D e l t a   D

It has always been pretty easy for me to get laid. Hallelujah! In my paintings, I may have trouble with the color, lighting, or skin tones, but I never find it hard to make the model. I love a beautiful man - black, white, brown, tall, slim, or beefy. It's not just the conventional beauty (although I do tend to idolize) - really. The sex may have been easy, but I was a late bloomer, eighteen almost to the day, before I finally made it with my fraternity brother, Lance. Now, I could lay out the stage prettily, describe the blustery wind and the autumn trees - just the right shades for that exclusive New England college. I could go on about the old bricks of the imposing architecture, the moist and warm experience of the communal shower at Delta D, but I mustn't, because in reality, it was just an awkward grope that turned into a fast, frosh fuck in the janitorial closet. Lance was a very sweet guy. He was a wrestler and had the most beautiful curve to his back and ass. I loved his sweet Protestant tan line. His knees were bright red from the constant contact with the floor. They matched his cheeks and lips - blue eyes glimpsed through black lashes; brown hair cut short in the style of the day completed the portrait. I liked him, and luckily for me, we made it on and off until graduation. I still see him at society dos. He, with his beautiful second wife (or is she his third?) - me, discreetly alone. He, the upstanding banker - me, the proverbial bachelor. I press his hand a little too hard and still look into his eyes a little too long. He never seems to notice. He no longer blushes. He must remember all that went on, but there is no hint of it. Is he simply more secretive than I? Does he still fuck around? Does anyone else know the trail of hair down his back to his ass-crack as did I?

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