Lawyer Turns Frowns and More Upside-Down

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Museum Makes Art "HARD" To Resist

I love art, so when I got assigned to review a small working gallery with an industrial slant, I was totally stoked for the job. The gallery space is actually the second floor of a manufacturing firm that does a good deal of metal work. One of the owners and a few of the employees are actually off-the-clock metal sculptors and regularly show their work in the space. And ... here's what I think is really cool ... the gallery encourages area metalsmiths to submit work for these review events they hold each month and, if selected, the gallery will display the work for six weeks for free! What an opportunity!!

My editor isn't much on the art scene. In fact, the slant for this piece is actually the economy and how it's affecting gallery and museum attendance, as well as government support for the arts in general. I think secretly my boss likes the doom-and-gloom stuff because I hear he lost a poop-load of money in the stock market about a year ago.

Anyway, the gallery is actually closed today but one of the owners has graciously offered to give me a tour and discuss his passion for art and the responsibilities of owning a growing gallery. I'm dressed pretty casually ... twill dress pants and a short-sleeve patterned oxford that accentuates my narrow waist. I need a haircut, but what can you do?

At the appointed hour, I arrive at the factory-slash-gallery and "snag" a visitors spot. It's a big brick structure the color of old salmon ... an odd rosy pink color. Vents protruding from the roof give off steam and I detect a faint acidic smell. The parking lot is odd because the first two rows are empty except for my vehicle and appear to have been recently resurfaced, crisp yellow lines clearly delineating parking spaces. But beyond that there are five rows of beat-up pick ups and small two-doors that have seen better days parked in loose gravel. I grab my gear ... notepad, camera bag, and digital recorder (I always carry back-up) and amble over to the gallery entrance which is at the side of the building. I double check the time and then tap on the thick wire-reinforced glass as per instructions.

After no less than a minute has passed, I see a shadow fill the window followed by the sounds of several locks sliding open. The door pushes out and I am greeted by a very distinguished looking man ... early 40s I'd guess ... sporting a tight salt-and-pepper buzz cut and wearing a light gray pinstriped suit and expensive-looking gradated charcoal tie. "Are you the reporter, sir?" he inquires in a clipped, nasal voice.

"I am indeed ... and you must be Roger Jansen." I swing my camera bag further around onto my hip and extend my hand. The man in the doorway just looks at my hand like it's covered in pigshit, but he gives me the once over and his eyes soften ever so slightly. He then pushes the door open wider as an invitation to enter. I don't move a muscle. "Actually, my name is Logan and Mr. Jansen won't ... well, he's been detained at a meeting. He's asked that I provide you with a tour of the facilities and then he can answer your questions when he arrives." I'm pretty accurate at reading people, and I'm guessing this Logan fellow had better things to do than play nursemaid to me. But I also sensed that I intrigued him on some level.

"Mr. Logan, if it would be ..."

"It's just Logan."

"Okay, Logan ... we can reschedule this if Mr. Jansen is too ..."

Logan took a quick breath and held it as if centering himself for a yoga workout. "I think we can get a great deal accomplished if we get underway with the tour. Mr. Jansen is very proud of what he's provided to the arts community and I know he's excited about the exposure a newspaper feature might bring." And with that, the elegant gentleman in gray pressed further back against the door and ushered me inside with a steering hand.

Once he had secured the entrance, Logan gestured toward a wide set of stairs immediately to the left. It was a short flight that opened into an airy space with honey-colored oak plank floors and brick walls ... some whitewashed and others left the original dusty rose. Futuristic-looking halogen track lights hung suspended on thin wires, casting cones of light onto intricate forms made mostly of twisted steel and glass. Even with the warm tones and strong light sources, the space still felt very cool, almost clammy. "Currently," said Logan as he glided into the large space ahead of me, "we're showing three artists that work as professional welders." He stopped before an orb maybe three feet in diameter consisting of rusted bands of pounded steel and copper. Reds and russets dominated the piece, but every so often a sliver of bright copper with that rainbow tinge would peek through. It reminds me of the desert, I thought. "This work was created by a female welder out of Santa Fe ... she builds much of her work from discarded metal she finds in the desert."

"It's beautiful ... it looks warm and inviting, but looking at it also gives me a cold feeling like someone who finds themselves lost and alone." Whoa!, I thought, did I just say that crap out loud?

"That's very perceptive, young man. I, too, get 'lost' when I try to follow the bands of material as they weave throughout the piece, but I've never heard someone describe the overall piece so well on a conceptual level." Then Logan smiled and the whole room shot up 20 degrees. For the first time, I noticed the soft brown eyes of my tour guide and the way the feature lighting in the room endowed his pupils with dazzling golden halos. And I definitely began noticing the way his tailored suit ... which probably cost what I earn in a month ... fit the contours of his lean physique. And as he spoke, I couldn't help but visually trace the tiny lines around his eyes that gave his face so much character. Logan was a hottie ... and the kind that doesn't perceive his own hotness. Shit, I thought, as I felt a little tug in my pants ... Great day for feeling frisky and deciding to go commando!

With me in tow, Logan stepped to a few other works and gave me a brief history lesson on each. I nodded and made what I hoped were intelligent insights. Like a good host, he mirrored my gestures and nodded his head as if seeing wisdom in my every word. As I followed, I paid as much attention to his shapely ass as I did the sculptures, and my dick hit full "rager" status. I also peppered him with a few personal questions.

"So, Logan, what's your connection to the gallery? Are you an investor? A sculptor?"

"My word, no. Without the aid of a ruler, even a straight line is beyond my abilities. I'm an architect by trade, but I absolutely love industrial themed art. I worked it out with my bosses so that I could serve as a docent here two days a week if I make up the time." Logan's gaze wandered a bit as he spoke ... during one moment when he was looking away and his body had rotated slightly in response, I snuck my hand below my waistband and pushed my peter flat against my abdomen. No one should notice now, I mused.

"A docent?," I asked, wanting Logan to continue talking so I could watch his full lips form more words. Maybe he'd just agree to read the phone book out loud, I dreamed.

In response to my inquiry, he looked at me with the traces of a small smile, like a professor who has caught one of his students unprepared. "'Docent' is a term for a volunteer that has a wealth of specialized knowledge. With my background in building and design, I understand the nature of metals and the processes these artist use to manipulate their materials of choice. Mr. Jansen likes to utilize me for tours and for developing promotional literature and grant proposals."

"I bet he keeps you around for lots of reasons." Again, I stopped in my tracks, regretting the off-hand innuendo. Logan, apparently either missing the remark or simply disinterested, continued forward. I took my size 14 feet out of my mouth and moved to catch up.

The large showcase room transitioned into a smaller alcove with large recessed areas on both sides. And in each space, sitting just below thin, horizontal accent lights, hung a magnificent canvas. I stopped short, not really knowing which way to focus my attention ... both pieces were breathtaking.

"Ahhh," hissed Logan, "you've spied our hidden treasures. The nature of these acquisitions is strictly off the record ..." Logan hit me with an unwavering look and I nodded my assent. "But Mr. Jansen and a few other investors pooled their resources and purchased these lesser known works from a private collector in Europe. They're Kandinskys and, like I said, not from any prominent series. Are you familiar with his work?" I sensed a challenge in Logan's question.

"A bit," I promptly replied. "Wassily Kandinsky is the Russian painter that many art historians consider to be the very first abstract artist. He also took great care in choosing colors because he felt they had specific effects on the viewer." Take that, art snob.

One of Logan's eyebrows raised as if in salute. His delicate hands balanced on his hips in a feminine-though-sexy pose. "Excellent ... very concise. Kandinsky was actually a well known scholar. He was considered an art theorist and wrote entire dissertations on the connection between artist and patron. Very dry but interesting reading."

I just grinned that I'd earned a gold star for even knowing the name. I also felt a trickle of pre-cum slither down my upturned shaft. "Well, these are beautiful and they really work with the industrial theme of the gallery." I pointed to the piece on my right. "This one reminds me of an abstracted circuit board ... you can just see all the minute connections and feel a sense of movement, like electrical current."

"That's very similar to how Mr. Jansen feels about them ... there's days when I see him bring a folding chair from his office so he can simply sit and stare."

The conversation was at a natural lull, so I quickly checked the time and saw that more than an hour had passed. I was about to ask Logan if he knew any more details about his superior's ETA when he rifled off a suggestion. "You know, there's a new Kandinsky sketch that we're having framed on-site ... would you care to see how that process is going?"

"Will Mr. Jansen come find us is he arrives and we're not in the gallery proper?"

Logan answered me with a hint of something insincere. "Certainly, he'll come find us."

I stuffed my notebook and digital recorder in a side compartment of my oversized camera bag and made an open-hands gesture. "Then I'm at your mercy ... lead the way."

Logan and I retraced or path through the gallery and down the stairs. Then we passed through a non descript wooden door leading to a room located under the gallery steps. There were no windows and the only light was from an overhead bulb which the foxy docent ignited via a pull cord. The room was cramped with files and sundry materials. A small desk with a padded swivel chair faced the far wall.

Once inside, Logan closed the door and I heard the telltale sound of a latch sliding closed. When I turned around, the older man was leaning against the door, his eyes looking toward the floor. "This is the point in the tour where I probably ought to tell you something," he said, his eyes suddenly shooting up to engage mine. "Just before you arrived, Mr. Jansen called and said he had a personal emergency that made him unable to keep his appointment with you. I was instructed to reschedule."

My face tightened with shock and mild confusion. "Well, I appreciate you taking the time to give me the tour, but why not tell me upfront that today was a bust?"

A few seconds of silence stretched into a longer and longer void. I could hear my pulse beating in my ears, and my cock again reminded me that it was alive and kicking. Logan seemed to come to some internal decision and said, "Because I thought you were so attractive and I didn't want you to leave."

I don't think I could have been any more shocked by his admission ... or any more turned on. With a stiff and sticky prod pressed uncomfortably against me, I crossed the small space and gently took Logan's manly jawline in my hands. I closed my eyes and bowed my head slightly to move in for a taste of his lips, but his arms shot up and held me at bay. "No, not that," he said as he danced me backwards until the back of my knees were against the desk chair, "I want to take a private tour of my own." I dropped my forehead onto his shoulder and hunched slightly forward as he fumbled my belt and slacks open. They fell to the ground with a soft rustle.

"Lovely," Logan murmured as he ran a delicate hand over my engorged dick, "so very, very lovely." All I could do was half-close my eyes as his hand worked my cock, sending unbelievable waves of pleasure to my brain. I spread my legs to achieve a more comfortable stance ... better balance ... when Logan pushed me down into the padded rich leather of the chair. His hand never broke contact with my wet tool as he followed me down, crumpling to the floor and resting his weight on one strong hip. I extended my legs, raising my shirt to rest just above my navel while jutting my pelvis forward. Logan took my cue and moved his hand to cuddle my egg-sized balls, clearing a path for his mouth to descend onto my waiting, throbbing pecker.

"Ooohhhhhh," I cooed, pulling in musty air through my teeth as Logan's tongue and jaw muscles worked in tandem to chew and massage my cockhead. His hands continued to fondle my meaty nuts, and his head stayed perfectly still while he stripped my foreskin up and down my veiny member.

"Logan, you fucker," I panted, "for a sophisticated gentleman, you sure suck a mean dick!" His only response was to scratch his teeth ever-so-slightly across the flare of my knob, creating a burst of exquisite pain.

I continued to thrust my cock into his luscious, stationary orifice, moaning softly as the level of sensation built higher and higher. I was close to announcing my impending orgasm when the sucking stud at my feet pulled his face away from my penis but continued to rub the head against his weathered cheek, smearing a good amount of fluid onto his skin. "You have a tasty, virile blood sausage here, but the tour needs to keep on schedule," Logan said in a breathy tone. He rolled to his knees and then stood. Holding his hands palms up, he looked deep into my eyes until I took hold. He pulled me to my feet and urged me to turn around. Strong hands pushed at my one shoulder and the middle of my back until I climbed into the creaky seat, my knees barely maintaining position on the edge. Logan's delicate fingers curled into my waist and hips, adjusting me so my ass was pushed toward him as far as possible. Then, after a few seconds of no physical contact, I felt those same strong hands pulling apart my asscheeks. The feel of warm breath on my tight hole soon followed.

"Oh, sir," Logan practically moaned, "This is turning out to be one delightful day." His fingers teased my ass lips and feathery touches appeared all over my ass and hips. The caresses diminsihed only to be replaced by Logan's suctioning lips meeting my slot in a burst of anal ecstasy.

"Aaaahhhhh ... aaaahhhhhhhh, you bitch," I cried out. "Eat my fuckin' hole ... jam that slippery tongue in so fuckin' far you taste my fuckin' breakfast. Suck my God damn hole!!!" I was almost incoherent from the talented rim job, profanity after profanity rolling off my own tongue. Then Logan kicked everything up a notch when, while resting his jaw a bit, he plunged a long, manicured finger deep inside me and curled the end to hit and jab at my prostate.

"FUCKER!!," I screamed while bucking my hips wildly. "I'm leaking shit all over this chair. You're gonna have to explain to your boss why this place smells like my ass. Explain all the cum and raunch, you shitfuck!" I wasn't sure where all this was coming from, but it just spurred Logan on. He added a second finger and then a third. He began to really saw into my hole. "Keep it up, fucker!" I challenged. "I'm gonna shoot my shit all over this fuckin' office!"

After maybe another minute of his diabolical reaming, Logan withdrew his fingers and I was rewarded with the quiet sounds of him licking them. "You like that, don't you, dude?" I questioned as I drew in huge gulps of air. "You love the smell and taste of a man's sweaty hole. It revs you up ... it ... AAAHHHHH!" And suddenly, those lips and torturous tongue where back at my pouting sphincter ... and Logan upped the ante again by moving into a "rusty trombone" with him reaching around and shucking my titanium-hard dick while continuing with the expert rim job. It took maybe eight or ten solid milks before I coated Logan's hand with my crank grease. Once drained, I worked my body around to face him, sitting on my now deliciously-tender ass. Logan was in a crouching position before me. He had shed his coat and tie; his crisp white shirt was open revealing a nicely sculpted chest and lean stomach ... all coated with a fine dusting of graying hair. As my eyes roamed over his beautiful frame, he slowly licked his hand clean of my cum like a sated kitty. Purr, fuck, and meeeeoooow!, my addled brain joked.

With little fanfare and just a bit of strain, the graying gallery aide used the arms of the chair to push himself to a standing position. He quickly buttoned his shirt and shouldered into his jacket; the tie went into his breast pocket. Logan then turned to a nearby shelf and rummaged around in a box for a few seconds before presenting me with a coarse rag and a resealable packet of wipes. As I mopped up the drying jizz from my shaft and surrounding groin area as best I could, I asked Logan a question. "What about you, my man? I'd be more than willing to provide a little reciprocal relief." I hoped that the smile on my flushed face showed my genuine interest in blowing him.

"Sir," he replied without taking much time to seriously consider my offer. "I wish I had more time to investigate your surely satisfying oral skills, but I've got a full afternoon of work." I must have looked downtrodden because he stepped closer and rested a hand ... the same hand that would smell of my ass and my cum until he washed it ... on my shoulder. "I am, however, very much a man of the mind. My memory is top-notch, so I'll be reliving this moment when I pleasure myself later on ... and most assuredly for days and weeks to come."

I left the gallery with a new appointment on the books and the pleasurable feeling that I would be in someone's horny thoughts for awhile.

HEADLINE: Museum Makes Art "HARD" To Resist