Muse Me Only

By Tarian P.S.

MM / Erotic Romance / Artist Theme / First Person
Xherdan Chantal is an artist still trying to find his place among the masters of color. He’s a rather independent soul, working at the New York Metropolitan Museum, who lends no time to pretending to be anything he’s not or be involved in anyway other than to stimulate his muse.
However, when a local pole dancer sneaks a shoulder-mount-to-flying-half-flag maneuver into his life, managing to seduce far more than Xherdan’s muse, he’s not sure how to put it all into perspective. Then again, painting is Xherdan’s artistic magic, not words. So, while poetic prose may have failed him, he still enjoys exploring this new sensation with loyal attention that sets Sreven above the rest of the world that’s only purpose is to feed his muse. What Xherdan was never expecting was for Sreven to become the living breath and motion of his muse.
But there’s just one fight a lover should never pick with an artist.
Word count: 56,213

• Language: English
• Publisher: TPS Publishing
• Release date: Jan 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311422026

Tarian P.S.

We Came- We Saw- and then we took you on an adventure.Both Proud Indy Authors: Tarian like his twin, Talon, love to torment their editor with a nefarious world of foreign-language, slang, local dialect, stretched/outside-of-the-box definitions, and have even been known to throw in some new word creations of their own at times. This, of course, is all thrown in there with the dyslexia soup stock they both suffer from that makes editing for them a joy {joy: n. see mental illness}.However, the final product comes out as richly detailed as we believe all stories should be created: holographic worlds of love, pain, frustration, and challenges beyond the every day. We believe a good story should take you on an emotional ride, pluck your heart strings, and zing you about until you're dizzy and screaming at the antagonist, while cheering for the protagonist before returning you to your cozy reading spot. And we've created these adventures within a mix of genres, so you can find the one right for you: Gay & Het Romances, Suspense, Paranormal and Sci-fi Erotic Romances, War-time Romance Fictions, along with Talon's favorite Space Sci-Fi Frontiers, and Tarian's favorite works of Post-Apocalyptic Dark Fantasies and Historical Fantasies. All for readers to submerse themselves into and escape from their day when they need or desire, and to whet your appetite for more.

Book preview

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The following Trademarks &/or Copyrighted brands have been mentioned in this book. However, all mentions or suggestive uses as a prop in the story are purely fictitious and in no manner represent the product or the views of its trademark ownership.

Cirque Du Soleil – Circus/ Artistic Performance Show

Mikhail Baryshnikov – Dancer

Norman Rockwell – Artist

Yanis Marshall – Dancer/Choreographer

Libor Sostak – Artist

Petra Krausová – Artist

Petra Řehořová – Artist

Michael Young – Artist

Gary Jetter – Dancer

Alex Chu – Dancer

Josh Taylor – Dancer

Channing Tatum – Actor

Mark Arian – Artist

Ennion – Artist

Sting – Singer

Marco Marco – Mens Designer Clothing

Christian Louboutins – Designer Shoe wear

Gatorade© – Sportsdrink by PepsiCo

Energizer Bunnyᵀ - Trademark of Energizer

Advil - Advil©

Tommy Bahamas cologne for men

Song: Deeper Into You by Johnny Hazzard

Book Character: Cujo by Stephen King

Song: Patience by Suduaya

Song: Vengeance by Zack Hemsey

Song: World Without End by Brand X Music

Song: Your Heart’s a Mess by Gotye

‘Kinetic Rain’ Sculpture by Artist Jussi Angeleva

Quote: Why is a raven like a writing desk? ~ Alison in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

Warning

This book contains sexually explicit scenes, homoerotica, a MM relationship, and adult language, which may not be to the liking for some readers. It is intended for sale and the entertainment to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

However, in light of recent censorships that are but a mockup of book burning, in the most common and recently used definitions of what is deemed unacceptable, offending content; it has become prudent to clarify the level of content warning here for this title. This book does NOT contain any rape, post rape, or suggestive rape. It does NOT contain any incest, bestiality, under-aged play, or sexual scenes with anyone under the legal age. Please also, as a reader, be responsible for your own actions and selections. First and foremost, remembering this is a story of fiction, as in nothing in this book is real, just imaginary story telling for the purpose of entertainment.

For everyone who happen to enjoy these particular reads, this book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find enticing rather than objectionable. Certain side effects are bound to happen should you decide to continue reading. Symptoms may include, but not limited to: heavy breathing, warm sensation in the chest and lower regions of the body, and sudden urges to wrangle your partner towards the bedroom (with intentions to gain a deep feeling of satedness only great sex can bring). Should this happen, do not become alarmed. It is perfectly natural and very beneficial end-results are likely to occur. Your partner will thank me later.

DEDICATION

To Talon, because not a day goes by I don’t feel your absence. ~Your twin

To Damir, who was my role model for Xherdan. Because over the years you have shown me how even an Ass can love with immeasurable passion and loyalty when the right person for them comes along. And to Ethan, who has shown me it’s how we bond with our flaws included that makes love stronger. Thank you for letting me see into your world with you and your husband.

To our spectacular editing team: Alison Greene and Effie Vernuccio— Thank you for all the time and care you put into our books to keep them Dyslexic-Disaster-Zone free, and for keeping me sane.

To all our Readers and fans:

Thanks for sticking with us, even though all the dyslexic-grammar challenges.

We’re here because of you, our stories thrive and continue because of your support and love.

Thank you so much!! **big squishy hugs**

TABLE OF CONTENT

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PORTRAIT ONE

PORTRAIT TWO

PORTRAIT THREE

PORTRAIT FOUR

PORTRAIT FIVE

PORTRAIT SIX

PORTRAIT SEVEN

PORTRAIT EIGHT

PORTRAIT NINE

PORTRAIT TEN

PORTRAIT ELEVEN

PORTRAIT TWELVE

PORTRAIT THIRTEEN

PORTRAIT FOURTEEN

PORTRAIT FIFTEEN

PORTRAIT SIXTEEN

PORTRAIT SEVENTEEN

PORTRAIT EIGHTEEN

PORTRAIT NINETEEN

PORTRAIT TWENTY

PORTRAIT TWENTY-ONE

PORTRAIT TWENTY-TWO

PORTRAIT TWENTY-THREE

ONE LAST APERÇU

THE FINALE

BONUS ARTWORK BY TARIAN P.S.

ABOUT THIS AUTHOR

The veins in his arm nearly popped through his skin just seconds after gripping the pole. In the same instance, his feet came up off the floor and he lifted his legs in a slow movement, fanning them out, and kept lifting and turning in a slow aerial pirouette until he had twisted all the way around. His pointed toes hovered above the stage and left his body in such a contorted manner that he likely just killed himself. Poor soul. He could have at least let me paint him then fuck him before he’d committed pole suicide.

And then— as if my thoughts gave him new reason to live, those legs flew up into a series of movements that a smartass like me could only describe as part dance, part flip flop, part Olympic pole vault; leaving out all the eloquence and amazement that went along with what I was seeing. It was exciting for sure, but it didn’t excite-excite me. Not the way perhaps it was meant to. I wasn’t sure. I mean, were we supposed to get erections while watching this? Because I didn’t feel it. I was enthralled, yes— much in the same way as watching Mikhail Baryshnikov in a solo performance. Okay, for him, I did get hard. Go ahead and laugh about my ballet reference. But there was something astonishing about seeing that infamous Russian man leap up in the air with a triple axel twist that ended in a pinwheel kick before landing on his toes like he was a butterfly on steroids. Did I lose you with that one? Of course, I did, because while I was talking about the amazing muscular body of one of the world’s most talented male ballet dancers in his ability to land as softly as an angel’s feather, you were busy yukking it up about man-bulges in tights, playing macho man, and you missed the purpose of my visual. But I remember, some years ago, I was still a young boy when I accompanied my mother and father to the ballet. Quite ostensibly, it may have been the very moment when I experienced my first boyhood erection. An experience which started me down the path that would lead me to the self-realization that men turned me on far more than women did. For just when the symphony music kicked into its first bridge of the rhythmic theme, suddenly, this god in black tights and bare skin came leaping out from stage left. Champagne blonde hair flipped wildly around Baryshnikov’s face. Muscles bulging in his back, arms, and thighs that accentuated every flexed move, both smooth and snapping. Unlike the others, Mikhail was grace and godly packed corded muscles. Like the young man I was watching now, the experience was astounding. Yet, unlike the rest of Pole-Dancer’s audience, who wore lust-filled faces, it was not making me horny. Now, had the man been standing here before me with that gleaming smile of his? I’d have had a whole ’nother reaction. That tanned face, hair that was most likely a dark blonde or sandy brown— hard to tell since it was crew cut down to the scalp. His whiter-than-winter smile did something to me. Made me want to go all Tarzan on him, toss him over my shoulder and climb the highest tree and make mad monkey love with him. Ape sound effects and all. Okay, so not really— sex, yes— but minus the monkey effects.

The show ended when his feet came back to the stage, he released the pole, and shot his arms out with fingers splayed palm up. He surprised me when a professional dancer’s etiquette showed in him when he bowed, and then the lights went dark. Had I just watched him perform in the Cirque du Soleil, I would have certainly had a hard-on.

Instead, the room filled with cattle calls and whistling. It was so anti-theatrical to what I’d just watched, it nearly made me sick to my stomach. I pulled out my wallet, leafed a few bills out and dropped them down on the table. I went as far as scribble a note on the napkin, threatening the waiter that one of those bills had best make it into the hands of the dancer, then took a picture of the napkin and the two twenties, and then made my way towards the door, walking and texting as I went. I know. It’s a talent of mine, but then I was determined as a kid to be a champion of walking and chewing bubble gum at the same time, despite what my mother always said of me.

The text included the snapshot I’d just taken, and the recipient, Zane-the-bartender, waved to me from behind the bar as I passed and headed out the door.

I stopped and stood just outside the club, letting the night greet me. The nostalgic expectation ripped from my grasp when a city bus careened by with a blast of black exhaust that belched out just as it passed and choked any pleasantry I was hoping for from my thoughts and my lungs. Fuck, I hated the city and yet I never could bring myself to leave it. Which meant spending a good amount of money on vacations just so I could prevent my own poor soul’s declining existence due to smog. But wouldn’t death make my value sky rocket? Wouldn’t my parents love that? Then they could feign the Broadway act with cheap sentiments of how much they would ache from their loss of such a sweet boy who’d gone astray, then irretrievably his life lost before he could find his way back to their loving home where they dutifully awaited their son. I despise cheap sentiments— I doubt you wonder why.

Much to their chagrin, I am alive— a sour reminder of their failure to punch out yet another golden robot. Please let me introduce to you my son, Winchester Thurmond the third. Or is it the fourth? Fifth? My, doesn’t time fly— I didn’t realize my wife had produced so many replicas of myself. Perhaps I should have filed for a patent. Insert droll fake laugh. Then father would go on to how his protégé sons had attended Yale— just like him. Went into the family business— just like him. Drove a Lotus— just like him. Too groomed even for a Normal Rockwell painting. Bleached blonde wife, Hampton house, and white picket fence. Ad nauseam. Oh, but let us not forget the pedigree Bichon Frise pet and their six healthy, strapping sons. What a disappointment I was as the unveiling of their final baby protégé.

Having survived the growing up years, two hours after receiving my graduate certificate in a high school auditorium, I was hurried off to college to be certifiably dumped off. However, it would not be the symbol of the end of my journey. From there, I went and hitch-hiked from Yale all the way to the Art School of Juilliard to excel in the arts. Once there, I couldn’t make up my mind which medium I liked most, so I focused my major on the management and antiquity studies of art with a second in painting art form.

I headed down the sidewalk of that same city as my thoughts rummaged through my past. And the same question kept popping up: how was it I’d had the insight to plan so smartly? From the very start, I had calculated my parents’ reaction to everything and always planned my contingencies. Like Julliard, I knew they would eventually find me out; after all, I had no intentions of staying in the closet about it for too long— just like the other closet I had stepped out of early in life. The big closest in which ninety percent of gay men stand in before walking out. Nevertheless, even for that outing celebration, I planned— I allowed them to catch me, with a second cousin no less. Had him tied to my father’s bed using their secret kinkery toys and videotaped it. A sweet blackmail if I ever conjured one up. If it hadn’t been for that sweet note of success, I might not have ever gotten off.  I found that once my cousin was all tied up, I was at a loss with what to do with him. The whole domineering top thing just didn’t ravage me as it does for others. But oh, the look on my father’s face. And mom? Tsk tsk— yet it was the added perk of vengeance that sweetened the pot for what she’d done to me just the other day. Not only did she make haste to make excuse of grave illness and unable to attend the date she had arranged with the daughter of one of her gal pals in her Bridge League, but never repeated the offense ever again.

My price for my indiscretions, if I was to ever to forget about the adventurous discovery of their naughty toy box under the bed, they had to release my inheritance from dear deceased grandmama ahead of schedule. They did. There was no stopping my plotting after that.

That’s how I managed to plan my Yale intervention. It wasn’t the business part of it that I was rebuking. I seemed to have a natural flair at that sort of wit. But business law and global funding was about as exciting as watching flies fuck. I’ll pass, thank you very much.

I felt the smile creep across my face as my mind slowly ventured to that particular night when the closet doors of art were flung open with audacious grandeur. It was in my second year of art school when I accompanied my parents to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for one of many annual fundraisers to which my parents were predictable contributors. It just so happened that at these fundraisers, one or two lucky budding local artists were often included in the myriad of delectable displays. Like plates filled with petit fours and hors d’oeuvres, there was a sampling flavor for every fickle pallet. Each spotlighted on the floor with a corner display, and my parents never even suspected it. I was grinning like a sultry peacock with lascivious expectation. We rounded the corner, and there among a few paintings was a larger-than-life sculpture of a naked man, who coincidentally resembled my second cousin— the very one I was caught fucking on their bed all those years ago. But, I digress. Excuse my jaunt down that erotic memory lane; it is, after all, one of my favorite moments.

Where was I? Ah, yes. The museum.

Displayed amongst other artists’ imaginings and the 3-D corporeal version of my ticket to freedom were several paintings, all modern idolizations of the male form, along with a self-rendition charcoal sketching of myself working on one of my paintings— also naked. I may have embellished my cock a bit, but since when do men not? My father had recently upgrade the size of his cock: he now drives a Ferrari. So, in my display, I went for the gusto and drew a big meat hanger between my legs. It’s quite distracting, to say the least.

About the only thing that could tear one’s eyes from my sketched cock was the whites of my mother’s eyes, bugged all the way out. My mother, ever the fashion maven, always making sure her shoes and purse matched to perfection, found a way to match her goggling eyes and usually pinched WASPish mouth.  Her mouth gaped so wide her chin practically hit the floor. I doubt in the history of nineteen year-olds there had ever been such a victory as mine!

I must have worn that gloating, prideful smirk for a week. I think that was also the time of my first phone camera selfie, give or take a few hundred more. My thumb was laboriously busy in that spectacular moment.

As I understood it, my father conducted a studious investigation of my whereabouts after that stunt. He found out my stand-in at Yale was just some poor kid getting a great education. Which, my father let it be when threatened with public humiliation as a cuckold Scrooge if he so much as stripped the kid a day of his gratuitous four-year scholarship. I also never heard from him or my mother again. That was ten years ago.

My name is Xherdan Chantal. I am the lofty, waywardly lost gay son of a pragmatically wealthy Connecticut family of old Swiss money, and this is my story.

I worked my way through the evening with a rather detached modicum of enthusiasm as