1
Laurence
“He paintswith his own cum, youknow.”
The statement came out of nowhere. Laurence turned his attention from the hyperrealistic oil painting of a young man draped across an old couch in a grimy apartment to the speaker on his right. Moments before, he’d been on his own, doing his best to figure out what kind of “professional enrichment” Elaine thought he could get from a solo trip to an art gallery. The art was stunning, he’d give it that—but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with his appreciation of it, or how to apply that appreciation to hiswork.
A mystery for another day. Right now, there were other matters to tend to—namely, the young man who’d emerged from the crowd to stand at hisside.
The visitor was unexpected, but not unwelcome. His statement gave Laurence something to chew over aside from thoughts of the raise he was chasing, at least. “He paints with his owncum?”
“He does.” The stranger lifted his chin and quirked his head to the side, like a bird of prey considering a nearby target. The sharp angle of his jaw and the bridge of his long, narrow nose added to the illusion—they suited his face, and Laurence thought they looked charmingly hawkish. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I think it takes the idea that artists put a piece of themselves into everything they do a little too seriously. Don’tyou?”
“I’m not sure I believe it.” Laurence turned his gaze away from the young man and looked back at the painting. Pressure clenched in his stomach, not entirely unpleasant. It took a few moments to realize what it was—the stirrings of arousal. “I’m no expert, but I believe oil paint is temperamental. Body oils and acids would destroy its composition. Seminal fluid is alkaline—basic, the opposite of acidic—but it’s made up of multiple components. I suppose, in small quantities, it wouldn’t interfere with the paint, but artists work with small amounts of color at a time, don’t they? The size of this canvas and the complexity of the color on it lead me to believe that the amount of paint versus the standard volume of ejaculate wouldn’t have been acceptable—the semen would have flooded the paint and destroyed it. This painting looks too good to have been made with decaying product. There are no signs of poor artistry here—no cracks in the paint, no fissures, no peeling… it’s flawless and masterful. I don’t know if I can get behind the idea that there’s cum mixed into it. It’s too perfect to betrue.”
There was silence. Laurence bit the inside of his lip and glanced at the stranger out of the corner of his eye. He’d gone too far. He’d killed the conversation, just like he always did, because he couldn’t let go of the logical part of his mind and just have fun. Half of him expected the stranger to be gone—vanished back into the crowds that surrounded them to escape his awkwardness—while the other half anticipated uncomfortable, confrontational rejection. It wasn’t the first time he’d made someone feel awkward and been forced to endure theaftermath.
But that didn’t turn out to be thecase.
Instead, Laurence found the stranger looking at him, eyes narrowed in alarmed confusion. Beneath that expression, Laurence thought he glimpsed awe. It shimmered in his eyes and plumped his lips, like they were on the verge of speech. The shock softened some of his hawkishness and revealed an individual who seemed vulnerable. Then, suddenly and arbitrarily, like a murder of crows startled into flight, the confusion on the stranger’s face broke apart and dissipated. He passed a hand through his black hair, then shook his head and chuckled. Laurence thought the sound was pleasant and genuine—like he was amused instead of put off. “So, you’re anartist.”
“No.” It was Laurence’s turn to chuckle. Even when he tried, hestillended up giving stick figures three legs. “I’m abiologist.”
More orless.
“Science is an art.” The statement was simple, but it carried weight Laurence wasn’t expecting. Pressure squeezed just behind his rib cage—his lungs were begging him to let go of the stale air he’d been holding in. He let go of his breath slowly, and when he replenished it, the scent of the young man beside himfollowed.
Omega.
As if a creature so refined could be anythingelse.
“Science operates on a completely different field of existence from painting,” Laurence argued, keeping his tone light. He studied the young man at his side and started to slot the pieces together. He looked important—the suit he wore was fitted to his body, and its gray color played off the blues of his eyes. The contrast created a visually striking effect that toyed with Laurence’s growing arousal. The young man stood with good posture and kept his hands behind his back, one folded on top of the other, as though he were posing for a photograph. Beneath the bright gallery lights, his black hair shimmered deep hues of blue and purple. Dye. There was no way a color like that could be natural, as gorgeous as it was. It changed color in the light like an oil slick, and Laurence found himself wanting to tilt his head or stretch his neck so he could watch it transition. He was young—probably no older than his early twenties—but affluent. More than likely, he was the son of one of the patrons in the gallery tonight, forced to tag along for appearance’ssake.
Laurence was old enough to be hisfather.
Pushing the thought aside as best he could, Laurence concluded his statement. “There’s a divide between intellectual, factual-based pursuits and sensational, emotional-basedendeavors.”
“No. The only distinction between them is the standards society forces you to adhere to.” The young man offered him a sly smile. “You know, art can be every bit as procedural as science… and science every bit a passion of the soul as art. We’ve been told that the two are opposites, but I’d argue that’s not the case. In fact, I’d argue against itpassionately.” Beside them, an elderly couple had arrived—a rotund woman with silver hair and a fur stole and a taller, mustachioed man who appeared to be her husband. “If you’d like to continue this conversation, I’d be happy to elaborate. Just… not here. We should probably leave the prime viewing area to the viewers. The paintings are nice, and the rumors are outrageous, but in the end, the artist is trying to make money. We shouldn’t impedethat.”
Laurence glanced at the couple and stepped aside, merging with the crowd. The young man followed, his hair shifting from black to dark blue and back again. His hands were still tucked behind his back, but there was a mischievous smirk on his face that turned the propriety of his posture wicked. He cocked his head to the side slightly and looked up at Laurence. Laurence’s treacherous heart skipped a beat, and he had to talk himself down. First of all, whoever the young man was, he wasyoung.Tooyoung.
Sinfullyyoung.
That should have been enough to dissuade Laurence from pursuing him anyfurther.
Shouldhave.
But should was a dangerous, unpredictable word. It played coy sometimes, but right now? Right now, it had Laurence by the balls. He swallowed the lump rising in his throat and met the young man’s gaze. There were no words exchanged between them. Instead, the young man winked and nodded to the side, silently telling Laurence tofollow.
They crossed the room together, dodging long trains on evening gowns and imposing men in dark suits. Every now and then, the young man would look over his shoulder at Laurence, mischief ever-present in his gaze. Every time he did, Laurence’s heart raced. His thoughts sped along withthem.
What was he doing, following someone he didn’t know? He was here tonight for enrichment purposes—another hoop he’d jumped through in order to land the raise he’d been working toward. All he was supposed to have done was find culture, report back to Elaine, and impress her with his understanding ofart.
That wasit.
He wasn’t supposed to have found a young man more captivating than any of the paintings on display, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to be thinking things like that about someone twenty years his junior. Hedefinitelywasn’t supposed to be following that young man through the crowds, down a short hallway off the main gallery, and to a door that Laurence knew wasn’t supposed to be accessed by those in attendance for theviewing.
The young man turned the doorknob. The door opened. He looked over his shoulder at Laurence one last time, smirked, and then slipped through the door into the darkness within. Laurence stood in the brightly lit hallway, thoughtsfoggy.
