Date: Mon, 04 Oct 1999 13:56:11 PDT
From: LORD DRACUL <lordracul@hotmail.com>
Subject: Then Paint the Portrait That You Wish to See

All porn laws apply.  You can contact me at this address
lordracul@hotmail.com.  Please enjoy the story.

Then Paint the Portrait You Wish to See
By
Lordracul

	They tell me that hope means a feeling that what is wanted will
happen.  This describes the life of one of my friends.  I met him while
still in highschool, I am seventeen and Tim is eighteen.  Perfect contrasts
to one another in shape, I am heavy and Tim is lean.  I stand five-eight
and he is just under six - one.  I light skinned and black haired, he with
tanned skin and golden hair and I with black hair and dark eyes.
	When looking at a glass of water filled half way to the top.  I
would shout for all to here, "That this glass is half empty!"
	While Tim would look at the glass and meekly whisper, "No, it is
half full."
	He had always been the one who pursued athletic endeavors
vigorously.  While I covered in the library with pen and paper trying to
unravel the web of life.  While Timmy, as his friends call him
affectionately.  In his presence the sun always seemed to shine its
brightest.  While in my presence the sun seemed only to brood.  That it why
I assume in keeping with my countenance put on the clothes of mourning
while Timmy continued to wear the fashion of the day.  When he spoke I
thought that I heard the angel's singing in his melodic voice and love
beams from his face.
	Often I found myself wandering how one could be so happy when
sorrow seemed to dance around his life like a ballerina dancing on broken
glass.  At nineteen he lost his parents and found himself alone.  He only
when with me, would smile and say; "I am not alone I still have you."  His
smile always a contagious one found its way onto my stony face.  Seeing me
smile, Timmy would laugh and say that if I were a painting I would surely
crack.
	However always looking in his bright eyes I would tell him taking
his hand and laying it on my cheek, "Then paint the portrait that you wish
to see."  When I first did this Timmy jumped back saying that he could not
love me.  Yet openly for all ears that would hear he would hug me and call
me brother.  This pleased me greatly for being an only child I found myself
with something that I never had a brother.  A priceless possession surely
that I had just been given on a silver platter.  A brother, my heart leaped
for joy.
	From that day forth we spent every minute together.  Tim seemed to
want to know what made his new brother tick.  As the days passed into the
night as time always do I found myself warming to him.  His voice always
bringing sunshine, while with every stroke of his gentle hands seemed to
chisel away another piece of granite revealing even more of the canvas for
him to paint.  As I said earlier, our days found Timmy sitting in my room
reading every bit of verse that my pen had bleed out the night before.  Me
sitting on the bed wringing my hands worrying that he would find fault with
either subject or syntax.
	In the past Timmy would shake his head and say that my writing was
too dark and there lurking in the shadows was a deep seated sadness that he
did not understand.  In these times he would jump up on the bed and wrap
his arms around me and hug me close.  When I chanced to look up at him I
would always find him smiling and his eyes full of love and kindness.  I
simply would lay against him with my head on his shoulder and we would
drift off into sleep.  Me with my muse and he with his living breathing
canvas.  Somehow, he had convinced my parents to allow him to move in.
	Of course they like me had bent and folded at the first sign of his
smiling face.  So all that day I found myself moving things from his
apartment to our home.  Then later that night Timmy had come to my room to
unwind and to read my poetry and short stories.  I was content to finally
have my brother home.  True, I had a hidden agenda so to speak for what if
nothing more than to have the painter near his canvas.  For if the portrait
lives then so must the poetry.  Having Timmy here brought life to me and to
our home.
	As Timmy read the poetry his face brightened and then with the last
story read he was beaming.  He jumped upon the bed and pulled me towards
him and kissed me gently on the lips.  I could not help but smile and
finally hold him back.  We lay there together; he in my arms with my
thoughts racing with the possibilities that could be between us.  A love
that has no bounds and no worries.  A love that has been born out of the
need for companionship and a desire for a brother.
	A brother who with every touch of his hand tears down the very
walls that would separate us forever, me.  Turning a soul to the light of
love and ripping away the gloom and doom of darkness.  Even though that it
was a dream come true to awaken in the morning and find someone laying
beside you; but someone whom I truly loved thrilled me to no end.  I
watched him sleeping watching his chest raise and then fall with every
breath that he would take.
	Not wanting to, I left him sleeping and went to take a shower.
Finishing the shower I went out and found him still sleeping.  He lay
half-covered and his hair was lying to one side of his face.  Quietly, I
walked over to him and gently kissed him on the forehead.  Timmy stirred a
little but did not wake and when he rolled over he had a big smile on his
face.
	I walked over to my writing desk and sat down.  Then reaching for a
clean sheet of paper I dipped my pen into ink and began to destroy another
pristine peace of paper with my scribbles.  I began to put ink to paper
trying to write another poem or story about our experiences while my angel
slept.  As the story began to flow from the ink I felt a hand brush against
my face.
	I turned to look up at his angelic face and met his waiting lips.
I savored the very taste of him.
	"What are you doing? Always scratching away on paper instead of
using a computer?" asked Timmy.
	"A computer is a cold machine besides on paper words live while in
that box that you love to tinker with the words only float lifeless." Said
I.
	"I know something else that floats." With that Timmy went into the
bathroom to take a shower.  Water began to run and I turned once again to
my writing.  Then I heard the shower being turned off.  Then the door
opened and there stood my muse in all of his glory with nothing between him
and the air but a towel and a smile.
	"What are you looking at?"  I asked him.
	"A beautiful portrait that I helped to paint." Replied Timmy.
	Grabbing him I pulled Timmy down on the bed and loved away the rest
of the day.  Glad that he was happy with the portrait that he had painted.
But before he slept he reached for the poem that I wrote:
	A face of stone is what you see
            Timmy with your eyes of mirth and glee
            Then with perfect strokes of paint and love
            Somehow you changed me into this portrait
            That you now see but if you do not like the painting
            Then paint the one that you wish to see.
	
	Then laying the paper on the paper desk once again he returned to
bed and to this day nothing has changed between Timmy and me, though age
has weathered the canvas a little it is still held together with love that
he gives me.

The End