TITLE    : A Poetic Turn of Mind
STORYID  : a-poetic-turn-of-mind
SUMMARY  : A picture's worth 1,000 words, sometimes more.
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2005-06-02
CATEGORY : gay-sex-stories
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |photo|penis|cock|ass|balls|scrotum|garden|


I hate having my picture taken, even when it's by an amateur photographer and takes less than 30 seconds. You can imagine, then, how much I loathe, detest, and abhor going to a professional photographer who's going to take not one but maybe a hundred photos of me, all staged and posed. I wouldn't have agreed to do it for anyone but Tony, and only then because it's our fifth anniversary and that's what he wants--a picture of me.



The experience was even worse than I'd anticipated, but, somehow, I managed to get through it, suffering the application of powder and makeup, the rearrangement of lights, the photographer's instructions to move this way or that. After an hour, I had nearly a hundred pictures from which to choose, and I must admit, if I do say so myself, that several are very good, indeed. I've always been a photogenic kind of guy, despite my hatred for the camera.



"Let me know which one you like," the photographer instructed me, as if I were really going to spend half a day looking at his pictures.



Instead, when I got home, I laid them out on the dining room table for Tony, with a one-word note: "Choose."



At first, he was annoyed. Since the photograph was to be my anniversary gift to him, I should be the one to pick it out, he argued. Nonsense, I countered. He might not like the picture I selected. Since it was his present, he might as well pick the photograph that he liked best.



I left him to his task, returning to our apartment a few hours later.



"Have you decided which one you want?" I asked him.



He nodded. "It took forever."



"Good." I started for the bathroom, thinking I'd take a shower.



"Don't you want to see which one I chose?" he demanded.



I shrugged. "Not especially."



"Get your ass over here, now!"



I sighed, but did as he'd bidden me to do. It was our anniversary, after all, and I wanted to celebrate with him in bed. If I angered him, Tony wouldn't suck and fuck me or let me suck and fuck him or, if he did, he'd do so only half-heartedly. I joined him at the table.



"This one," he said, touching the corner of one of the photographs with a manicured forefinger.



"Great." I turned to leave.



"Wait!"



What now? I wondered, turning to face him.



"Don't you want to know why I chose this one?"



Not really, I thought, but I said, "I'm sure you have your reasons."



"It's how I like you best," Tony explained.



I waited, knowing there would be more.



"Look at it," he instructed.



I glanced again at the picture. Like all the others, it was a close-up photograph of my cock. In this one, my penis was neither flaccid nor completely erect; instead, it was in a state somewhere between the two. The glans had deepened from its natural pink color to that of a ripened plum, and the shaft was swollen and red. My scrotum hadn't contracted to rise tight against the base of my penis, as it would have if I'd been more excited, but the loose flesh of the pouch was a darker, strawberry pink. I remembered this picture. The photographer, a good-looking young man with black, wavy hair, a thin mustache, and brown eyes flecked with gold, had used a large, soft brush to apply powder to my genitals, and, as a result, my penis had responded, stretching as it swelled, but not to complete erection. The photographer had smiled appreciatively as he'd snapped several shots of my semi-hard member. This was one of that set.



"You're neither soft nor hard. When you're like that, in between, your cock like a tender, budding shoot."



I raised an enquiring eyebrow at him.



Tony smiled. "You're soft and pliable, then; I can work with you when you're like that."



I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "I'm glad you like the picture."



"When I get you hard, it's like I've cultivated you, made you grow and swell."



"I may be a fruit, but I'm not a fucking plant," I protested.



"You're a passion fruit, and I want your seed," Tony declared, "in my mouth and up my ass."



I glanced at the picture, and, for the first time, I saw my cock as Tony sees it--as a sprout to be nourished to ripeness and harvested for its seed. I smiled. My boyfriend, a budding bard, always did have a poetic turn of mind, and, if plant and seed I must be, that was fine with me. "Let me take a shower," I said, "and then I'm all yours to plow and plant and grow."



He nodded, thinking, perhaps, of Voltaire, who'd written, "Let us cultivate our garden." 

