It Figures.

So... I was excited about the class tonight. 

I used to draw. I used to draw all the time; it was like breathing. Going into that magical other space where nothing is words, everything is curve and angle and shade, made everything more beautiful; I feel the same way sometimes when I trip, like I am touching a wordless connection with Beauty, and it lingers on me like incense. 

I haven't drawn much at all, in quite a while. I've taken a couple of classes; I've made some attempts. I tried. But I was locked out of that special frame of mind, and couldn't get connected. It's like switching to breathe underwater - you have to open your gills. So my joy in actually finding that doorway open and accessible tonight, was an almost visceral glee. I showed my drawings to other people, and other people passed them around, looking at them. I'm still frustrated with some parts of these, and I'm definitely out of shape, in both a muscular way relating to mark-making, and in a visual way related to measuring with the eye - but it's back. I was flying. I did a whole post [see also: I Used to Draw Men] about figure drawing, and in particular seeking the erotic energy in drawing - and I got to talk to people about the story in it tonight. 

I pull up two barstools, one for me and one for Husband, and start pulling things out of my bag. He buys us drinks - my neat Jameson with a side of club soda; his probably some Jack and Coke or Jack and Ginger; I didn't see. He wanders off to talk to friends of ours, one of whom will clearly be modeling later. Dave, of the famous parties and the amazing hot late-night after-party fuck with Khalil [see also: Remarkable] is up on stage introducing the first model, Pup Oso, a handsome muscle pup who's into rubber. He tells us a bit about himself - and then puts on his gas mask and strikes his pose. He's good; I know from experience that the quality of stillness he's getting is difficult. The gas mask makes it both easier, and more eerie - you don't fight as much with the idea of drawing a gas mask, as you do with a face. It's always been a challenge for me, separating the content out when drawing faces. It's why they're so hard. A drawing of a kitchen table that is 7% out of proportion just looks a little wonky - you can accept it. But a portrait that is 7% skewed... it looks like it HURTS. It bothers you. If something like a mouth isn't straight or level, it pushes a "something is wrong with this one" button deep inside. We worry about them. Portraiture has an uncanny valley. 

I draw his figure in the gas mask for a bit, and then Wes shows up [see also: The Anniversary Bar Crawl]. I had asked him earlier if he would come out tonight - partly because I know he's creative, and partly because I want to spank his pert little butt. Mostly the latter. I tell him, as soon as they have the model break, I want to put a spank on his ass. He's down. I turn back to drawing, and he wanders off. I struggle with the pencil on sketch pad, partly because there's SO MUCH BLACK with all the leather and the gas mask - and then, I realize, what I'm wanting is that back-and-forth that you get working with opposing light and shade. I'm going to frustrate myself unduly if I keep fighting this with a pencil, even a good dark one like the Blackwing I'm using - and so I switch over to white charcoal pencil on black Artagain paper, and THIS is what I want. 

I only get a quick study of one corner of his harnessed chest in the white-on-black, but it's the feel I'm missing. It's the magician's hypnotic pocket watch - the eye goes back and forth, the model and the mark made... observing and correcting... and you're getting very... very... sleepy - except that it's not sleepy at all, it's this fizzing, energized, almost frantic state, where time slows to a crawl but a thirty minute pose seems to fly by. I look up, and it's break time. The model gets down, and we have a ten minute break. 

I go hunt down Wes. I take him over to the Saint Andrew's Cross and have him hold on. I ask if he's OK with me spanking him bare-assed, here in the bar, and he consents - so I pull down his thin knit shorts and begin to slap his ass cheeks. They bounce and spring in my hands, almost like a tightly-built woman's breasts; they jiggle, and I smack him again, and he starts to get the rush, after a few. I'm being gentle, starting him easy - smack, SMACK, pause. 

My Husband walks over to us and says, "I should have known, if I hear that sound, it's usually my husband." We laugh, and he wanders back off, and I hit Wes some more. He's trembling a little, pulling and shaking when I lay the marks on him, and I take some luxurious time stroking the welted skin of his ass, feeling where I've raised marks that are entirely invisible in the weird red light. I hit him some more. I show him how I can cup my hand, making a smack that has more sound than sting. I go back and forth, making sure to give him an even gentle tanning. He's almost dancing now, his feet and legs twitching. It's time for a break, so I go to the bathroom, my Husband gets us each a fresh drink, and it's time for the next model. 

This is Bill, the friend my Husband had been hanging out with. We know him and his husband from backyard pool parties, and one fun (but not as fun as I fantasized!) nudist camping trip. He's tall, gym-built, lean to the point of being vascular, and handsome, with a powerful dark beard. His husband is short and thick, his muscles broader but more softly rounded. They're a hot couple. 

I have the black and white setup ready to go this time, and immediately start drawing. Wes comes up with a single sheet of paper torn from someone else's sketchbook, and takes the chair my Husband has abandoned. He asks for a support surface to draw on, and I hand him the big sketch pad that I'm not using anymore. I talk with him just a little bit - he's also had drawing training, but like me, is rusty - and then I'm underwater. I'm in the special bubbling place with no words, and I start to pick out shapes, highlights, shadows. I render the black beads of his bracelet as a series of tiny highlight dots surrounded by totally untouched black; they work out pretty well. I move along the figure from one area to another, almost like how a darkroom developer would burn and dodge, seeing light and shade and shape, looking at the model and the mark, correcting the mark. Bill's hand and thigh start to emerge. Highlight by highlight, shadow after shadow, I look, mark, correct, compare. 

Wes is drawing in a more traditional style with a single pencil, laying in the foundations and then shading, building up the whole pose. He measures, and I know what he's doing - holding the pencil with his thumb, measuring shapes by eye to get proportion. I always suck at this, but I know how it's done. A couple of guys come by and remark about how my drawing is looking good, and I'm pleased - but I quickly go back under, and return to the place of wordless light. Then, quicker than seems possible, the half hour is up, and our friend stretches and shakes out his stiffness, and I walk around. 

I run into David again, standing by the pool table, buck-ass nekkid holding a combat boot pressed against his junk, so that the sole is smashing his nuts. It looks more than a little awkward - almost like someone has stolen all his clothes, and he's just got a boot to keep his dick covered. He says he's going to pose like this... and it all makes sense. I ask if he's considered flipping the boot around - so that his cock and balls nestle in the ankle collar, and the sole of the boot shows. To me, that's what says "Combat boot" in a leather picture - that super-traction sole with the raised grips. He gives that a try, and likes it better. As he's standing there, still holding his cock in his boot, Wes comes up, and I lean him over the pool table and abuse his ass some more. I tell him about how the few smacks earlier have warmed up his skin - I can hit him a lot harder now than he would have been able to tolerate earlier. Endorphins and endocannabinoids, oh my! I keep smacking his ass, making a lot of noise, causing him to writhe and shiver. After a while, I just hug him and stroke his ass and let him shake it out. Then, we hear the MC's microphone, with David's husband saying it's time to start the final half-hour pose. He walks awkwardly with the boot clutched to his junk, and mounts the stage. 

I'm back in my chair almost before he gets to his. I start with a rough white sketch, and start to fill in shades. I move from light to mid-tone, and then blend everything with the stump, then more highlights, more dark. I love this process - there's something magical about that drawing-on-the-right-side-of-the-brain feeling (thank you most sincerely, Betty Edwards) that distorts time and vanishes words, and I work with an almost fevered intensity - it gets to the point where I find myself grabbing the wrong end of the pencil or needing to brush the eraser crumbs, and while I think "What the fuck" or some similar elegant phrase, what comes out of my mouth is an unintelligible noise, like I'm trying to express my frustration but have no language. I have to fight the urge to flap my hand at the offending instrument. Mreh. Ungh. It's very weird. At one point, I realize I can't say the word "eraser" when somebody asks me what I'm using. 

And then, seemingly just minutes after sitting down, the pose is over. I can see a hundred places that need more correction, but I have learned to love the freshness of untouched drawings. If I want a finished longer drawing, I'll get a longer pose, or take photographs. Which reminds me, and I do snap a photo just in case I want to revisit the drawing or check up on something. 

Now, the figure drawing is over for the night. I walk around, and Husband is still happily chatting with friends. He works from home, and I'm the only other human he's seen in several days, so he's getting his social hunger satisfied. I'm perfectly content to let him have fun. 

I walk over by the St. Andrew's Cross where I had recently spanked Wes, and now there's this GORGEOUS hunk in a jock and a white elastic harness, strapped to leather cuffs with his arms upraised. This man looks like an underwear model - and a well-paid one. I find a lot of men beautiful, but it doesn't mean that I don't appreciate a face and body that can sell calendars. I observe, and there's this huge muscular man kissing and stroking his body. I watch as the big muscle man walks away. I assume the boy has been left on display, perhaps he's for public use - and so I approach and tell him that he's absolutely beautiful standing there, and ask if it's OK for me to touch. He says it is. I stroke his muscular arms, his hairy pits caught out sharply in the strongly raked light; I run my fingers over his body, mentally separating out the visual masses because I'm still doing figure drawing in my head - these are the pectorals, that's the sternocleidomastoid defining the column of the neck; these are the serratus that DaVinci loved so much. I can see every one of his ribs when he stretches, but he's not skinny, he's just TIGHT. I watch his rib cage arch into the palms of my hands as I touch him, leaning like a cat does when stroked. I ask if I can put a handprint on him, and he thinks a second and then nods. I lay a ringing slap on his left side with my right hand. It makes the most amazing meaty sound - because the lungs are hollow, it resonates more than a smack to the ass ever could. People look up from across the bar. He grimaces, absorbing the pain, and I keep stroking his body, touching gently. The mark where my hand landed on him is a clear outline on his alabaster skin, raised to the touch and the color of wild-caught salmon. 

I ask if I can make a matching mark on the other side. He thinks, as if weighing a difficult decision, and finally nods. I hit him again, as hard as before, with my left hand - so that he looks like I'm gripping him by the torso. He says that's enough for now, and I keep gently stroking. I reach down and feel his dick, which is in a cage; he tells me that I can inspect it if I want, and I pull his shorts out and look at his cock in its steel prison. I swing my hips sideways back and forth, my hard cock inside my shorts thumping against his cage in the thin white jock. I reach under and gently, then more firmly, tap his nuts. He dances, writhing, until he tells me he's had what he can handle for now. I sniff him, and his pits are delicious; I roll my face in them some, and lick and nibble at the wall of muscle where his latissimus dorsi makes the shelf at the back of his armpit. I lean up and kiss him, sucking the breath out of him and breathing back into him. I put my thumbs on his throat and ask if I can choke him; he nods his consent. I press, while still sucking the breath in and out of his lungs, and I hold until he sags limp in the restraints for just a second and his breath falters in my mouth, and then release him. He tells me he's never done that before, but enjoys it, and I do it again. 

Then, I realize Husband would probably also enjoy this tall, handsome, thick-bearded stud who's apparently just here for the pleasure of men bold enough to step up - so I go across the bar and bring him back. He makes out with the boy for a while, and then we do together, symmetrically nibbling his nipples, sniffing his pits, taking turns kissing his hungry mouth. He remarks on our octopus shirts, and I tell him the octopus story - we started seeing them at all kinds of festivals and things, and then one day we were playing together with some hot random stranger, who said, "OMG, it's like I'm fucking an octopus! There are hands everywhere." So since then, it's become our couple spirit animal. There's a dance. Husband has a half-sleeve tattoo on his arm. I leave Husband to make out with him for a while, and just stand back and watch. They're a beautiful pair, and it's pleasing to watch my Husband enjoying the stud's body. 

I look up and realize that there's a guy who's been sitting at the table right next to us the whole time - I had thought he was just watching the big muscle guy tie the boy up, but now I realize, from the careful attention he's paying now (he had been just hanging out, earlier... his focus feels like it's shifted), this looks like it's HIS boy. I ask him if that's the case. He confirms, and I introduce myself, and thank him for sharing the boy and letting us play with him. We talk about how beautiful he is, and how fun to touch. I talk with him about my writing, and about how I like to play - the neurochemicals, the slow, soothing voice that leads boys through so much pain and weirdness. The Dominant checks the submissive's bonds, and then tells me he needs to go to the bathroom, and leaves him in my care. 

I make out with him some more, and choke him unconscious again. The sensation of him sagging, limp in the chains, is so hot. I reach under his balls, and feel the handle of a steel butt-plug - it feels a lot like the big one I have from nJoy, and he confirms that's what it is. I pull and then push on it, I make him squeeze down and then tug on it, I tap and vibrate it with my hand. Then I smack his nuts some more. I talk with him about the resilient edge of resistance - and like Wes, he's opened, blossomed - I can hit him a lot more without hurting him too much, because he's absorbed and processed the pain from before and turned it into endogenous cannabinoids and opiates. His poor nuts. After a few smacks, I hold one testicle tight to the side and hurt it some more. He writhes a lot, but submits, grimacing, which is amazingly beautiful to watch. 

Then his Dominant comes back, and we have some more conversation. He checks the boy's bindings, and then unbinds him, turns him around, and reaffixes him to the Cross. I tell him that I appreciate the care with which he displays the boy - he's clearly treating him as an object of beauty, straightening his straps and draping his limbs for the most attractive display, arranging him to catch the light. It's a cross between body-worship, art-directing, and merchandising. The Dominant asks me to give him a hand with the ankle restraints, and we discuss the handsome well-made setup, which he has put together for the bar. I ask if I can spank the boy's beautiful round ass - the Dominant says he's going to spank him now. He pulls out a small acrylic paddle and begins torturing the boy's butt cheeks evenly all over with small, practiced smacks. It's not showy or loud, but I know that little fucker stings like crazy, and the boy shakes and trembles as he is worked over. The Dominant then pays attention to his inner thighs, repeatedly stinging the same spot until the boy dances with the pain. The Dominant wraps his arms around the boy and holds him, murmuring in his ear until the shaking slows, then releases him. 

After some more conversation and gentle touching, I ask if I can spank him; the Dominant says yes, now that he's done. I use my hand and cup his beautiful ass-cheeks one and then the other, and then I begin to spank him. I work side to side and then down, methodically heating up the already glowing ass. The Dominant heads off to get a fresh drink. After a minute or so, the sensation of warmth coming off the boy's body is tangible at a couple of inches. I've always enjoyed this sense - I remember when I dated my first serious boyfriend, I could feel him move past me in a quiet room, his skin radiating heat that brushed me like a breeze. It's like that. It's a warmth like lying in a sunbeam in an air-conditioned room. I spank, and then I take a round to spank with a cupped hand, making a loud noise and a more thudding sensation. Then, many quick smacks in fast succession, until he taps. I thump his plug some more. I smack his nuts. 

I stroke his body, and ask if he's done any Tantra study. He seems like the type for it. He says no, though, and so I stroke his body and tell him about the Microcosmic Orbit, feeling the energy rising and rolling through the loop around his torso. Then I tell him about raising the same energy up through the channel of the chakras, illuminating them as they rise up. I make a twisting motion where each chakra sits, carrying the vibrating fire from his glowing ass up the Kundalini spiral. After a while, I'm no longer physically touching him, but my hands, as heated from the spanking as his ass is, stroke an inch away from his skin. I tell him that although I don't really feel like the woo-woo descriptions of "moving energy" make as much sense to my empirical mind - THIS is real energy. I am stroking his body with heat from my body; the atoms in my hands agitated and shaking in their excitement because I've been banging them against the atoms in his beautiful bubble butt. It's not just magic - it's physics. But, it's ALSO magic, if you do it right. Because you stimulate his nerves in such a way, and he clenches his body as the energy rises in such a direction, that he dissipates more of the energy up from his cock - and he's NOT allowed orgasm, he's made that very clear - because I get him close with some of the plug-play with the ball-smacking.  I'm visualizing with him, the energy starting out boiling and angry and red and throbbing, rising up in a rainbow column along his spine, each center illuminated as from within by a lantern as the energy moves up... and you're stimulating nerves across your body, because you start to kind of crunch your belly and your spine, as you visualize pulling the energy up, and it distributes the excitation that leads toward orgasm, but instead of just having that orgasm feeling in your cockhead... picture it rising up your belly, and up your chest, and up your throat, and up the top of your head... as I'm working  the plug in his ass with an occasional thump, but mostly I'm just stroking about an inch from his warmed skin, with my VERY radiant hands, and we can feel one another easily at that distance, and I'm brushing that warmth upward, then I'll thump his plug and then torture his nuts some more, and tell him to pull that throb of energy upward too... picture it blowing out the top of your head like a dandelion of white light, like you're a disco ball, like your hair stands out on end and sparks come off you. And I'm stroking up his back, up his neck, his ears, the top of his head - and everywhere, I'm not actually touching him. I'm an inch away. I'm brushing hair in many places. But mostly, it's the heat. It's this amazing sensory play tool, and it has this connection where my hand is still connected to his blazing and beautiful ass, and I go back and heat the coals up multiple rounds, because that's just about the best way, thumping the prostate and spanking the buttocks... it lights a literal fire under your ass. But now my hands, have heat beams coming out of them. I run them an inch over his nipples, his groin, his throat, and I'm leaning into him from behind, my hard cock pressed against the handle of his plug, my arms around him so I can squeeze his neck, one last time, before it's go-home time. I put my left hand in his mouth, and I reach in and press his epiglottis shut with two well-manicured fingers. He... consents. I check. Because that's a LOT. So he's running out of available clean air, his blood CO2 is rising, and he's getting the hypercapnia, the one where it makes you panicky, the one that makes you tremble so hard. And then, with my right hand, while my left two fingers are holding his windpipe shut... I spank his ass some more. The natural reaction of a well-spanked ass getting more hard smacks after a cooldown, can be really intense - because the skin is already triggered, and it reacts very quickly, but it's also had enough pain that he's fully on-board with the endorphins. He makes an involuntary sucking motion, it feels like a hiccup on my fingers, I can feel the inside of his throat spasm, and then tingle. His body bucks like a whale breaching, an upward thrusting spasm. I spank him hard again, and this time, it's a writhing tremor, flicking like an electrical storm up his orgasmically-primed body, and he's got all this built-up energy, and I'm NOT LETTING HIM BREATHE, and then the total panic hits. It's physiological panic; you have this get it off me, get it off me, pushing away... and THEN he taps. HOLY FUCK. That... is a moment. We kind of bask in that for a second, and I say, you know, I've REALLY got to go. You have been phenomenal. You are a fine and worthy beautiful specimen, as well as a fucking hot pile of high-tension nerves, because he swings like he's dancing now, even when he's standing relatively still. You see almost visible sparks flicker across his torso and limbs, twitching his muscles. I know that part of it is where the position has become painful, and that's another factor that I'm balancing against how I'm hurting him. He's shifting to avoid nerve damage from hanging the joint too long. But part of it is also that vibrating energy, I haven't done anything to release it. I'm turning him back over to Daddy... pent up. Like REALLY pent up. Like Tantrically pent up. He's trembling. It's like his blood is all on fire. His veins pop out, and he flexes one arm as I play with the vessels. He's WIRED FOR SOUND NOW... Um... You're welcome, next guy, I guess? I dunno. Leaving him in that condition is a special kind of torture. He has been strokes from orgasm a few times, that's been a point. His cage is fairly tight, and tightly curved. It lets him get hard enough, that getting hard hurts his dick, and that (and a lot of poppers) makes his dick go limp. It's fairly ingenious. 

My Husband has been more than patient, and although I've checked in with him and he's encouraged me to have fun, I feel like he's tired and will want to go home. I'm tired too. I thank the two men for sharing this awesome experience with me, get the Dominant's contact info, and make my goodbyes. 

I go and check in with our hosts, who are standing around with Husband and the friend who modeled and his husband. We chat for a while, and I show each of them the drawing I got of them, and we talk about what a success this evening has been. Then, deliciously exhausted, we head home.