The Muse's Undoing

He grimaces and nods, like it makes him cringe to admit it.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“It held your interest?”

“Seriously?”

He shrugs. “If we’re gonna dissect it…yeah.”

“We don’t have to dissect it,” I tell him. “But you’re making it sound like it wasn’t what you had in mind.”

“Like I mentioned, I’ve never been in that…role before.”

“Did it feel wrong?” I challenge.

“No…”

I get a flash of something—one of those random inspirations I mentioned to him. It comes at me like a vision that seems so real it’s got me glancing around for my sketch pad and charcoals.

My heart rate picks up, and I tell him to be still. “I have an idea.”

“Can I have some coffee first?”

“No.”

I practically crawl to my nightstand and grab my supplies before returning to sit on the floor in front of him.

“You’re drawing me?”

“Yeah. Give me ten minutes. It’s just a rough sketch. Then if you want coffee, I’ll find you some.”

He sighs like it’s an imposition, but he stays still, one hand still on his cane and the other dangling at his side in the armless dining chair.

I get the basic outline on paper, but when I switch pencils to a duller tip, I add details and shadow. It’s not important that I copy the composition of him in the chair exactly as it exists. It’s more important that the vision doesn’t disappear before I get the image on paper.

I use my thumb to smudge the charcoal to add definition to his body. With a finer point, I try to capture his hair and the half-dried waves of it, totally untamed. And as a final touch, I draw out his scars, the ones I know from memory and by touch.

When the draft is done, I show it to him, and he hisses through his teeth before raising a hooded gaze to me.

“That’s what you see?” he asks.

“It’s how the muse thing works. I told you I’d give you an example. This is the what if.”

“Right.”

I can’t help but notice he’s breathing heavier. “What do you think?” I ask.

“Do you want that?”

“The better question is do you want that? Because I’ll try anything.”

“Good to know.”

“You think you could sit for a portrait like that?” I ask.

He studies the sketch of himself, naked, his arms tied back, ankles lashed to the chair legs. Among those changes to what’s right in front of me, I added an arched neck and a splatter of cum on his chest. A spent cock resting on his abs.

“Is this what you think would happen if I did?”