The Art Guy (18+) COMPLETE, FREE to READ

Sleeping Beauty

Glasgow. 1992

Kippy resurfaced slowly, his awakening senses taking account of what he could see, hear, touch, smell and feel.

He wasn't in his own bed, the single mattress in his room in the student halls. This bed was far more luxurious, twice the size and covered in clean sheets, for a start. The room was large-ish too, spacious enough to hold not only a bed and wardrobe, but a sofa, a desk and chair, and an exercise bike draped with clothes. The view from the bay window told him he was in a flat some three or four storeys up. The sun was high enough in the sky for it not to be early morning.

His mouth felt furry, his tongue sticking too closely to its insides, and his head ached. Next to him on the cabinet beside the bed was a glass of water. It wasn't icy cold, but refreshing nonetheless.

The door to the room opened slowly, a face peering cautiously around it.

"You're awake then, Sleeping Beauty?"

The face was joined by its body, the man letting himself into the room and closing the door gently. To his dismay, Kippy didn't recognise him. He'd have guessed the guy to be in his late twenties, perhaps even his early thirties. He was sporty looking, wiry and muscular arms under a black tee shirt and powerful quads encased in Lycra shorts. Thanks to the outfit, the outline of his genitals was very much on view.

He heard his cousin Katrina, her mocking wee voice singing in his head: "God almighty, that would poke your eye oot wouldn't it?" and he stifled a smile at the thought of it.

The man sat down on the bed, plonking himself down on Kippy side. Kippy had to force himself not to pull away.

"How are you feeling?" the man asked.

"Rough as a badger's arse."

No-one could possibly know what a badger's arse felt like, but the saying had been enthusiastically taken up by students everywhere of late. Kippy, a mature student compared to everyone else, felt he had to stay on top of modern slang in case he stood out.

"Not surprised," the man said. "I'm John, by the way, in case you'd forgotten."

He had a nice face. His nose was too long and crooked, and his eyes too close together for him to be handsome, but there was kindness in the way he looked at Kippy.

"I got you this," he held out a bottle of Lucozade. Now that was ice-cold, and the sweet fizziness of it made Kippy feel one hundred percent better. He drank the whole bottle down in three big gulps and lay back on the propped-up pillows.

"Did we...eh...do anything last night?" Kippy was still in that pristine white tee shirt Lillian had insisted on last night and his Calvin Klein boxers, so any night-time derring-do seemed unlikely.

The Lucozade gave him confidence, though. Maybe last night he'd fully embraced gayness and was no longer a homo virgin. It would be a relief to be rid of it, the burden of not knowing what to do, and at the same time coping with the lustful imaginings that ran rampant through his body, and overwhelmed him at times.

John's elbows were on his thighs, his hands clasped together and his backside touching Kippy's legs, which were covered by the duvet. What did you do in these situations, Kippy wondered. Did he put out a hand and touch the back of the man sitting on the bed?

John turned his head sideways, so he was looking at Kippy. He had dark brown eyes, almost black in colour—eyes that would be a challenge to paint. Darkness was always much more difficult than light.

"No. You were too drunk. If I'd done anything, I would have felt like a rapist." He smiled as he said it, a soft, sweet smile that took the sting out of the too-drunk sentence.

"You're only just out, aren't you?" Again, it was said kindly, but the question felt like an accusation. Kippy sat up, mustered all his courage and placed a hand on the back of John's head, pulling it to his. He pressed his lips on John's, noticing at once how different the mouth felt to the last one he'd kissed, a firmer, harder, rougher feel.

John closed his eyes, and moaned softly, the lips opening slightly. Kippy couldn't stop now. The pent-up and frustrated desire that had dogged him all through his pre-pubescent years and into his adolescence, the want that he'd always tried to ignore fired up through his torso into his head, his mouth and his tongue, the tongue that now pushed itself into John's mouth, tasting coffee, toast, bacon and more.

The heady rush of want had made its way back down his torso, and he felt himself stiffen. Eyes closed, he patted the bed around him, trying to find John's hand. He must, must, must place that hand on his cock, and have it encircle the hardness of him, work its way up and down the shaft until he–

John pulled away. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-one. Well over the age of consent."

Some years ago, he'd asked Daisy that same question. He'd been stalling then, using her youthfulness as an excuse not to do anymore to her. John stood up, running a hand through hair that was lightly flecked with grey at the temples. He blinked several times, glancing out of the window.

This might be the same excuse.

Or it might not. Evidence of his body's approval for what he and Kippy had just been doing was apparent, the front of those Lycra shorts straining to contain him. Kippy's own body quivered in response.

"I'm more than fifteen years older than you. You're a student, you're young, you're just out. I don't think we want the same thing."

Fuck knew where the bravery was coming from this morning, but Kippy recognised ethics when he heard them. Here was a man trying to talk himself out of something Kippy now wanted more than he'd ever wanted anything in all his life. More than he'd ever wanted to go to art school, maybe even more than he'd wanted...

Well, now was not the right time to be thinking about HIM.

Danny had said last night that he was pretty, aye?

He closed his eyes and took the tee shirt off, stretching his arms to the ceiling slowly as he did so, making sure John got an eyeful of naked chest. Kippy had always been lean, ribby-looking in his teenage years. Slight physical changes had taken place in the last six months or so. He was still slim, but now the pecs, shoulders and biceps were padded so that you could see the muscles under the tight stretch of skin. There was even—finally—a neat smattering of hair starting an inch or so below the clavicle and covering him to just below the nipples.

He opened his eyes. John hadn't moved, his cheeks puffing up as he blew out air and a heartfelt sigh.

"Oh, God..."

Who knew Kippy had it in him? He pushed aside the duvet, and lay on his side, one hand supporting his head, and the biggest, brightest smile on his face.

"C'mon then. I wannae know what's it's all about."