An hour later, Roland found himself in front of a blue canvas, bottle of vodka secure in one hand, paintbrush in the other. He stared at the canvas and Pete swirled around his feet, making figure-eights between his ankles. His little bandaged paw made a softthumpevery time it landed on the concrete.
Roland closed his eyes and tried to picture Donny’s face, but he couldn’t see it. He squeezed his eyes closed with more force and still couldn’t manage to bring it to the forefront of his mind. They had eaten dinner less than eighteen hours ago, and Roland was drawing a blank. What he did remember, though— the feel of Donny’s tongue inside his ass and the rough slide of Donny’s cock as he fucked Roland into the mattress.
Roland’s cock twitched, and in his head he could seethat, clear as day. He couldn’t even remember looking at Donny’s cock last night, but he could easily paint it to perfection by the memory of its feel alone. The way it stretched him was such a solid memory, it seemed to be a tangible thing in his mind.
His ass clenched, and he took a drink before placing the bottle on a stool beside him and dipping his paintbrush into a dark gray glob of paint. Roland painted what he knew, and the lines of his own back started to take shape on the canvas.
Hours later, Roland had a near empty bottle of vodka. He stopped and stepped back, taking a look at the canvas for the first time since he started. He’d painted the previous night as if he’d been a third party spectator observing from across the room. The lines of Roland’s own body, jagged and rough, half-covered by streaks of a bland and miserable-looking brown. What Roland had intended to be Donny was there as well—smoother lines in alabaster white formed a male torso—even though Roland couldn’t remember if it was accurate to life. The top of the figure blurred into oblivion and an angry splatter of black.
This was useless.
Roland had agreed to dinner with Donny to see him again so he could, in turn, paint him. But Roland had barely taken the time to look at the man before he let Donny swallow his dick and then fuck him. Donny was painfully beautiful, but Roland couldn’t put Donny’s parts together in his mind. All he could see were those goddamn eyes, and all he could feel was his hard fucking cock, and Roland couldn’t reconcile the two together into anything worth a damn.
And wasn’t that the story of Roland’s life.
He slapped his open palm against the wet canvas and pushed it to the ground. The easel fell with it, tumbling over Roland’s stool, and the empty vodka bottle. The bottle bounced against the concrete, snapping at the neck. It startled Pete awake, and he jumped up and fled the room in a flurry of brown and gray hair.
Roland slunk down the hallway, accidentally slamming his shoulder into the doorframe as he cornered into the kitchen. The pain sent a jolt through his entire right side, and he stumbled, stepping into Pete’s water bowl and knocking it over. Roland slipped in the puddle, catching himself with the edge of the countertop and the fridge door as he fell. He still landed hard on his ass, fingers wrapped around the door of the refrigerator and jeans now soaking wet from the spill.
“Fuck,” he grumbled, righting himself and yanking open the freezer. He pulled out a fresh bottle and eyed the knife block on the other end of the counter. The empty slot was a reminder of the destruction he’d caused two nights prior and he thought about the fleeting satisfaction he would feel to go back into his studio and annihilate all his new shortcomings.
Hell, he could create a gallery showing of his fucking destroyed masterpieces that would never be. He could call it The Ongoing Failures of Roland Wilson.
He bent his fingers around the handle of a knife, sliding it out from its slot before thinking better of it. The handle was cold in his hand, but the vodka was colder. He twisted the top off the bottle and took a drink. The liquor soothed the muscles of his throat as he swallowed. He took another drink and twisted the cap back on.
The fridge was still half open, and Roland’s stomach made a sound of protestation as he closed it. When was the last time he’d eaten? A couple bites of rice last night and a piece of chicken before Donny climbed on top of him and kissed him senseless.
Roland reached up and traced his fingers across his lower lip, closing his eyes.
You taste like vodka.
That’s what Donny had said to him and Roland had been so offended, but here and now, Roland realized he didn’t even know what Donny tasted like. All Roland ever tasted anymore was blandness and vodka.
Roland’s thoughts strayed again, to later in the previous night. His cock stirred, and he set the vodka on the counter and walked down the hall to his bedroom. His comforter was still in a state of disarray, not from his sleep, which had occurred on his couch, but from the encounter with Donny. Roland closed his eyes and he could see it clear as day.
Why couldn’t he get it out of his mind and onto a fucking canvas?
He undid the fly of his jeans and crawled onto his bed on all fours. Roland dropped his forehead onto the sheets and pulled his cock free, fisting it and stroking himself from root to tip. He pictured Donny’s slender fingers sliding into his ass and fucking him but only using spit for lube. He clenched, remembering the burn when Donny had pushed a third finger inside of him. Roland tightened the grip on his shaft and stroked himself roughly, grunting through the friction of a lube free jack off.
Roland could vividly remember the feeling of Donny’s long fingers pulling out of his ass and tangling in his hair, pulling the strands tight against his scalp. His entire body shuddered as he recalled the smooth slide of Donny’s cock as he’d entered Roland for the first time.
Harder, harder, harder,Roland had begged as Donny fucked him— hungry for the sensation, terrified of the connection. Sweat broke out across Roland’s forehead, and his mouth fell open, dry and feeling like it’d been stuffed full of cotton. He had a fleeting memory of Donny’s tongue licking a stripe up his spine, collecting their mingled sweat, and it sent him over the edge. He came with a grunt, shooting all over his hand and chest like the night before.
The edges of Roland’s vision went dark, and his focus blurred. His heart rate spiked and felt like it was trying to beat out of his fucking chest. Roland sucked in a breath, and then everything went black.
* * *
Something was vibrating.There was a loud banging, and something was vibrating. Roland rolled onto his back, his hair matted to his face, dried cum stuck to his stomach and the trail of hair below his navel— his cock in his hand, limp and sticky. He peeled his fingers off his shaft and shoved his hand into the pocket of his pants, digging out his phone to stop the vibrating. The banging didn’t stop when he slid the decline option on his phone.
“Roland!”
Roland heard his name being shouted violently from somewhere far away. He blinked his eyes and attempted to smooth his hair out of his face.
“You open this goddamn door right now and give me back my fucking cat!”
Cat? What cat?
Oh, fuck. Pete.
