Someone to Love(43)
I sneak another quick peek.
Bits and pieces!
Bits and pieces!
Shit! Shit! Shit! I knew I should have read the class description a little more thoroughly. I was so worried about not getting a full load that I glossed over the specifics. And the fact I was a transfer student meant I would be left with the crappy classes the rest of the student body didn’t care for if I didn’t act fast. I thought for sure I made safe choices, unlike the dicey decisions I’ve engaged in since my arrival, like asking my newfound “Professor” to tutor me in the fine art of one-night stands—and for damn sure I wasn’t gunning to stare at geriatric penises for an hour straight, three times a week, in the name of art of all things.
“You can stop freaking out,” Blair whispers. “He’s completely turned the other way.”
I peer over and confirm her theory. He’s older with a hairy back and a furry ass to match. I don’t really mind all the fur, seeing that it creates a simian effect, and that sort of takes the edge off the whole naked human thing. To his left sits an equally garmentless woman, woefully seasoned by time. Her heavily puckered face boasts a thousand wrinkles that wink in and out as she frowns. Her copper hair is in need of a touch-up at the roots as evidenced by the four inches of silver sprouting from her scalp. And I’m betting she’s had enough experience with the Unhappy Hair and Nail Salon to know to stay the hell away from that place. Her skin is dutifully leathered, leaving her unusually smooth and perky breasts to glow like lanterns in contrast to the rest of her.
“God, it’s like her boobs never aged,” I whisper to Blair.
“I bet half the boys in the class are hitting DEFON five with their erections right about now,” she sneers, and we share a laugh.
“They should’ve mentioned the arousal factor as a disclaimer for the class. Not that I’m even slightly aroused.”
“Not with that beefcake you’ve got lying around.” She glides her pencil across her paper with a marked aggression.
Beefcake? She probably has me confused with someone else. Technically, I’m not with Cruise, although he does more than qualify for the beefcake category.
Professor Webber scuttles over. “Start with the model closest to you.” She leans in over my shoulder, inspiring me to pick up my pencil and quickly sketch out something that loosely resembles a cat. “I’d like the models to rotate positions.” She booms over at the two human skin sacs, and they shift in their seats.
I wait until she scissors on by before leaning into Blair.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t offer us the full frontal,” I say, attempting to sketch out his form. He’s hunched over and his head is tilted to the side. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he were coming to the conclusion this was an egregious error in judgment.
“You act like you’ve never seen it before.” She gives a disbelieving look.
My mouth opens to say something, but a shy smile cinches up my lips, instead.
I suppose it’s odd to find a virgin in the masses, so I don’t volunteer the fact I’m one of the defamed mythological creatures. Instead, I happily trace out the half-moon spread in front of me and try not to dwell on the fact he’s slightly adjusted himself and now I can see his belly. I simply won’t look below the fold and safely avert all trauma.
“You know they pay a fortune for these models,” she purrs.
“Oh, I’m sure they’re volunteers.” I’m quick to shoot down her fiscally unsound theory. “There are probably miles of perverts willing to ingrain their junk into our delicate grey matter. I wouldn’t be surprised if the nudists on display are having some heightened sexual experience on our behalf. I once watched this special about people who got off looking at feet all day long. Swear to God, every time I see a man glance at my stilettos, I run the other way.”
“You’re funny.” She says it dry like she doesn’t really mean it. “But I happen to know for a fact that the art department at Garrison pays two hundred bucks a pop to anyone who wants to strut their stuff.” She shrugs. “It beats flipping burgers. The catch is, you’re only allowed once a semester.”
“Are you going to do it?” I’m completely intrigued, and for a brief moment, I imagine her perched on one of those cold steely chairs sans the paper-thin robe.
“Maybe.” She looks to the ceiling a moment. “How about you? I bet it’d more than cover the cost of the art supplies. You’d practically make money on the deal.”
Two hundred dollars? Forget the art supplies, I could pay Cruise for room and board. Take him to dinner for a change.