If you've read the previous parts you'll know you can skip the rest of the intro and go straight to the action
You'll also know that I'm writing a series of accounts about my life in England; mainly true accounts, with just a little embellishing here and there. They're about my sex life to be precise, but then what other type of life is written about on Lit?
A biography I suppose, but a short one and an unfinished one. Is it arrogant for a, nearly, twenty one year old to write a bio? Probably, but then, hey, what the hell, I want to tell my short story so let's see just how many want to read it.
How many want to read about how I lost my virginity when I was eighteen, had an affair with a thirty something man just after that and how since then I've been strongly attracted to older men. About my time at university, learning about girls and how male lecturers ignore the no fraternising with female students rule. How I became a photographic model, part-time and my conflict over what goes on in the studio when there's just the model and the cameraman there.
The accounts flow naturally and are intrinsically linked. I strongly urge you to read them in the sequence I wrote them. Whatever way you do read them, though, enjoy them, leave whatever comments you wish and e-mail me if you'd like to discuss anything.
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Chapter 1
I suppose we should have realised it would happen. I guess my lipstick lesbian lover and I should have worked out that there would be quite a reaction. We should have thought things through more carefully and recognised that our fellow students at the university in Bristol would react quite strongly.
I mean, after all, when two moderately attractive, if I do say so myself, girls flash all their bits on stage what can you expect? When between them they do six nude scenes with an audience of three hundred each night for five nights there's bound to be some comeback isn't there? When they kiss and caress each other on stage their fellow students must inevitably think differently about the girls than before they saw them in all their glory, mustn't they? When two girls like Steph and I bare our breasts, our nipples, almost certainly hardened, our flat stomachs, slender thighs, and bushy pubes it's ridiculous to not anticipate that there'll be some comeback.
And of course there was.
There was leers as boys looked at us and stares from girls that were part disdainful, part sneering and part, I think, envious. We both got loads of wolf whistles and often shouted comments as well that were more directed to Steph such as, "come on show us yer tits."
It had been the university drama club's Christmas offering, Joe Orton's classic, "What the Butler Saw" that had caused this. I'd been responsible for the script adaptation and for some extra scenes and David, the lecturer who I was having an affair with had been the director. It had been amazingly erotic to have him directing the lesbian scene I'd added. He didn't know that I was having fairly regular sex with Stephanie, the female lead in the play, and she didn't know I was having an affair with the married lecturer. So when he was telling Steph and I how to best act out the scene we needed little guidance really, for it was something we were already doing two or three times each week.
It was really only my sex with Steph and my affair with David that had kept me sane these past w weeks at university. I hated being there and at the end of the first year I'd tried to persuade my parents to let me leave, but they wouldn't. I could hardly believe that my dad, who I utterly adored, could be so mean to his "princess" and I'd thrown a massive month long strop that included not joining them on the traditional summer holiday at our house in Florida. That really pissed dad off.
So I'd been forced to come back to uni in the October for the Christmas term. I still hated it but now there were a few compensations. I enjoyed the drama society, helping David with developing "What the Butler Saw", being shagged by him, learning all about Stephanie's great tits and making lesbian love with her.
I guess our notoriety actually started before the bloody play even ended its run for we began getting tons of e-mails. Mostly crude and often anonymous they asked the most intimate questions and related in the most minute detail just what the senders would like to do to us. That usually involved words such as cock, cunt, tits and ass often with all four being used in the same sentence.
"Look you clearly aren't shy about being naked, so why don't' you model for the art society," I was asked by one of the more sensible fine art students. I haggled around with him going through what a daft idea it was and putting forward, "why the hell should I?" sort of arguments.
But somehow it struck a chord with me. For some reason the suggestion stayed in my head. I was a little intrigued and, I suppose, slightly excited by it. Why? God knows. Was it my exhibitionistic tendencies, that had affected me so strongly when I was nude on stage in the play, emerging again, I wondered?
On top of that I was told they paid a hundred pounds for a session. Although my dad had given me a MINI Cooper S, paid the college fees and provided me with a flat that I shared with three others I was cash poor. I couldn't just pop out and buy a new dress or handbag and rarely did I have hardly any money in my purse. The odd hundred quid now and then sounded very tempting indeed.
Paraphrasing the words of an actor in a famous British sitcom, "I can't believe it," I said to myself. I couldn't believe what was happening; to me, my mind, my body and mostly to my breasts, well to be absolutely specific, my nipples. They were getting hard. Fortunately I was posed so that from where the students sat they could see my back and only a side view of one of my boobs. Nevertheless they could get up and move around a couple did gaze at my body from all angles
I started reciting the eight times table, I always had difficulty with that, and declining the French verb "to be" in an effort to take my mind off my tits.
I'd been sitting naked in front of the portrait group for twenty minutes or so. There was hardly any talking although they'd put on some weird, Indian type music in the background. They'd also lit some joss sticks and sweet smelling candles before I got there and most, or at least many, were smoking weed and a few were swigging from bottles, metal polish probably I thought, for none of them looked as though they had two pennies to rub together. Presumably all that was to increase the creative juices, but to me it was redolent of sixties films and seemed very much last year.
"Je suis, tu est, il est, elle est. Seven eights are, what the hell are they, oh yes fifty six, eight eights are, oh fuck I haven't the foggiest idea," I was saying to myself as the group looked at me and then recorded in charcoal what their weird minds were undoubtedly visualising.
It was no good. They kept getting harder and harder. Now they were throbbing and a heat and a pressure was spreading from them and oozing through my body.
"Nous sommes, vous etes," I said to myself knowing that it was hopeless for I was becoming turned on. I was aroused and excited. My thighs felt like jelly and inside my tummy felt as though it was on fire. Were their stares different now? Maybe that was the dope and the booze, I speculated. "Yeah right," I thought, "twelve horny art students looking at a naked model whose nipples were exploding in front of them and they'll think they're hallucinating!"
