Rock Solid

Yes, Justin would return to PIFA in the fall when his suspension ended, but in the meantime, he needed another connection, another source of inspiration. One night, he threw his sketchbook aside and said he just didn’t feel it anymore.

Justin not wanting to draw was less likely than him not wanting to fuck—and that never happened. He definitely had Brian's attention.

Being an artist, Justin was compulsively tactile. How many nights had Brian laid still for hours just so Justin could catalog every pore and hair follicle? Before, Brian didn’t realize the significance of the process. He thought it was just another artistic quirk, like when Justin put Gus’ crayons back in the box in the exact same order they came in. But now, Brian wondered if Justin’s need to touch was more tangible than just getting his rocks off.

This was why Brian was freezing his balls off in the dank catacombs that served as artifact storage beneath the museum. He watched his young lover soak up the stone figure he was caressing with gloved fingers under the watchful eye of the curator that Brian had charmed into giving them a behind-the-scenes tour.

Justin’s head bobbed enthusiastically as he listened to the woman drone on about the style and history of the bust they were examining. He pressed his face as close to the piece as he dared, sniffing like a bloodhound as he studied a crack in the work more closely.

Brian’s dick twitched in response. Hearing Justin’s excited wuffle-wheeze was the Pavlovian equivalent to the dinner bell and he hoped Justin would be inspired to feel Brian’s dick up his ass soon.

Reluctantly, Justin straightened and glanced over at Brian for permission to continue as the curator pulled him toward another statue. Any thoughts Brian had entertained about ending this little field trip disappeared when he saw Justin’s exuberant glow from inhaling the musty scent of a dirty, moldy, old rock carved to look like some dead guy’s face.

Kinky.

He acquiesced and Justin eagerly followed the woman into a maze of packing crates.

Brian went outside to have a cigarette and clear the mildew from his lungs while he waited.

***

Brian watched as Justin rolled the fossils around on the table, examining the different grooves and indentations of the varying specimens.

Justin had been fucking giddy when he saw the bucket of rocks in the hall as they were leaving the museum. The curator explained they gave them away to children as souvenirs and she let Justin take a few with him. Brian asked if Justin wanted to stop and play in the sandbox with Gus on the way home too, but Justin was too busy playing with his rocks.

He hadn’t stopped touching them since. He was now wearing one like a thimble on his pinkie, absently spinning it around as he sketched a larger rendition of it.

After spending all day in a musty basement, the kid was inspired to draw a crusty old seashell? Fuck, they could’ve just gone to the beach for that and worked on a tan too.

“I’m going out,” Brian muttered.

“Hmm…”

Brian paused by the table. “You should come to the baths with me, steam that gritty shit out of your skin before you get more zits.”

Justin didn’t look up. Didn’t rant violently at the gross insult that he had any blemish on his skin.

Brian had the urge to swipe his arm across the table, knocking the rocks into the garbage in high queenly fashion, but hesitated. They’d scratch the varnish. Instead, he squeezed Justin’s hand, cruelly pressing the imprint into the soft flesh. “Clean this shit up.”

Justin nodded absently as he studied the new ridges in his skin and began another sketch.

***

Brian was high and well-fucked when he wandered home later. Justin was still up. Hadn’t moved from the table. He excitedly held up a few of his sketches, obviously waiting to see which Brian would put up on the refrigerator to impress the other parents.

“They’re rocks, Justin.”

Justin blinked at him. “No, it’s what they represent. Another form of art. Think of it as a way to live forever, an indelible impression left behind for millions of years. This one is my--”

“Can my dick be fossilized? Permanently hard?” Brian asked.

Justin scowled at being interrupted. “You really want it to get all dried out and turn to dust, just so the imprint will be there for eternity?”

Brian winced. “How about just doing another plaster cast? You could make thousands of copies and everyone could finally get as much of my dick as they want. And you could hand sign each one as the great artiste. You’d make millions.”

Justin stormed past him to the bedroom, still clutching his rock. Brian wondered how long it would take him to realize stroking it like that would not make it any bigger.

The next day, Justin made little plaster casts of the mini-dick. And he was predictably horny when Brian came home.

“You stink,” he told Justin. “Take a shower.”

When Justin got out, Brian had gone to Babylon. Justin sketched some more.

When Brian got home, Justin was asleep. But he still had to be horny since he obviously hadn’t gone out. Brian rolled Justin over and the groggy man acquiesced to Brian’s dick pushing into his ass.

Of course, Justin was soon writhing and moaning and grabbing for something to hold onto. When he reached out, Brian pinned his hands. Like any other trick, he was trying to get a grip on him, but no one could hold onto Brian Kinney.

The next morning Justin was sullen and short, flinging his sketchbook across the room when he thought Brian had left.

Brian slid the loft door back open and nudged the pad with his foot, sending it skittering back over to the sofa. “What’s the matter, Sunshine? Not feeling it?” He ran his hands through Justin’s hair, teasing the scalp, eliciting a moan before dropping his hand and steeling his gaze against the limpid blue eyes staring back at him. “Guess you better find a new inspiration,” he said icily.

He felt nourished by the pained flicker that crossed Justin’s face as he turned to leave. But he didn’t see the small twitch of a smile that replaced it.

Brian went home to change before going out. When he slid the loft door open, he automatically scanned the area for signs of Justin. He wasn’t looking for him, just relishing the silence. And the clean table. He immediately noticed there wasn’t any dusty chalk residue streaking the tabletop, no rocks in sight.

He found Justin napping in the bedroom. He would’ve skirted the bed completely and gone directly to the bathroom if the new sketch hadn’t caught his eye.

He stripped and stretched out over the sleeping form, soaking up the heat from the warm skin beneath him. Justin’s arms twined around him, tendrils of heat enveloping him. Then steaming wet kisses against his skin as Justin’s mouth followed his hands.

They tussled through quick preparations, wrangling into position. Then Brian was starting the slow push inside, biting his lip to keep from groaning out loud from Justin’s intense grip.

Justin’s vice-like grasp on Brian’s shoulders gradually loosened as he adjusted to the intrusion. His tongue glided over the little indentations from his fingertips, soothing the bruised skin. Then his hands wandered over Brian’s sweat-slicked skin, mapping tendons and muscles as they strained beneath the surface.

Brian stilled under the examination, trembling from the overwhelming need to just sink…then slowly moved…flex and release… creating new planes for Justin to trail and memorize.

When Justin fell asleep again later, Brian leaned against the pillows with a cigarette and studied the sketch of his cock that had caught his eye earlier more closely.

He was hardly surprised it was another inspired likeness.