"Have you ever had a life casting made before?"

"Life casting?"

Maximus is the most patient-appearing man I have ever gotten to know. And while I do not claim to have all knowledge of him, I have learned this one thing: he is not nearly as patient as he would have me believe.

His stoicism, he has told me, is the result of his belief system. And while he may tease me about the benefits it presents between us, it is nonetheless something I know better than to make sport of because it is a belief, not fun.

It was this very stoicism that I wished to test. Test is perhaps not the correct word as it brings to mind that I may have wished to push him far enough to see a moment when he might fail.

Rather, I think, I wanted to use that stoicism, provoke it, call it forth... all so that I could experience it... to perhaps better understand it.

In the process, I also learned to be aware of the limits of Max's patience.

"Do you trust me?"

"You need to ask this of me?"

An artist, they say, sees the world in terms of lines, shapes, shadows and light. I see in textures and nuances. I must touch. I must experience. What I can touch, I can experience. What I experience, it changes me.

So many changes in me lately; so many experiences.

Maximus has told me that not being able to see the twists and turns of his life has allowed him to grow with the seasons as they pass. Once a man consumed with the loss of his family and his own suicidal drive for revenge, he has found a way beyond the simple, consuming longing for death's reunion with those he loves and lost. Some day, I would wish to understand how he came from that place to where he is with me.

The thing that surprises me the most about my feelings for Maximus is this: I think about his past tragedy most often when he is totally in the present with me and smiling with a richness that is boisterous and knee-weakening.

There is an eternal quality to Maximus. What he lost, he lives with. What he wants from me, he is not yet sure. Such is the struggle of the ages for a man, I believe.

I would wish the capability to dream of things I will never experience and be satisfied with the dreams. I often wonder if Maximus can teach me how to do that.

"You must not move. Not a bit."

"I won't fail you."

"I may test that resolve."

"Perhaps I will fail on purpose then. Will that then be failure?"

"I like when you play with my mind, Max."

"I like when you play with my body."

"Then you're going to love this experience."

There was this one day, see, when boys and girls played with water guns. I still believe it's ironic, really, that this childish rowdiness happened right on the tail of my own lesson in "men's things," courtesy of the courageous Terrence Thorne, who came to my rescue and in the process showed me that he trusted in me enough to let me be there while he reconciled his need to release his own dark tension.

The day of the water gun fight, it was interesting to watch the men play just to play. Zack and Bud worried over the accuracy of their aim. But where Bud was playful in dousing women, Zack took unholy glee. Cort and Jack refrained from aiming at women, to the detriment of their bodies. However, Jack was gentleman enough to recognize when a woman was begging for extra attention and he obliged. Terry and Lachlan were very crafty; they threatened lots of mayhem on certain ladies but they actually never really took up arms. Maximus unleashed hell but not really... he said he was, but he only aimed at women who were already soaked and who had drug him into the battle to begin with. Dino talked women into covert maneuvers but he only aimed at one woman and his aim was specific to the body parts he wished to see outlined in wet fabric. John and Egan were gloriously magnanimous in their disregard for shrieks from the fairer sex; somehow they seemed to know a game when they saw it.

Now, all that said, the men were abundantly evil to each other.

I didn't get much involved; I was happier to dance with Nash, Stephen and Terry. Though I do admit that by the time Terry and I swung onto the dance floor, he was sporting wet trousers and I was kidding him about chaffing. He made sure to share the wetness of his clothes with me whenever possible while pretending to be sorry about it.

"It will feel very cold at first. But it will warm up as it dries."

"How long must I remain still."

"Until I say. You can't move or it will crack."

"Where are you going to put it?"

"Someplace I want to remember."

Maximus. I had not seen him since... well, in more than a few days. We were not hiding from each other; but other things had intruded.

I brought a cognac to him after he emerged dripping wet from the water gun fight; I wanted to tend to him in some way. He makes me feel that way about him. I do not want to make that into some huge deal; but it is how I feel. It's not that he is helpless and needs a woman to bring him into the light... it is just that I think he takes a woman's tender touch as a high compliment.

For as much as he may value it, I sense he is unsure if he should expect it. For as much as he would like to expect nothing less, perhaps his life's great tragedy has taught him to cherish it even before he receives it. Perhaps this is why he seems to invite it from me with open arms and hope.

"You look to be needing some warming up," I told him when I brought him the cognac. "Those wet clothes and the way they drape on you... they certainly give me warm thoughts but I imagine they are cold in this air conditioning."

His eyes sparkled at me in response. His spirits were high, infectious. Provocative. "That was a most enjoyable interlude but I think I am perhaps a little old for this. And wet trousers are a very unpleasant item of clothing. Give me a tunic any day... I am almost tempted to take them off and sit in a towel. Now, that might cause a stir, do you think? I must be in a very playful frame of mind tonight."

"Cause a stir, Max?" I giggled at him because I was so charmed by this mood. "I think it would cause a riot... women would stampede for a view from miles around. Perhaps you'd be best served keeping those pants on. Though they do drape nicely when they're damp. However, if your wet clothing is truly uncomfortable... there is an alternative that does not consist of you exposing your natural wonder to the entire bar."

"It will feel good. You'll see."

"It always feels good when you touch me, Eris."

"Maximus, you must not distract me while I do it."

"What fun is it if I do not at least try?"

He has been to my home before. But there is a difference now. It is not easily definable. But we both feel it. Perhaps it is familiarity. Perhaps it is more than that.

Once, I asked him if he believed in the resiliency of the human spirit. He said he was not sure. I told him he was my proof. He says he is proof of nothing.

I know he is wrong about that. 

Our conversation was lighthearted only because we were lovers seeking love within the other and finding the most unexpected things.

I had said: "You are at least proof that life, at its lowest point, is about survival. And that at its highest point, it about love."

He had responded: "You see far too much in me, Eris."

"You can be far too stoical, Maximus."

"See beneath that."

I try. He knows I do. He cherishes that I do. One day, perhaps I will see all of him. I hope not. I hope he will always be something of a mystery to me. I hope to the end of our time that he will be a challenge. I hope I never figure out that his complexities are fathomable. But I hope he keeps letting me inside.

"Well, I could make it more of a challenge for you, Max."

"Or I could make it more of a challenge for you."

"While it dries, I could be entirely evil and do something that will make you squirm."

"But I will not squirm, for you have ordered me to remain perfectly still."

"You keep looking at me like that and I will not be responsible for my actions."

Inside my laundry room, I stroke his wet jeans. If left to their own devices, they would take forever to lose the water that was dumped on him from the myriad water guns firing inside the pub that night. I cannot help the smile and chuckle at the memory of the sight of him, lounging there at the bar and telling me that he might simply sit there in nothing but a towel after shedding his wet clothes.

I like to touch his clothes. I like to think of the casual way the fabric is treated by him. He chose it in some store, these jeans, for instance. And he simply gets them out and puts them on. They come gliding up his thighs ... he has marvelous thighs. I like to stroke the hair on his thighs and twirl it slightly when I do just to linger over the touch of it. I like to hold my hand atop his thigh when he drives to feel how his muscles work when he brakes.

I run the zipper up and down... his fingers touch this zipper every time he puts them on and every time he takes them off... except when me or another woman is taking them off so that we can enjoy him.

When I finally can release his jeans to the comforting care of my clothes dryer, I go to find Max. He is in my living room. He is reclining on the couch, the glass of cognac he poured himself is resting within the caress of his palm.

At first, he simply observes me. 

I wonder if this is what he looked like at some Roman pleasure palace.

He hefts the glass to his mouth.

It fascinates me most of all... that gesture of his. He is so incredibly at one with his own essential sexuality. So unaffected and yet he must know the sight of him makes me unashamedly hot. But the gesture... his arm moves and his elbow bends and his head dips. His neck cranes. His mouth sips. He never takes his eyes from me. That slight smile, egotistical in its own way, inviting in its honesty, it lingers upon his lips and waits for me to kiss it away.

But it is the way the muscles of his shoulders and chest move that fascinates me most of all as I stand there gazing at his naked wonder. I have always loved to stroke and kiss those rounded bulges of sinew that run from his outer shoulders to his nipples. I love to watch them flex with the most simple gestures, such as when he raises his arms to lift his shirt over his head.

Someone once described Maximus as having the body of a brute. He would have to have... imagine wielding that sword and wearing that armor. He is a man who harbors tender love; who loves deeply and without pity. But he was trained for battle; he didn't finesse death, he cleaved bodies in two.

No wonder his body is as it is.

It's a wonder his heart is the miracle it is.

"So I take it you are quite happy with me reclining here in my natural state until my clothes are dry? Yes... I am being provocative... come and join me. I need to thank you for your hospitality... again..." he says.

I am amazed at my own response; they are words I never thought to speak to him. "Have you ever had a life casting made before?"

He has never before stepped inside my neat room that used to be my workshop. Truthfully, it has been some time since anyone has. Sometimes, I actually intend to dismantle it but I never do. I do not imagine I ever really will. Not now.

It doesn't take long to mix up the plaster. He sips his cognac and is silent while I do. It is a form of reverence, for me and for art. When I am ready, I go to him. I stroke his chest. We kiss. I tell him how grateful I am for this. He reminds me of what he once told me... that if I ever ask anything of him, I must know he will do what he can to say yes. I know this; it's not really the source of my gratitude. I am really most grateful that I feel as I do about him.

I make him take a seat atop the bench that I've covered in plastic. With thick Vaseline globs on my fingers, I slather a layer of slickness over his chest and shoulders. The Vaseline will protect his body hair; without it, the plaster would rip it out when I remove the casting from his chest after it hardens.

While I do this, he whispers to me and touches at my nape. He tells me how much he likes being this close to me. He says he wishes I could smell how right I smell when I work up a sweat. I swat him and tell him that his nudity is what's caused me to sweat. He looks pleased with himself.

Before I make him lie on his back upon the bench, I stand on my toes and kiss him, hard and rough. He makes me feel fierce in this moment; as if art can bare all and find it all worthwhile.

I warn him again that he must be still for the entire process; any real movement and tiny hairline cracks will erupt within the dried plaster. It will render the mold unstable and fragile for lost wax casting, which is what I hope will be possible. I make one last pass over the Vaseline, carefully smoothing it down to a thin, even layer so that the plaster can pick up every single detail of neatly arranged chest hair and the nuances of his skin's mute testimony to his resilience over his triumphs and his failures. I position his arms so that they are held over his head. I do this to give that rounded, powerful look to his muscles and sinew.

This is an important moment between artist and model. Perhaps he knows that instinctively; I always have. It is the moment just before you hope to capture something pivotal you have seen in the model, something that has haunted you long before you saw it, which is why you recognized it when you did. Which is why you have the need to show what you see. Which is another way of saying, you give up a part of yourself and mix it with a part of the model. Together, the process is possible. It's the only way it ever is.

I pour the plaster atop his chest. I see goose bumps prickle his skin where the cool sludge nears. I spread it out, layering it thick and even. I move forms into place along his sides to give the plaster resistance to stop its flow and allow it to set up where I want it to stay, atop his chest and shoulders. I scoop it so that it doesn't intrude on his neck; some day, I will do this to his neck, but not then.

"You spoke of me challenging you to remain still," I say softly as I work the plaster into place, pressing lightly to remove the risk of air bubbles next to his skin. Bubbles are not disaster, but they are not desirable because you must later craft over them to mimic the surface of his skin.

Our eyes meet as I finish. He has not moved, he has not spoken. He breathes in and out of his mouth; shallow pants to remove vibrations from his lungs. He's only about three minutes into the 20 minutes it will take for the plaster to harden rigid enough for me to pry the form from his chest.

I wash the bucket, my mixing tools and my body clear of the plaster. From the sink, I let warm water rinse over my arms and hands as I study him, supine upon the bench. It is a sight I never thought to see. Yet it is so perfect.

It almost makes me cry.

He must certainly know how weak he makes me; surely he can see how strong I am. That he would do this for me makes flawless sense; it is a spectacular gift he gives me.

"You can talk. Just do it slowly to lessen the chance you'll be inclined to move," I tell him when I go back to the table. I stroke down his bare thighs and grin at him. "I've never had anyone do this completely nude before. Are you sure you're comfortable?"

"Certe."

"Ah. Now you've dropped into Latin. I wonder what that says?" I tease him. "I feel rather in a powerful position with you laying there helpless upon that bench. Think of what I could get away with."

"I know you wish to do something to make me move. But who would win? Don't you wish this project to be successful? Do not push me too hard, Eris."

He says it roughly but I know he's teasing me. Except... my hand has wandered to stroke his penis. I hadn't meant to... and yet... that had been the challenge I'd been implying with him. It was in my mind... was he that much a stoic?

Is it wrong to have such thoughts with this kind of man? He would travail against any challenge I set. Is it unfair to set one just to provoke him to show me what I can do to him? To force him to show me that he feels certain things for me that are more than physical but the physical response is such a basic indicator?

I run the back of my fingers slowly, gently up his penis. It stirs just a bit from its slumber. I am looking at the seat of his manhood; I am not purposely avoiding his eyes, but perhaps I can think more clearly when I am not distracted by the evidence of his soul's yearning for me.

In this primus moment, I am struck by how shallow I have been. I was all set to play with him, to toy with his natural dominance, his incredible will. I was going to have him all covered in plaster and have him show me his stoicism by resisting movement as I tease and manipulate his sexual organs.

"If I close my eyes, I lose track of where I end and you begin. Maximus, does that mean something? It only happens when I'm near you like this... when my hands feel like the best thing in life they can do is touch your warmth. Tonight, your warmth seems to give me a fever."

"But I am always warm. It must be my blood. Or perhaps your proximity? They seem to have an effect on its coursing..."

"If I have some effect on your blood when I am near you, then you have some tiny clue about what you do to me, Maximus."

When I glance up at him, he has this lingering soft look about his mouth and in his eyes. And this tells me one thing... I don't want to challenge him, not this night when he is giving me a gift of himself only because I was struck with a fancy to indulge an artist's yen to obey her muse.

Instead, what I would wish to give him is comfort... the comfort of knowing that I am here for him; not for any other reason than that this is where he is, body and spirit.

I had thought to fellate him; to drive him hard; to suck his cock down as far as I could manage it; to fuck him with my throat; to make him stay there, rock solid and stoic, while I made his manhood obey me; to make him come into me; to make him prove himself to me.

My lips, instead, I wish to use to comfort him. To show him how I value what he is doing for me. To ease him; to caress him gently; to lull him into a peaceful state where staying calm and unmoving is aided rather than challenged.

With the softest of touches, I move his penis so it is stretched up toward his belly. He makes no noise; he is simply waiting, I know. I place my lips ever so gently on the root of his manhood; at that juncture where flesh meets flesh.

The scent of him invades me. I think about what he said about enjoying the odor of my body's sweat. I understand what he means but I'd never thought about it before. A man's sweat can be incredibly rank and disgusting; but when it's caused because he feels ardor in my presence, I find it arousing and inviting. In that same way, the musky scent of his groin is never more appealing to me than when I can scent evidence of his arousal there. I never have thought about this before, but I do think there's a reason why I like laying near a man's groin after we've made love. I think perhaps it's just that I really like the smell of him after he's come inside me.

I lay my cheek against his penis; it's now harder. If his breathing has changed at all, I cannot tell. I picture that it has... I picture that it has grown shallower, that the breaths are longer and more concentrated. I do nothing more than gently rub his length with the softness of my cheek. Every so often, I linger to give him a tender kiss that is not so much wet as it is warmly enveloping.

It is a time of inaudible eloquence between us, I think. He gives, I receive. He is man, I am helpless before him. I visualize what the casting will reveal to me of my response to him. I can feel the bronze even though it is so long before it will be a reality. Yet I know what I believe it will show me about him. I will never look upon it without thinking about this moment between us when I chose to see something else within him... that he is a man who never tries to be what he is; he just is. This is what I hope the piece that results from this casting will show... the essence of the resiliency of Maximus. Maybe it will teach me things I never thought possible to learn about him.

When the timer goes off, I realize that I lost track of time.

I explain to him about the simple yet effective steps I am taking to remove the casting from his chest. I help him rise to a sitting position to let gravity aid me in this removal process. When it is done, I study the casting beneath the sharp, unforgiving lighting of a lamp at my workbench. It is perfectly rendered. Not a crack, not a major bubble to mar it. I can see ever detail... every scar, his nipples, every mole, every hair. I see into the reverse image that is the mold and can see the finished piece.

When I tell him just how wonderful it is, he asks me to come to him.

He is hard. He is actually harder than he was when I was touching him there. Drops of moisture ooze from his tip; when he sees I am looking, he strokes through it. He lies back upon the bench, looking at me, touching himself. When his fist surrounds his hardness, I want. It's that basic. I just want.

There it is. He is covered in remnants of art... plaster and glistening Vaseline from his shoulders to his ribs... and he could care little about cleaning up before he would engage in intimacies with me.

He feeds the tip of his penis into my mouth when I open over him. He says soft words of welcome and desire to me. His other hand rests atop the back of my head; he smoothes my hair as I rise and fall. I put my hand over the one of his that is jerking on his cock. I hear him mumbling; it's not distinct; he's no longer worried about stoicism. I'm no longer worried about art.

We both just want.

He twines our fingers around his shaft; his press mine down on his skin so I can feel the velvet over the transformed miracle of man. Does any women ever stop marveling over this process?

I feel him grip into my hair; he presses down; he groans when I swallow to try to take even more of him inside me, down as far into my throat as I can. His hips rise, at first shallow movements, but then growing more insistent as he begins to take what he wants; he knows I want to give it... I wonder if he knows that I want him to be demanding?

At the last possible moment, he seems to hesitate... there on the brink of coming. My free hand tightens on the edge of the bench. He shoves up; I find the way to take him in further. When he comes, he comes with everything. All his strength, his heart, his soul, his want.

It leaves him weak.

It leaves me in tears.

I hold him; I move to wrap my arms around his chest, the chest he's let me cast. The gesture is welcome to him; he grips me and holds on as I soothe him. His face is nestled in the valley of my breasts; my lips speak soft sounds into his hair; my hands stroke his back and then his face.

This is how I learn that Max's patience is not equal to his stoicism. He reveals himself to me slowly; I earn the insights he grants me. My instincts are to make careful note, to think them through, to treasure them. He pushes me to not simply have instincts but to act on them where he is concerned.

He is above all things my lover. It awes me to witness this man.