I didn't tell him I'm only nineteen.

"Why don't we sit in the garden," Monica suggested. "It's such a nice day."

I followed my hosts, my gaze straying to their backsides. Each was lovely in its own way, Brian's firm, compact, masculine, and muscular; Monica's shapely, full, feminine, and dimpled. Like his wife's Brian's was sleek, which I liked; I'm not a fan of hairy bottoms.

Outside, wicker chairs with high, round backs sat around a wicker table with a glass top. The flower beds were stepped, in terraces, and overflowed with bright, beautiful blossoms. The air was redolent with their perfume-like scents. A short flight of steps led down to the manicured lawn.

We sat beneath a pergola among potted and hanging plants, all flowering.

"Brian and I belong to a group, Ben: The Society of Bisexual Threesomes. We number sixty at the moment. The members are also nudists."

Wow! That sure came out of nowhere. Of course, I blushed. (I blush a lot.) "Oh."

"We mentioned your work—and your talent—and twenty-five members expressed an interest in the possibility of commissioning you to paint their portraits," Monica informed me. "They just want to see your finished portrait of us first, which, now, thanks to your generous gift, will be no problem. We can probably have a definite answer for you by the end of next week."

"You mean, uh, nude portraits?"

She chuckled. "Of course nude."

"They're willing to pay five-thousand dollars."

Mentally, I calculated the amount I'd be paid per portrait: $5,000, total, divided by 25 = $200. It would take me maybe 150 hours to finish one painting—the watercolor study Brian and Monica had praised was only a rough idea, but it had impressed them. Two-hundred dollars divided by 150 hours equaled about $1.33. There was no way I could afford to paint 25 oil portraits for that amount; it wouldn't even cover the cost of the paint.

I guess my expression must have indicated my disappointment, but there was no way I could accept.

"Something the matter, Ben?" Monica asked.

"I couldn't paint that many portraits for that low a price," I mumbled.

Brian and Monica exchanged puzzled looks. "You realize," Brian asked, "we're talking $5,000 for each portrait?"

I had to look shocked. "But that's—"

Monica grinned, nodding her head. "$125,000."

A quick calculation told me I'd be working for about $33 an hour, way more than the minimum wage I earned working for a local convenience store. I nearly fell off my chair.

"There is a condition, though," Monica told me.

I should have known, I thought.

"You're going to be painting nude portraits of bisexuals," Brian reminded me.

I shrugged, adopting a cavalier posture. "What adults do in the privacy of their own home is their business."

"Their condition," Brain said, "is that, for their commissions, you have to have shared their experience. They think by experiencing bisexuality yourself, you'll be better able to understand, and thus to portray, them."

"You must have had sex with both a man and a woman at the same time," Monica said, as if she wasn't sure I'd understood what Brian was saying.

I'd understood all too well. I felt lightheaded, and I thought I might be sick.

No, I wasn't grossed out by the idea; quite the contrary: it aroused me. But I didn't like the idea of having sex with people I didn't know, and I amazed myself by having, or finding, the courage to say as much.

Monica chuckled. "If that's all that's bothering you, Brian and I would be happy to be your partners, wouldn't we, Brian?"

"You bet."

I didn't know what to say.

"Don't tell us you aren't interested," she added. "I've seen the way you look at me—and Brian—when you think we're not paying attention."

"So have I," Brian said.

"I don't know. I mean, I've never had sex with two people, especially with a woman and a man."

They probably guessed I'd never had sex with anyone but myself, but, if they did, they were too gracious to say so.

"That's another reason having us as your partners makes sense," Monica suggested.

I felt conflicted. Part of me—my cock—was agreeable to their proposal (and much more than merely agreeable), but I also felt hesitant, maybe because I'm naturally shy, or maybe because I didn't want to admit to myself that, sexually, I could go either way. "Let me think about it," I offered.

"You do that, Ben," Brian agreed.

"Meanwhile, we'll have the members over to view your portrait of us. I know they'll love it and want to commission you to paint theirs."

A hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars was too good an offer to refuse, I told myself. To Brian and Monica, I said, "I'll let you know."

* * *

That night and all the next day, I considered their offer.

At first, the idea that having sex as part of a threesome would make me more sympathetic or empathetic to bisexuals seemed absurd. Male gynecologists and obstetricians didn't have female anatomies, conceive, carry, and deliver babies, but they were experts on all these matters, knowing more about them than any woman (other than a female colleague), pregnant or otherwise. I didn't see why I shouldn't be able to paint the portraits of bisexuals just because I hadn't experienced bisexuality myself.

But, mostly, I thought about other things.

I kept wondering what it might be like to eat Monica's pussy while her husband sucked my cock. I tried to imagine what Brian's prick might feel like in my ass, fucking me, while his wife sucked my dick. I imagined myself straddling Monica's waist, my erection between her fabulous, small breasts, and Brian's cock in my mouth, his balls in my face, his semen in my hair. What would it be like to fuck Monica in her cunt or up her ass while Brian fucked me? I became so excited at these thoughts that I came without touching myself, something I'd never done before and wouldn't have believed possible.

I was in my early twenties, and I was still inexperienced sexually. What a loser I was! There'd been opportunities, but I'd been too shy, too much a wuss, to act on them, afraid I'd be rejected. Now, I'd been offered a golden opportunity. I could eat pussy, fuck it, fuck a woman in the ass, suck a cock, have mine sucked, fuck a man in the ass, be fucked by a man in my ass, masturbate and be masturbated and—well, the imagination was the limit. In one night with Brian and Monica, I could gain more experience than I'd had, to date, over my entire lifetime.

I needn't worry that anyone would know I'd been with another man as well as a woman. I had no doubt that Brian and Monica were utterly discreet. My secrets would remain secrets.

It was a no-brainer, really.

On the second day after visiting them, I called the number on the card Monica had given me. She answered and activated the speaker on her 'phone. "Well, Ben, have you made a decision?"

I took a deep breath. It was now or never, I told myself, but if I agreed to a threesome with them, I couldn't go back on my word—well, I could, but I wouldn't. "I have," I answered.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense, Ben," Brian said.

"Yes," I told them. "My answer's yes."

"That's great, Ben!" Monica said, her tone congratulatory.

"And we have good news for you, too, Ben," Brian added. "Not twenty-five, but thirty—half our club's members—definitely want to commission you to paint their portraits. You'll be making $135,000, not $125,000."

"And that's just the start, I think," Monica chimed in. "Once the others see their portraits, they're going to want theirs painted, too. When all is said and done, I wouldn't be at all surprised to find you earned close to a quarter of a million dollars."

"Maybe more," Brian said.

"Now, for the best part," Monica said. "Let's set the date for our threesome."

We agreed that next Saturday evening would be ideal. I'd drop by their place about seven o'clock p.m."

"See you then, tiger!" Monica cried.

"I'm looking forward to it," Brian announced.

Not half as much as I am, I thought.

I totally understood the meaning of the "Q," and I'd have a better understanding of the "G" and the "B" in "LGBTQ," too, before long.

* * *

Saturday evening, I arrived promptly at seven o'clock, and Monica greeted me at the front door—in the nude, of course. "Come in, Ben," she invited, smiling.

I blushed, still the shy idiot. "Thank you."