An hour into my first class as a nude art model, the instructor told me to get into a pose I could hold for 20 minutes. I was on a platform in the middle of the room with about ten students, two of them male, stood around me in a semicircle. I got down on my knees, put my forearms on the floor, and rested my head on my clasped hands. One of the men called out "Great pose!" with such enthusiasm that for the first time in that session I felt really, really naked. Why in the hell did I pick this pose?
I recently spent two classes as a model at a local College of Art and Design. I hadn't done any nude work before but I love art and an artist friend of mine had been telling me I should pose for some time. So I decided to do what normal people are curious about but are too normal to do themselves. After I left a message at the school signifying my availability, the model coordinator, Silvia called me for a preliminary interview. It turned out to be no problem that I'd never modeled nude before, as long as I was willing to be nude for my maiden voyage.
Silvia invited me for an in-person interview, where she quickly approved me then gave some crucial advice. She said I should bring a bathrobe to class to wear during breaks. "You don't want to be" she cupped her hands mid-chest, "hanging out." I didn't think my chest was that big were I would be.
I had met the two essential model requirements: I owned a bathrobe. I was willing to take it off.
Silvia consulted her schedule. She penciled me in for one teacher then changed her mind. "No. One of the models told me this instructor likes the models to walk around and interact with the students". I wondered what I was signing myself up for. Was I supposed to sidle up to a young artist and say, "Is that a paintbrush in your pocket?" She considered another class.
I filled out the employment application, Silvia gave me a list of guidelines, which included my right to ask that the heat be turned up and my obligation to "use proper hygiene at all times." Silvia finally settled on an evening class, consisting largely of adult-education students. I would be paid $25 an hour. I wondered why it was so hard to find and keep models. It sounded like the ideal job: earning a damn good wage just to sit on your ass.
The night before I was nervous, looking at myself naked in front of the mirror seeing every flaw of my body. I cupped my breasts with my hands, lifting them up a bit wishing they would stay where they had been when I was in my early twenties. I watched my thick nipples get hard yearning for a man to be here sucking them. I dropped them quickly because I had other things to worry about. I turned around to look at my back and was happy to see my ass was still nice and firm. When I turned back around I scrutinized the tuft of brown hair between my legs. I had let it grow out after breaking up with Steven, and now it looked a mess. The top was a long thicket of hair that had started to creep down over the top of my pussy, and the rest my pussy was now covered with tiny fine brown hairs. I normally keep myself smooth with just a tiny V of fine brown hair just above my pussy. I don't like anything to get in the way when my man is giving me one of my favorite sexual pleasures. There was no way anyone was going to see me like this, but I was apprehensive about shaving to my normal look. I didn't want to completely expose myself to a bunch of students. After some thought I got the razor and went to work, getting myself back to my usual look. After giving my pussy all of that attention it wasn't long before I was in the shower finger worshiping my pussy and shuddering with a powerful orgasm
On the scheduled night I arrived early, after going through what I realized was the silly-under-the-circumstances ritual of wondering what to wear. I changed into my white terry bathrobe in the restroom and waited in the classroom while the students arrived. I was relieved to see they were almost all women between the ages of 20 and 60. Melissa the instructor asked me to start with 10 one-minute poses. I asked if she had any particular poses in mind. She shook her head, "I never tell models what to do."
Let me tell you the distinction between naked and nude. Naked is when you step out of the shower before you've put on your bathrobe. Nude is when you drop your robe in front of a roomful of art students. As I undid the sash to my robe, I had the momentary thought that I could say, "I don't know what I was thinking," then grab my clothes and run. But I opened the sash, took off my robe, and stepped up on the platform.
I stood there, suppressing a strong desire to giggle, thank god, the students suppressed their giggles, too as I tried to think of appropriate poses. I wanted to do something neither sultry nor stiff. I began doing yoga-like twists, but with my being undressed and all, I was afraid it had the appearance of yoga porn. I found it was easier than parading around in my bathing suit and high heels when I was 24 trying to be Ms. Dallas. Then I was trying to convince people that my corseted and padded body had allure over other girls that where full of plastic. Now I was just a bunch of spheres. Maybe a slightly deflated sphere here and there, but spheres and angles in space. It felt like that dream in which find yourself in class naked, when you know things aren't right, but there you are. So you try to act cool and unattached and give the impression you always meant to show up without any clothes.
During a break I put on my robe and looked at some of the drawings. In some portraits I was lithe and limber; in others I was curvy and sexy. I was fascinated how each artist interpreted my body differently.
Melissa had me move on to a series of longer poses, and I was starting to relax about the whole thing when a handsome black man wearing a Kenneth Cole blue striped shirt, dark indigo fitted jeans and carrying a 6-foot-long canvas arrived. He found a place at the edge of the circle with a view of my backside, propped up his canvas, and complimented my pose. My skin tingled and I felt even more naked. His gaze was affecting my concentration. As I listened to Melissa critique the other students, the black man continued to distract me. While the other students drew me in pencil or charcoal, he attacked his canvas furiously with paints and numerous brushes. It sounded like he was sanding an old dresser.
At the next break I again looked at the portraits. I was flattered to be the object of so much attention. One sketch was a feet-first foreshortened view, another an examination of my shoulder, arm, and neck. Then I got to Mr. Black man's canvas. There he had painted a luminous, opalescent, emerald-hued portrait of my ass. The colors were so sensual and passionate I felt my body heat up and my pussy had become moist. I wanted to buy it, I wanted to hug him for making me look so sexy, but I said and did nothing. One of the rules was that I couldn't comment on the students' work unless asked.
I was relieved when Melissa ended the class at that point because the whole class might have gotten a glimpse of the moisture gathering between my legs. I quickly got dressed and made my way out of the classroom to find my black man with his painting of me. To my dismay he was nowhere in sight. By the time I walked through my front door my panties where soaked. My mind flashed the image of his painting over and over in my head, along with the image of his dark cock fucking me in the same beautiful passion as the painting. I had spent half of that night giving my body to him in my naughty fantasies and woke up with a sore pussy and my hand clenching my biggest toy.
I eagerly agreed to model for another class anxiously hoping to see my black painter. This time I would make sure I would meet him. Shortly before the class the model coordinator let me know there would be another model posing with me. I said that was fine but worried about the direction we might be moving in. I did not want to share my Black painter with another model.
The day before, I discussed with my girlfriend my upcoming adventure with the other model and she raised a horrifying possibility. "Wiener?" she asked.
The question loomed till the one o'clock class. I watched as Melissa and the students took their places around the platform. I hung around in my bathrobe eagerly waiting for Mr. Black painter to arrive with apprehension coursing through my body and at the same time trying to stay composed while waiting for the other model.
