Brothers of the Moon

Muse

Muse

Amos awoke with a start, though it wasn’t the sting of his cigarette burning down to his fingers that wrenched him from his sleep. Something else had roused his senses.

He flicked the dying butt from his fingers, closed his eyes once more and massaged his temples for a few seconds before opening his eyes again to survey the mess that was both his studio and the place he lived. One rundown room at the back of an old warehouse could hardly be referred to as a home.

The faded curtains were open and revealed a grey, uninteresting day outside. Any light that did manage to filter in through the dust and grime that had built up on the panes of glass illuminated what was probably best left unilluminated. Stacks of dirty dishes in and around the sink competed for space with pizza boxes and other assorted empty take away containers. The scuffed floor was littered with cigarette butts and small cigarette burns, empty beer bottles and various articles of clothing. These were not the leftovers from some wild Bacchanalian celebration, but leftovers from his daily life.

Taking pride of place in the midst of all this disarray was an easel, or more particularly a large blank canvas which rested on the ledge of the easel.

Amos regarded it with all the disdain he usually reserved for tax inspectors, insurance salesmen and rude, bubblegum-chewing sales girls. His eyes narrowed and he curled his top lip just slightly. He patted the area immediately around him until his hands came to rest on a packet of cigarettes. He took one out and lit it, his gaze remaining riveted on the blank canvas.

He sucked back on the cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs before blowing it out in one great, dirty-grey cloud, and as he did so, he swung himself off the couch and walked over to a table laden with gnarled and twisted tubes of paint, unwashed brushes and photographs of naked men that he himself had taken. With no more effort than was absolutely necessary, he pushed the black-and-white pictures back and forth over each other, catching glimpses of naked torso, muscular thigh, semi-erect p***s, all the while sucking back on his cigarette.

When there was nothing left to smoke of the cigarette, he dropped the smoking butt into a coffee mug already brimming with similarly discarded butts and turned to face the room.

At first he didn’t see the intruder sitting in the over-stuffed and worn armchair that stood guard by the front door. Shadows occupied so much of his studio that there remained much he never saw. Only when the stranger quietly cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat did he attract Amos’s attention.

“What the…?”

The stranger, dressed in white, loose-fitting clothing, stood, held his palm out, and smiled.

“I’m sorry I startled you.”

“How did you…?”

The stranger cut him short again.

“Don’t worry. I’m not here to harm. Rather, I’m here to help.”

As the stranger took a step forward, Amos took a step back. His mind raced, trying to think of all the places he might find some kind of weapon, a knife or even his old baseball bat. His fingers ended up wrapping themselves around a large, sable-hair paintbrush.

“I’m warning you!” Amos growled, brandishing the paintbrush, pointy end out, at the stranger.

“Amos, listen to me…”

Amos raised the brush higher and stepped backward into a small paint-splattered table. The impact made him flinch.

The stranger’s smile widened.

“How do you know my name?” Amos asked.

“I told you, I’m here to help you. You’re an uninspired artist in desperate need of something to sell. I’m here to inspire you.”

Amos lowered the brush. Despite the fact that he still didn’t know anything about this mysterious man who had just shown up in his studio, there was no sense of menace about him, and Amos soon felt his heartbeat returning to normal.

“How are you going to do that?” asked Amos.

“I’m going to let you paint me,” replied the stranger.

Amos shook his head and put the paintbrush back on the table.

“I paint from photographs, and besides, I can’t afford to pay a model.”

The stranger shook his head.

“I don’t need you to pay me. I simply want to model for you and then leave.”

Amos scratched his whiskery chin.

“But why? Why would you want to do that?”

“It’s what I do,” replied the stranger. “Now where do you want me?”

Amos looked around and suddenly felt ashamed at the state of his studio.

“Over by the window,” he said finally. “Rest one hand on the ledge and gaze out, like you’re daydreaming.”

The stranger removed his clothes while Amos turned the easel around and organized his brushes and paints.

“Like this?” asked the stranger.

Amos looked at the man, at the perfection of his body. The muscle definition was sublime and the way the light caught his three-quarter profile filled Amos with an overwhelming desire to walk over and kiss the stranger’s full, parted lips. He had seen beautiful bodies throughout his career, but none that he could remember compared to the captivating beauty of this one.

“Not quite,” replied Amos. “Can you put the other arm on the ledge, the one closest to the ledge, and kind of…”

He walked across to the stranger.

“Like this,” he said as he bent to touch the man. “May I?”

The man smiled and nodded.

Amos placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and paused to enjoy the feel of hard muscle under soft, smooth skin. He placed his other hand on the man’s other shoulder and in doing so, his belly and c**k brushed up against the massive, bulging muscles of the man’s thigh. As he adjusted the man’s posture, he felt a shiver of delight run rhapsodies up and down his spine as his c**k pressed even harder against the bare flesh.

He bent down and took the man’s foot in his hands and realized he was at eye level with the man’s beautiful c**k. In the few seconds he allowed himself to look at it, he saw everything he needed to—the succulent, pink head, the two blue veins, like serpents, that snaked their way along either side of his thick shaft. The nest of pubic hair, tangled and unmanaged, had a delightful scent and on the pretext of arranging the man’s feet, he brought his face closer to breathe in the aroma.

Next he shuffled around until he was behind the man. His hands went up to take the man by his hips, to twist them just a little, just long enough for him to get an eyeful of the man’s beautifully sculpted buttocks, to enjoy the whiteness of those twin orbs and to ponder over the small thatch of hair that peeked out from between them. What delights lay hidden from view?

How he longed to be forever as close to this male beauty as he now was. Love had not yet found Amos and he was twenty-nine. A man such as this one could have him—mind, body and soul. For a man like this, he would give himself over completely.

As he stood, he allowed the palm of one hand to brush across the baby-soft skin of the man’s left buttock. He stepped back on the pretext of checking the man’s pose, though in truth it was to examine, one last time up close, the body of this Adonis.

Amos reluctantly walked back to where his easel and his table stood. He scratched around in the accumulated bric-a-brac and found the exact pencil he wanted, though he decided the point was too dull for making thin, precise lines. He rummaged through the odds and ends in an old metal biscuit tin at the back of the table and eventually found a pencil sharpener.

“I just realized I have no idea what your name is,” he announced as his hand twisted the pencil around in the sharpener.

“How rude of me. I completely forgot. It’s Erasmus. A strange name, I know, but the only one I have, so there you are. Erasmus.”

Amos didn’t comment. He had begun to draw.

The only sound to disturb the silence was the scratching of the pencil on the canvas as Amos drew a rough sketch of Erasmus to get the proportions correct. It was not a difficult task. Amos specialized in the male nude.

“Let me know if you need a break,” he said as he continued sketching.

Erasmus nodded.

Next Amos began drawing in details like the man’s fingers on the ledge, looking a little like a fist, though not as tight. The forearm was thick and covered with fine, blond hair, which caught the light, creating a kind of aura. Erasmus’s upper arm was solid and muscular, smoother than the forearm, and becoming thicker until it joined a large, rounded shoulder.

What better pillow for my head?

His face was beautiful. The face of an angel. The jaw line was strong, as was the chin. His lips were perfect and slightly parted, as if he were about to speak, or to kiss. As noses went, Erasmus had one of the finest Amos had ever noticed—and he noticed them a lot since his own was what people politely called ‘aquiline.’ Erasmus had a nose that was straight and strong. Every feature was masculine, manly. It was a face and body that deserved to be preserved forever in a painting.

My dying wish would be to trace each contour of your body with the tip of my tongue.

Amos sketched the chest next, with the corrugations of Erasmus’s abdominals causing a little difficulty, mainly because of the angle. Then he slid his pencil down the canvas in one smooth curved line to capture Erasmus’s back and his buttocks, full and round, like fruit, and just as enticing.

Why didn’t I pull those fleshy orbs apart and fill his arse full of tongue?

Even though his thighs were large and solid, Amos could still see just a little of the man’s c**k and quite a bit of his pubic bush, again dusted with light from outside.

To take that in my mouth, to feel that perfectly shaped c**k head at the back of my throat would be a dream come true.

Amos felt his own c**k growing harder as he pencilled in the detail of Erasmus’s c**k and wiry pubes. But no. This was not the time for such thoughts. He had indeed been inspired. The fact was he could feel the inspiration coursing through his veins, filling every cell and fibre of his being. The challenge was to capture as much of Erasmus on canvas as he could, as accurately as he could, for the end result would be something quite incredible.

“There,” he said standing back from the easel.

“Finished?” asked Erasmus, turning his head slightly to face Amos.

“Oh no,” Amos laughed. “Far from it. I’ve just finished sketching you. Now comes the difficult part. The painting.”

Erasmus returned his head to its original position.

“Don’t you need more light?” he asked. “I could open the window.”

Amos frowned as he put paint to canvas.

“No. No. The light is perfect. It’s creating a nice balance of light and shadow and will make for a very moody portrait. It’s perfect.”

The hours melted into each other. Day became night. His wrists had begun to ache and his eyes were dry, but Amos worked as hard as he could. He felt a compulsion to capture everything that made Erasmus the very model of male beauty. It had to be done right, otherwise he’d simply be wasting his time.

It was in the early hours of the morning when Amos finally put his brushes and palette down.

Erasmus turned away from the window.

“Do I dare ask?” he said with a smile.

Amos reached for a cigarette, lit it and collapsed onto the sofa.

“Yes, you can ask and the answer is ‘yes’. I think I have not only captured you on canvas but I have somehow managed to do you justice. I have a few highlights to add here and there but for the most part, yes, it is finished.”

Erasmus’s eyes lit up when he saw the finished work.

“You are a true artist, my friend,” said Erasmus. “I have not been wrong in my estimation of you.”

“How can I possibly thank you?” asked Amos.

“You already have,” replied Erasmus. “You have done me the honour of capturing me for eternity. Not even Michelangelo could have bettered this piece of art.”

“I guess the least I can do is invite you to view it when it goes on display. How can I contact you?”

Erasmus walked over to where he’d left his clothes and put them on. He then reached into his shirt pocket and produced a card. He handed it to Amos, who immediately read it.

Erasmus Inspirations

0491 570 158

“And now I have to go,” he said walking toward the door. “You have your painting and your inspiration, and I have others who need my help.”

Amos thanked the man again, closed the door and locked it.

Late the following morning Amos woke up. The sun was pouring in through the dirty window, which could only mean that outside it was a glorious day. He rubbed his eyes, yawned and stretched. As he was reaching for his cigarettes, he noticed that the blank canvas that stood on the easel in the middle of the room was no longer blank. It had been transformed into a painting of such exquisite beauty that he could hardly bear to take his eyes from it. How had this happened? The previous night he had paced around the easel several times, wracking his brain to think of what to paint and now there was a finished portrait, freshly painted and glistening in the morning light; a painting far beyond his skills.

He looked back toward the front door, and as he did so, he noticed a small, white card on the floor by the couch where he had fallen asleep.

He walked over, picked it up and examined both sides. Blank. But how had it come to be there? He let the card tumble from his fingers as he walked over to the kettle and made himself a cup of coffee.

There was painting to be done. Suddenly it was all he wanted to do. He took the coffee back to the easel and looked again at the portrait of the breathtakingly handsome man. In the bottom right hand corner he noticed something he had missed before—his signature.

A small shiver traced an icy path down his spine.