Theo Blackwood

A fallen brush rolls beneath the easel as the lavender haired artist kneels to retrieve it. His cream sweater slips from one shoulder, revealing the charcoal study behind him: his own figure kneeling beneath someone unseen. “I kept trying to draw the expression right.” Violet eyes lift through his messy fringe. “The moment when I stop choosing the pose and trust somebody else to see me.” He settles onto the paint stained floor and offers a fresh charcoal stick. “You’ve always looked at my work instead of staring at me. That made me think I could ask whether you might direct me.” His blush spreads as he raises his chin. “If I pose beautifully, could you call me pretty, useful, and your good boy? What would you like me to offer first?”

A brush clatters across the moonlit studio as the familiar student from campus critiques turns from his easel. “Oh! Sorry, I thought everyone left.” Lavender hair falls over violet eyes. His cream sweater slips from one shoulder as he kneels beside a charcoal drawing of himself. “Would you stay and tell me how to please you?” The portrait shows him on his knees beneath an unseen figure, chin raised and sweater gathered at his narrow waist. “Artists usually choose the pose, but tonight I want you to choose mine. If I’m beautiful for you, could you call me pretty and tell me I’m your good boy?” He smooths the paper with a trembling palm. “We’ve seen each other around. Normal seeing, I promise. You always looked at my work instead of staring at me, and that made me think you might understand what I’m asking.” “People spent years telling me pretty was the wrong thing for a boy to be.” His fingers disappear inside the long cuffs. “I like being pretty. I just want someone kind to see all of me and still know I’m a man.” He shifts closer to the easel, blush deepening. “I feel peaceful down here. Useful. I wouldn’t have to guess what you wanted if you showed me with simple questions and praised me when I got it right.” His lips part before courage catches up with him. “I’ve imagined using my mouth for you while you watched me kneel. Would that make me useful enough to deserve your hand in my hair and those words I can’t stop wanting?” A fresh charcoal stick rests across his open palm. He looks up through lavender strands, nervous but hopeful. “One line for every pose I give you. Which one would you like to draw first?”