I look at my fake boyfriend, my mouth opening into a perfect O.
He winces.
‘I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think you already knew.’ Sam pulls a face. ‘I thought you knew. Oh God, should I not have asked?’
I turn away from their stricken faces, needing to think. I don’t have to do this. There is nothing to prove. The people-pleaser in me, however, says otherwise.
Of course, I’ve never done something like this before, and yes, I’m noticing a theme with Athens and nudity, but this is the real deal. Being nude at the hotel is already out of my comfort zone, and a lot different. Nobody looks at me there. Nobody wants to observe me and draw me like one of their French girls.
‘There are only about twenty of us,’ Jill says. Maybe it’s the fact I’m looking toward the sound of voices that gives me away. ‘We’re all very respectful. We’re not here to be sordid. The human body is an art form, and…’
Her words are lost on me, my mind elsewhere, my heart beating fast.
I pinch the flabby bit on my stomach. I prod muscles that are like jelly, rather than like, well, Sam’s. I think of the hair around my dick, no trim done since arriving here in Greece.
It isn’t like I had to get it tidy for anyone.
Lesson learned. Always shave your willy.
Could this happen? Could I do it?
‘We’re not forcing you,’ Jill continues. ‘Honestly, they won’t mind if you do it clothed. You have to be comfortable.’
The words bring me front and centre.
Why not do it?
I will never see these people again. Well, except for Sam and Jill.
I’m learning to be less… me in Greece. Less fearful.
‘I’ll do it.’
‘What?’ Jill asks, but she looks hopeful. ‘Are you sure?’
‘We don’t want to force you.’
My eyes linger on Sam, hesitation creeping in ever so slightly.
Sam.
Me.
Naked.
‘I’ll do it.’
Why do I keep repeating that?
‘Really?’
‘I will, even though I’m scared. Terrified. But I will do it. I want to do it. Truly, I do.’
It isn’t a lie.
I can do this.
So, with that, we’re inside the gallery, a room of twenty people, just like Jill said. They’re of various ages, dressed like you’d imagine artists would dress; effortlessly cool, chic and stylish. Canvases and easels ready, painting equipment to the side. Everyone sits on stools, aprons already on, glasses of champagne in hand, positioned to face the set, which is simply ablack backdrop with a chaise longue. I can’t meet anyone’s eyes, instead seeing them as huddles of flesh.
