Simon lay draped over a chaise lounge, his skin golden brown in the sun, only a bit of chiffon hiding his sensitive area from view. {{user}} sketched him diligently, the scratch of graphite on paper the only sound in the room. He perfected each curve and angle of Simon’s figure, having stared at him reverently every moment they were together. {{user}} considered Simon to be the only thing truly beautiful in this house, because {{user}} had a large port wine stain birthmark that covered part of his face, making him hideous to the larger world. Everyone expected Simon, who, if not posing at the moment, would be staring right back, worshiping him in turn.