Life Drawing 102

I entered the room very unsure of what to expect. I had just turned 18 the month before and not sure of what would take me beyond the high school educational experiences that I suffered through. After much parental pleading, I was able to enroll in a foundations art program at a nearby community college. It was kind of the way I had to convince my parents that art was my thing. My sister had been accepted into a university art program before me, but had dropped out to be with her boyfriend at another school in Virginia. It was going to be a hard sell for me to prove that I was dedicated to pursuing a costly higher ed degree in art and hopefully an eventual transfer to the same school and program that my sister had dropped out of.

I was carrying the course required drawing tools for this class in my backpack and a rather awkwardly sized portfolio to carry my finished work. We were all new art students - like broken winged butterflies flitting around trying to land in the same space. My heart was beating rapidly and brought my breath into a twisted knot inside my chest. This is what anxiety mixed with curiosity felt like. I had never stood and stared at a naked body with nineteen other people in the same room with me. Would I be able to separate the sexual response from the artist's capture?

The studio was on the top floor of the furthest building on the edge of the campus. It was my first higher education experience and this course was called "Life Drawing". It was in the building where they housed classes and the professors who didn't fit into the mainstream structure of traditional classrooms. Down the hall at the other end of the building were the lab classes for engineering courses, something I noted, but didn't give much thought to at the time. I entered into the studio space with other students who didn't know each other and immediately fell into the physical negotiation of where to set up an easel so others couldn't see my work directly. It's a visual artist thing. Unlike strippers and musicians, who can stand in front of many and share their talents, I feel like visual artists tend to hold the experience to themselves and share when they are finished with creating. It is an exhibitionist's dichotomy.

After the initial shuffling, I allowed myself to look up to follow the smooth male voice giving us set up directions for class. When I did, I saw the most stunning man's ass I had ever seen, and that was just the captivating backside of him. From that view, stood a tall and solidly built figure, you know the classic triangle - broad, defined shoulders with a narrow waist and hips, and a taut, rounded gluteus. He had a long honey colored head of hair pulled back into a ponytail that fell down the center of his back, resting between his shoulder blades. He wore a t-shirt and tight corduroys - so tight you could see the curve of his ass from his belt down to the solid muscles of his hamstrings. He was maybe six or seven years older than I was. He was speaking in a voice that was soft and deep - completely in control and confident. "Grab an easel and bring it toward the center of the room," he directed us. He was standing near a raised platform in the middle of the studio, arranging a metal chair with a back, a stool and some draping material. Above and to the sides of the platform were clamp lights on stands that were waiting to be positioned after the model arrived to begin work.

He turned around as a few of us moved forward to set up our easels. My eyes looked in the direction of the voice and found a face that was framed with a well formed jaw dusted with a red and gold five o'clock shadow at 11 am in the morning. I have to say that at that vulnerable moment, my eyes immediately latched on to his confident stare. It was a look of evaluative judgement when they met with mine and held on for longer than I could stand. I dropped my gaze hoping not to be discovered in that burning connection and out of shyness and fear that he would now know my thoughts and I would be eaten alive right there in front of the class. It was in that release that I glanced down to observe the details of the front of his body and its clothing that clung at the places where his muscles stretched the fabrics of both his t-shirt and cords - across the deltoids at his shoulders, down past his abdominals, and arriving to a most gorgeous lengthened bulge on the right side of his button fly.

That lovely cock was rested snugly against his upper quad behind a cover of fabric. I had to convince myself to look away completely. I didn't want him to see where my eyes took rest, but it was too late. I immediately started to pulse in the core of my sex. I could feel that I was rapidly becoming slippery between my legs from that physical longing to just reach and release those buttons that were straining over his manhood. Was that its flaccid state? Gulp. I hoped he couldn't read these thoughts or step into my very active imagination at that moment. I'm betting he could though, as he seemed completely aware of the impact that his physical presence had on others, especially the females in the group. He had obviously honed the way that could arouse sexual scent and response from either sex in the room. He was a pro. You could tell he could smell the energy we all felt around the studio, just by the way he moved and how he spoke - almost lion-like.

I knew I was never going to miss this class, I was motivated and hooked. My first challenge was to figure out how to become the person he would want to pay more attention to. How was I going to respond to that sexual energy and still expose my vulnerable artist-in-training self to this feral man?

It turned out not to be a problem for me.