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“Very nice,” Professor Santini murmurs and licks his lips. I focus my attention on the doorknob.
I never establish eye contact with students in a classroom while I’m posing. It’s unprofessional to make eyes at budding artists, or to provide them with an easy opportunity to make eyes at me. In fact, I only meet the gaze of an artist when we’re working one on one—and by their specific request. But between each set of poses, I check out the students and connect visually with the instructor. I need to determine the mood of the room—are the artists satisfied, curious, questioning, bored, frustrated?
By reading the room, I get a better feel for what I need to do next.
And so, as is my habit, I scan the room. Though I’m not posing, the artists continue to study me intently, the way the doctors at the Garner City Health Clinic inspect Wendy’s throat for strep. Professor Santini—who has been moving from student to student, offering quiet commentary—makes no specific pose suggestions. He smiles lewdly at me and waggles his furry eyebrows. I sure hope that isn’t drool in the corner of his mouth.
My gaze passes over the dark-haired student who seemed to have had such a powerful appetite for me prior to the start of class. He’s completely absorbed by the paper on his drawing board. His expressive eyes have lost their brazenness and now look almost dreamy; his wide shoulders are slightly hunched in concentration.
I blow out a small puff of… disappointment? No, it’s gotta be relief. I’m now mere food for his artistic thoughts.
Soon, I’m setting the timer for the last of the gestures. Mild fatigue sets into my muscles, but it isn’t yet painful. I squat so my butt hovers just above the floor, as I still haven’t spread the blanket. I lean back, my weight resting upon my arms behind me. Then I slide my legs until they’re wide open and extended in front of me, wholly exposing my slack privates for public viewing. But instead of fixing my gaze on a designated smudge above the classroom door, I break my own rule and let my eyes wander to the dark-haired student. There’s something intriguing about him—he’s so dedicated to his art that he’s become lost in it. I admire his willingness to surrender himself to the work that clearly means the world to him. I wish I had the opportunity to do the same with the career goals I have pushed aside so I can support my family.
The artist pulls in a deep breath, as if he’s preparing to lift a barbell, not a pen.
And I study him as he glances up from his drawing board, tilts his head to gain new perspective, and fastens his gaze to mine. Before I’m ready to look away, the man’s scrutiny morphs from contemplative to crafty. Our stares crash together; still, I don’t shy away. I’m not yet finished taking him in.
He is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
