Tutor's First Touch (m/m)

I look at my watch. Damn, we've been at this for an hour already.
“Hey do you wanna take a break?”

“Sure,” he says with a lazy smile, and proceeds to crack his knuckles, “Mind if I sketch a little?”

“Go ahead.” I feel unusually calm. Normally his talents would arouse some smoldering envy. I surprise myself at realizing that it's mostly just calm, healthy admiration. It's nice to get along with a sweet fella like this, and I'm beginning to see why he's so popular with the girls. Maybe his silence isn't so much stupidity as it is mystique. Maybe he isn't really a misty-eyed slouch, he just retreats into his own little artistic realm.

“You've got a nice face,” he says, pulling out a pencil and a sketchbook that had been propped up beside his desk, “I could do you sometime, if you're cool with that.”

“Um... maybe,” my eyes wander to meet the sketches that paper the walls, “Those are really great. What do you draw from?”

It feels oddly cathartic, admitting my admiration for him. It's like an honest apology, or confessing a lie. I think my cheeks are flushing a little, but he gives me a nice, toothy grin. It's weird to see him smile, but it makes me feel giddy in a bizarre way, as if a smile was something he'd never shared with anyone else before, as if it were for me alone.

“Just nude photos I find online. Porn sometimes,” he says, starting the outline of a new sketch. I nod. Some of them do look pretty erotic now that I think about it. I'm starting to get a little horny. “Some girls from school pose for me.”

A little vestigial annoyance tweaks in the back of my mind, but I'm feeling too warm and fuzzy to hold it against him. He's talking to me. I mean sure, I'll bet he talks to the girls he sleeps with (well no, maybe not. He's got a reputation for being a sleaze) but I feel like I'm being drawn into his inner circle, his little world of deferred maturity and popularity. Any other time I'd be sickened by the thought, but I think the sauce is hitting me hard.

“They, uh, do it nude?” my words are beginning to slur, and I feel a little warm. I drink, hoping it'll cool me down.

“Sometimes,” he says. He sounds so innocent when he says that.
I'm feeling funny. I don't know if it's the sketches or not, or the aura of being in this little tomcat's room, but I'm feeling flushed and dizzy. There's a fluttering warmth in my belly, and I press my legs together, restless. I begin to ache for something, but I don't know what.

“Hey, Adrian, you all right?”

“I'm- I think I feel a little...” a little what? I have no idea. It feels as if my mind's been packed with cotton.

“That's good,” he murmurs. His pencil clinks, rattling as it rolls across his desk.