Did you catch Monday's feature with the ad for this month's Classic Author feature, Everybody's Wounded by Duncan Ryder? I have to say, I really liked the model for that one! What did you think? If that didn't entice you to read the story, maybe this excerpt will! 

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The form was so beautiful I could only stare at it. It was some minutes before I noticed the model’s face, which was in profile. His expression was hard to read. It could have been anguish. It could also have been enormous joy. I studied it, feeling the force of the emotion, until --.

“Fuck,” I said softly. “That’s you,”

“Yeah,” said Josh, and there was a strained, tight harshness in his voice. “Let’s just say it’s a very much idealized me. What can I say? The guy who painted said I was his muse.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“Don’t go there, Scott,” he said, and there was real pain in his voice. “He’s been gone a long time. Toronto, Paris, New York, San Fran – fuck, I don’t even know any more. I don’t want to know. This --,” he waved his hand at the painting, “This was more important to him than anything. Than us. Than me. Obviously.”

“This must really freak out the guys you bring home,” I said, still studying the painting.

Josh didn’t say anything for a while.

“I don’t bring guys home,” he said finally. “In over two years, you’re the first person I’ve invited up. I don’t even invite my parents here.”

He laughed. “How could I, with this hanging on the wall? It’s the only thing Graham left behind, and it’s not like I can stick it in the closet when guests pop over. He painted it in here. It’s too big to go out the door. I’m going to have to get a gallery to come in and unmount it. I probably should have done it already – but I just can’t seem to bring myself to have it taken down.”

***

We talked until well after midnight, when Josh said we really should go to bed. I felt pretty much as I had since Thursday: tired, exhausted even, but not sleepy. In fact I’d hardly slept at all the last four nights. Every time I closed my eyes I saw David, heard his final goodbye, felt his mouth moving down over my body, remembered how I’d stopped him from that final intimate act. I didn’t cry about it. I’d done that, when David was actually leaving me. But I couldn’t seem to let go of it either.

“There’s only one bed, Big Guy,” said Josh. “But I promise to be good.”

 

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