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If you want me not to be naughty, I reasoned, just say so. Cut the bull.
But I have to admit, sticking me in a class with those guys was a real game changer. In fact, I wouldn’t be totally surprised if she put Seattle up to getting me drunk the night before. Sort of breaking down my inhibitions, maybe. That could be too. They could both be in on it.
But probably not. I mean, Dean Rhodes could think up something like that, but it would be totally out of character for Seattle to do anything for another human being. It’s just not in her nature.
So I’m sure she was not sitting around Dean Rhodes’s desk like they were leaning over a bubbling cauldron, trying to figure out the exact right incantation to shake me up.
Okay, I change my mind. That part was definitely a coincidence.
But the collaboration class? With four non-art majors? You can’t tell me that was some kind of karma. That was definitely a plot. All on the same football team? All just coincidentally big, strong, handsome men who are perfectly willing to disrobe in front of each other?
Are you fucking kidding me?
Yeah, like that would ever happen in real life. Don’t make me laugh.
So, the Dean came up with this brilliant idea to shake me up, talked to me into it, and voilà, I made probably the best drawing of my entire life.
I felt like I was possessed. I don’t know what was happening. I can’t even remember doing the whole thing. Just as soon as they all took the pose and started staring at me, I felt like I was burning in an intense light. Like their eyes were all each individual spotlights that were setting me on fire, one by one.
And as they stared at me, and I stared at them, something happened. Something absolutely magical. I could see their skin sort of… How can I even describe it? Melt? No. Nothing that mundane. Connect? Vibrate? Hum with the music of the heavenly spheres?
That’s actually pretty close.
I mean, my hand just took off. The charcoal just skated across the paper. I was documenting not just what I saw, but what Ifeltlike I saw. How it would feel to touch them, to slip my hand between the pressed-together shapes of their muscles and forms. To lie underneath a half ton of flesh. To ride on top of them like a porpoise surfing to shore.
It was miraculous. It left me breathless and shaking, practically orgasmic if I am being honest. Shivering.
And weirdly, I felt naked. That kind of makes me laugh, because I was the only person in the room with any clothes on. But I felt naked. Exposed.
Back in my dorm room, I look around at my books, the posters on the wall, the pile of laundry I left folded at the end by bed. Same old, same old life. Really? Everything is just can continue on like… like it’s normal?
Part of me wants to call up the dean and let her know how right she was. But then again, it’s just one drawing. What if it never happens again? What if I can’t ever find that sensation again? I guess I could just submit that drawing as the final. If it never happens again, I may have to.
But while I feel totally triumphant and transported and everything, I also feel a little edge of fear creeping in. Seriously, what if that was it? What is that was the best thing I’ll ever do? What if I will never again—
The door swings open, and Seattle swoops in.
Today she is shrouded in layers and layers of fabric in turquoise. Maybe some of the under layers are not turquoise, because there is a slippery, watery feel to her outfit. It looks as though the deeper layers are not made of the same stuff as the outer layers.
“You’re home!” she sing-songs as she drifts through the room, her turquoise covering splitting down the front and then falling away like the husk of a cocoon.
“Of course I’m home,” surprising myself with how cranky I sound.
It’s not her fault that I am hungover, I remind myself. She may have been there, but she didn’t make me drink those drinks. I can’t take it out on her.
Seattle sits primly on the barstool next to the drafting table and crosses her legs, folding her hands neatly over her knee as she squints at me critically.
“Ansel was extremelybarteredthat you just stood him up like that,” she quips.
“Stood him up? What? He’syourdate, Seattle,” I remind her.
“I told you he wanted to talk to you,” she fusses. “He says he wants to put you in Miami. I would kill to be in Miami.”
“Didn’t you already show in Miami?”
“That doesn’t matter, pet,” she huffs, waving her fingers in the air in front of her as though magically squeegeeing the words out of the air. “Point is, he likes your work. Isn’t that what you want? For people to like your work?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I admit.
