Every person in this room is a friend.
Why have I ever let fear hold me back?
If I can do this, I can do anything.
Unconsciously, my eyes find Sam’s.
He doesn’t break the stare, but his cheeks flush cerise. We share that look, that understanding, that safety.
Sam is perfection.
Ollie isn’t Sam.
The calm serenity I’ve felt lying here is replaced by a jolt of fear.
A realisation.
Ollie isn’t Sam.
Why that thought? What does it mean?
Sam is lost in the painting before him, taking his time, taking pride over me, even if it’s in art form.
A strand of blond hair falls over his face, but he doesn’t notice. The veins in his forearm catch my attention, poised over the canvas. What part of me is he obsessing over?
Slowly, people put brushes down. I don’t know what time it is, or even what the rules of life drawing class are. Am I supposed to get up of my own accord, put my robe on, and leave in silence? Am I supposed to stay naked until everyone leaves?
‘People, time is up,’ Jill’s soft voice comes from the back of the room. The door is ajar, her shadow the only thing I could see. ‘Will, you may now put your robe back on.’
I do as I’m told. No awkwardness, no averted eyes.
‘I’m decent,’ I call, and Jill walks back into the room, observing what people have painted. ‘I like what you did there. Great use of colours. Oh, beautiful.’
‘Told you he had a nice member,’ Tim says, and there is an echo of what I hope is agreement in the room. ‘Definitely not a grower.’
Jill clears her throat, heading away from Tim and Jemima and towards Sam. She gasps, her eyes on Sam’s painting.
My heart drops.
‘Sam,’ she breathes. ‘What is that?’
I look at him, seeing his shoulders slump. Of course, he’d drawn me to be the ugliest specimen alive, I’m sure of it.
‘It’s Will.’
‘It’s stunning,’ Jill says, a look of pride on her face. ‘Will, you have to see this.’
I get to my bare feet and walk across the gallery. People follow me to see what Sam has drawn.
Other people gasp, some whistle, and then I see what all the fuss is about.
It’s the most lifelike drawing I’ve ever seen. He’s caught the tone of my skin perfectly, the creases of my stomach like it is the prettiest roll of skin in the world. The hairs on my chest, the fibres on my arms, and the trail leading to my pubic bone highlighted in contrasting colours of black, brown and a rustic red. The shape of my penis, which I absolutely refused to acknowledge when lying naked, is spot on. He’s even captured the curvature of my calves.
‘Sam! I didn’t know you could paint like this.’
‘It’s a little rough around the edges,’ Sam says. ‘I need to finish it.’
‘It’s perfect.’
