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Any resemblance of characters or circumstances to persons or events, living, dead, or fictional is entirely unintentional. Sexual activity should occur only between consenting adults in the absence of coercion. Fantasy is different from reality; one should be aware of the difference.
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My heart pounded in my chest as I opened the door to the arts building. It was after hours, almost 7:30 in the evening when classrooms were empty, lights were turned off, and only a small maintenance crew was cleaning and straightening in preparation for the next day's classes. Only a handful of classrooms were in use this time of night, and one of those handful was my reason for being here.
'I can't believe I'm doing this,' I thought as I checked the directions on my phone and turned down an unfamiliar hallway.
I was in my second year at state university and things were going well. I was enjoying my classes, I'd made good friends, and had found that balance between doing well and having fun. It was a nice change because high school had been hard for me.
My family had moved at the end of my eighth grade year, so I started school not knowing anybody. It's bad enough not having a posse, but nature had decided to play a trick on me. Most of the girls in my classes developed at the expected time. I... did not. I kept looking like a weirdly short boy while the rest of the girls were obviously becoming women. To the girls, I was someone to keep around to make them look better. To the boys, I may as well not have existed. I tried to make an impression, especially on a particular boy who made my heart flutter whenever I looked at him. Paul Hopkins- lean, well-spoken, and (I thought) sensitive and artistic. In my bed at night I dreamed of somehow catching his eye, arousing in him the fascination that he aroused in me. Sometimes I did other things alone in my bed at night, thinking about Paul.
One day Paul was standing in the hall between classes with a handful of other boys, watching the girls go by and discussing the size and shape of their boobs. One girl walked past and I heard a shout of "melons!" Another was met with "apples," and a third "tennis balls!" After every shout, the boys would laugh raucously. Sometimes the girl would glare, other times blush or just hurry past. The boys fell silent as I walked past, which was bad enough. But I heard Paul blurt out, "pancakes!" If I could have folded myself up into a ball and disappeared, I would have. Instead, I held a book to my non-existent chest and tried not to cry as they cackled and high-fived behind me.
The name stuck. From then on, only the teachers called me "Lana." To everyone else, I was "Pancakes Drake," or just "Pancakes." My entire existence at school was tied to my total lack of a chest. I learned to avoid notice and hide my figure, such as it was, in baggy clothes. It was only after I graduated that things changed. Finally, finally I grew taller, my hips grew rounder, and my pancakes swelled to become rather shapely B-cups. By about halfway through my Freshman year of college, I had grown into what I hoped was a nice figure. Not that anyone could tell; after years of being called "pancakes" the habit of dressing in the loosest, baggiest clothes possible was hard to shake. I thought that if nobody could see my body, they couldn't make fun of me. But really, I did it because I couldn't stand to see myself.
Things changed because college helped me start over and learn to be braver. Some of it was new friends who had never known me as "Pancakes," but always as just "Lana". Some of it was my classes. And I think some of it was just being fed up with hiding. I shopped a little with my new friends and (with their encouragement) wearing things that were a bit less concealing. By the time I started my Sophomore year, things had changed. I was hardly one of those coeds with her ass hanging halfway out of a tiny pair of shorts, or the crop top that just barely covered her tits. But I was at least wearing pants the right size and cute little tank tops. Compared to sweatshirts and baggy jeans, that was huge.
It wasn't enough though. I hated feeling ashamed of my own body and I was always looking for the next step that would help me get over it. Which was ultimately why I was in the arts building after dark. My friend, Jamila, had called me out of the blue a couple of hours earlier as I was studying. Jamila was a year ahead of me; we had hit it off when we sat together in calculus. She was tall, with olive skin and black hair, and was making it through school with a combination of scholarships, loans, and a whole flock of jobs.
"Heeeeey, Lana, how are you?" she asked, voice so raw it made me wince just listening to it.
Jamila had a job that evening, but she sounded like death and was clearly in no shape to do it. As usual, though, she needed the money, and if she could find a replacement, she'd still earn ten percent of the original amount. My finances were a lot more secure than Jamila's, but I wasn't exactly awash in cash. It'd be nice to earn a bit more, and to help out a friend. The catch was the job itself.
"I'm supposed to work as an art model." Jamila explained, "Show up, stand there, and let a class paint you. Pretty easy. The only thing is..."
"Yeah? What?" I asked, but I had a sinking feeling I knew where this was going.
"It's modeling nude, girl. I've done it before and it's really chill! The professor is a really nice guy and he watches out for you, and the students are nice and respectful. You just have to stand there... you know, naked... while they paint. Takes about an hour and a half and you get paid four hundred dollars."
I felt a whole rainforest worth of butterflies flapping around in my stomach.
"Look, I know how you are but everyone else I've tried is sick, or busy, or just chicken. You're kind of my last hope, hon. Please?"
My immediate reaction was to refuse. There was no way I could stand naked in some room so a bunch of strangers could paint me! I'd just spent the better part of five years trying to keep everyone from seeing me, from seeing my body, and now... what? I'm just supposed to get my tits out for everyone to see? But underneath I felt excited. Not like happy excited, but the kind of excitement you feel when you're hooked up to the bungie cord and you stand right on the edge of the platform and know that in a moment you're going to jump off. If I want to stop feeling ashamed of my body, wouldn't this be the way?
"You know what?" I answered at last, "Fine. I'll do it. Send me the deets and I'll do it."
And so, here I was, outside the door to an art studio where, I guessed, I'd soon be standing naked.
I took a deep breath, and discovered the door was locked. Bewildered, I checked the door number- yes, it matched the instructions in my phone. I raised my fist to knock.
"Ms. Drake?" A man's voice called out.
I turned, seeing him walking briskly towards me. He was older, probably mid-thirties, with neatly groomed black hair and a short beard. He was dressed in an old Greenday t-shirt over jeans and brown shoes.
"Um... yes?" I answered.
"Glad I found you! I'm Professor Stephens, I teach the class you're here for."
