Cock-Sucker: The Artist's Tale

WARNING: This story includes extreme images intended not to shock, but as satire on the Brit-Art scene.

*****

Art for Art's Sake? Sex for Sex's Sake!

How did it ever get to this? It wasn't meant to be this way. There was so much more I was going to do, so much more I was going to achieve. Shooting stars they never stop. Even when they reach the top. But for me, it's ended up all so different. How did I get to this? I started at Art College. Dates? Totally fuzzy. What do you expect after the lives I've led. Anyway, it must have been some time around seeing that old queen Caravaggio in the Derek Jarman movie that I decided I wanted into art.

I studied at St Martin's College. That's where I, and a guy called Byron Hamilton, hook up almost immediately. We share a room. Sketch each other. At first mutually. Casual profiles, cartoon-caricatures, free-handing art with a Bic biro, etching it onto the back of a beer-mat while enduring the tedious chat-lines of boring Beatnik art-poseurs.

Progressing to full studies of each other for our own amusement, or for assessment. Often nude. I guess, even then, I knew he was better than me. So it gets he does the painting, while my talent is to be more passive. I assume poses, furnish curves, light, contours, shapes for him to replicate in oils. Were we lovers too? No, not exactly. But we do a bit of this, try a bit of that. Experimenting as awareness dictates, body piercing, nail varnish, distressed hair, part of what we imagine to be the bohemian libertine milieu. Embracing the bravado of virtually any kind of weirdness just to show how liberated we are.

We explore physical limits. We take what they used to call 'carnal knowledge' of each other. And naturally that involves some jittery below-the-belt lip-action, mutual tongue-tingling body-games. Tasting spurting fluids. It's what you're supposed to do, isn't it? It was expected. And we fit together good. We function well.

And Edgar Stromberg? When I first meet him, when we first meet, it's a student-art event, and he's present as guest of honour, to pass critical judgement on our student exhibition. I fix my gaze on his back, willing him to turn. He, unaware of the compulsion - conscious only that he has turned, turns towards me. He expresses interest. I'm flattered. He's a star, a legend. Who would not be flattered?

And I feel that same sense of bewilderment the Pevensie children must feel on their first step through the wardrobe into Narnia. With me as 'Edmund', the precocious betrayer, more sensitive, vulnerable, and self-centred than the others. He knows how to charm. Practiced in the art of deception. You know it's deliberate. A routine. While at the same time, when it's aimed at you, you're fascinated. At his invitation we share a cab back to his apartment. I'm both fascinated and repelled, so I scarcely notice him reaching across to run his hand over the front of my pants, tracing the shape of my cock gently.

"I'd like to get to you better" he said softly. "You" and his fingers circling my cock, gauging its size, squeezing "and you."

As soon as we're inside he unfastens the belt on his trousers and shoves them down. His shirt covering his thighs leaving just a hint of pubence and the dark shape of his testicles hung beneath the material. Then he shucks his left leg free of the pants, raising his right leg to remove the discarded garments, and his semi-erect cock lolls into view. Large, circumcised.

He smiles, turns his back on me and walks through into the next room, his arse wobbling beneath the flapping shirt. Leaving me the option of following, or not. I follow meekly to find him sat on the edge of the bed, masturbating lazily. Surely, if I want to make a good impression - which I do, if I want to guarantee acquiring the benefits of his art-patronage - which I do, it would be tantamount to crime to leave so promising a hard-on orally unmolested, to allow those imminent spurts to go undigested? I have no real choice in the matter.

My next move is obvious. What the hell? Squatting, with it quivering an inch from my nose, I glance hesitantly upwards and catch his eyes, calmly observing me as I go in to swallow its not-inconsiderable length gulp by gulp. His hands fold in around my head, holding me there as it nudges insistently at the back of my throat. I make a strangulated gurgling noise, and begin sucking, it goes on for some considerably slurpy time, until I'm rewarded by the trembling warm spurt of semen-gush.

It always seems so discourteous to spit out so intimately personal - and so copious a gift. So I never do. As I eventually draw back from its glistening droop, he's smiling his approval. After that first night, within a week I've moved in with him. I live with Edgar for five weeks, naively believing that he's working hard to promote my art, in reciprocation for the more intimate attentions I eagerly bestow upon him.

I meet former flatmate Byron in Starbucks Arapsuyu Escort to talk over the new situation. He has doubts. There's work to do, surely that must come first?

"Why work when you can party? My life will be my art."

He says he'll dedicate a piece to me in his first one-man show. He'll title it... um, let me think, yeah, 'Miss Slutty Spunkbucket Regrets'. I laugh. It's a joke, yeah...?

I watch him drink coffee, thinking 'I've come in that mouth, now - the parting of the ways, I'm going places, and he's lost the plot.'

With Edgar, soon, it gets... strange. He's... supposedly, drawn to my art. That's the point of contact, isn't it? I'd assumed it was my technique, my expression, my brushwork, he admires. The economy of line. But no. Fool that I am. It's the subject-matter. It's voluptuous contours of nude flesh. My body as displayed in Byron's paintings. The long curve of my cock, the smooth curves of my bum that he's sketched. That realisation only comes later. Gradually.

Meanwhile, wasn't it David Hockney who said there are three Gay men who control every aspect of New York art... or was it ten Gay men? - I forget, anyway, these guys control the art-world, and he knows each one of them. Edgar is sexually undemanding, taking the initiative infrequently - as little as four or five times a week, on which occasion I'm compliantly naked for him, crouched as he takes me from behind. But I'm anxious to please, I need to prove myself, and strive even when he doesn't respond or can't even sustain an erection. What's the point of offering yourself up as a sex-toy if you're being insufficiently toyed with? I'm beginning to feel neglected, underused, under-appreciated, more than a little bored and hence insecure in my new role.

Eventually he takes me to a party somewhere in a big house out Hampstead way, and it's here I meet Max Beardsley. At first there are no words. We have eye-conversation, nothing more, although - of course, I know and worship at the shrine of his work. When we do talk he's openly contemptuous about Edgar, he's also handsome and so arrogant it hurts. Edgar is a time-waster, he says, I'd do better to ditch him, hook up with the real power in the London art-world - and only he, Max, can furnish such introductions. While he's saying it his hand is in my groin, caressing and squeezing firmly and without hesitation. I'm both flattered and a little scared of him.

When he indicates I should follow him I have no choice but to obey, upstairs the bedrooms are all in use with heaving bodies strewn untidily everywhere, so he leads me into the toilet, locks the door, eases me unresistingly to my knees, and unbuckles his pants. He's intimidatingly hung and he fucks my face roughly without consideration for my comfort. There's no other way to describe it. I've never been treated so peremptorily or so brutally, and he rams it clear into my throat when the fierce hail of jism begins, so I near choke. Such an oral-tutorial is an incredible turn-on, one that fiercely perks me up below the belt until I'm so fired-raw my groin is painfully tense, and when he smiles approval, and concedes 'not bad', like a fool I blush up through the silver shimmer of gag-induced tears and thank him.

As we re-emerge Edgar's expression assumes a kind of injured dignity.

"These creative types, they're so temperamental!" he hisses at me.

But soon Edgar's engaged elsewhere. I don't think he really cares. And this night I go home with Max. Acting out roles. Inside his curtained rooms it's like there's no air, I'm breathless with heart-stopping anticipation. I know what I'm here to do. And I do it. Inviting him 'you be De Sade, and I'll be innocence personified.' Moments later we're both naked and I'm spread-eagled on the bed, penetrated first here, then there, passing the next hours in mutually intense neural stimulation. Until my body is an abstract expressionist canvas spattered with black candle-wax, glistening with perfumed oils, and streaked with white trails of glistening spunk. His, and mine.

Edgar Stromberg's forgotten. He's Art History. I'm with Max now. And I stay naked at his beck and call for the best part of the next months. Besotted with him. He's charismatic, full of dark depressions and huge roaring joys, lean looks and fierce silences, with half-closed eyes giving a perpetually sleepy expression, a confirmed somnambulist air, a highly effective mask for one of the keenest minds in art.

I watch him work in the studio. Waiting for my moment to be his muse. Then he lies on his back as I eagerly move in to fellate him, sucking for what seems like hours, so close I'm welded to the soft down of his body-hair, to the warm rise and fall of his belly-undulations, trying it in every way possible to please him. Then I lie on my back so he can face-fuck me so hard, sitting on my chest, his balls beating up against my upturned chin, impaling so deep I'm Escort Arapsuyu close to crying out in fear and panic of suffocation, but too scared to protest, too in awe of him to risk his disapproval. Making throaty drunken noises, until I'm sobbing and whimpering as he cums deep in my throat. 'Unnatural practices' they used to call this, I love that term. Yes, it's so right. The more he uses and humiliates me the more I love him. A dreamy-eyed stupefied forlorn fucked-up kind of love.

He values physical sensation. The physical above the spiritual. Above all else. And physicality is so important in creating art. There must be touch. Pigment beneath broken nails. I watch him pushing paint around. While he creates, the world is on fire. Cities in flame all around us. There must be terrible and repellent images in his head, hard-wired to the moon. And when they come out, he blasts them across canvas. Creativity, creation, re-creation, procreation, it's all the same. His most extreme karmic pharmaceutical reactions taking improvisational flight. He has paintings called "Dreaming