november 1998 T h e "What are these!?" My father was thumbing through several sheets of drawings I'd created. They were of hunky super heroes with lots of spandex, bulges and throbbing, dripping cocks. I was scrambling to understand why my father was in my brother's room holding the drawings. "They're not mine. I swear!" Of course they were mine. I drew them. I was the only one with any artistic talent in our family. Those character's cock--dripping with cum, popping out of their super hero uniform--were my creations. I, on the other hand, was dripping with sweat! I thought my ears would pop--either from fear or from my father's meaty, garbage man fists. My Dad's face was turning red like a thermometer in the summer heat. God it was sexy! "Who drew this?" "Not me, Dad. It was Steve Russo. They're his!" I wasn't about to tell my father that it was me; so I blamed it on the trouble making neighbor boy who hit puberty three years before anyone I know did. I didn't get pubic hair for at least a year after everyone else, but I still knew what turned me on at age fourteen. My brother and I knew about each other's attraction to men at an early age and I had shown my brother some of my drawings. We talked about the neighbor boys, who we thought were cute, and we even fooled around with each other, but always in hushed tones. I just couldn't believe that my brother had found were I stashed my drawings. I also didn't think my brother would be so stupid and leave them right out where they'd be discovered. My father and mother would periodically go through his room because they blamed drugs on his mood swings. My brother must have picked up the habit of going through my room from them. I was practically in tears and my father, either out of denial or sheer stupidity, believed me. This set the tone for the rest of my life, magically escaping trouble when it seemed I was in over my head. My father said I was no longer allowed to associate with Steven and took the pictures away to the trash. Months later I discovered that my brother--in the middle of the night--had rummaged through the trash and salvaged my illustrations. I would draw lots of pictures to occupy myself during those awkward years. I couldn't get hard for girls. It's not like I didn't try. I had girlfriends but as soon as they wanted sex, I'd break it off. Girls had breasts, girls weren't butch, and girls didn't have pricks. I loved everything masculine even though I was a 90 pound weakling. I drew pictures to satisfy myself late at night, creating a dream guy to gaze upon while I worked a shmeer of vaseline onto my cock and jacked off and spewed all over myself. Lots of the guys I drew had slightly unshaven faces and looked like they worked outside all day. I drew punks, skinheads, laborers, and sexual I think I was secretly attracted to my father. He was and still is a garbage man, a laborer. He has rough hands, a stern, deep voice, and for the most part he was supportive of my interests. Secondly, I was sheltered and shy until I left home. Every time I wanted to do something adventurous, my mother was there to say no. I remember the first time I shaved my head. My mother cried. Then there was the high school crush. Jesse Reynolds was this punk rock soccer player. He was hotter than hell and smart too. Thick legs, nice ass, and a beautiful face topped off with a mohawk. He didn't care what anybody thought about him. I couldn't have been any more obvious when I was on the yearbook staff. Every candid picture in the yearbook of him was taken by me. Drawing punks and skins was my way of getting around all that crap. As for the socks and boots, I can't explain that. I've just always had an attraction to guys sexy arches and footwear. Today, drawing isn't a secret passion anymore. At age 25, I draw the same things I used to draw, but only much better. Then and now, I have rabid sex with blank sheets of paper. I start with an idea in my head and plot out the basic shapes. A hard lead lends itself to light lines. From this framework, I work my magic to bring my characters to life. My dick starts to lengthen when I work for awhile on facial expressions and the remnants of clothing I'll leave in place on my characters. If the pale pencil marks haven't brought me to full erection, I coat my cock with a nice layer of lube. More veins for this one's cock. Another wrinkle around that one's open fly. Pretty soon I can't take it any longer and angrily pound my pud with my greasy fist until I'm sacrificing sticky streams of spunk in honor of what's before me. I wipe off my hands and sit in my own spooge until I've cleaned up every unwanted extra line. And to think I haven't even started to color it yet. Putting my artwork on the web has helped me connect with like minded perverts from all over the world. I particularly enjoy it when I get email from somebody who is about ready to cum a bucket. You can always tell by the amount of typo's and choppy sentences. These are the letters that help me push my pencil into new areas. I look forward to letters like these in coming months, but would appreciate more thoseletters that describe kinks, fetishes and fantasies I have yet to depict with my tools. In turn, you can look forward to more of what I think, what turns me on, and the nasty artwork that brings every month here at Nightcharm. So, until then, visit my website (featured below) and keep the vaseline handy. all illustrations © 1998 by shane |
monsters with pricks for hands--crazy things like that. They were all in various states of undress, usually in socks or boots or both and nothing much else. I'd draw their cocks oozing with cum or show it dribbling out of their mouths. I was repressed and my hormones were on fire.