Modeling

In college, I devoted my studies to the History of Art, with the odd goal of wearing tailored suits and sleek, smooth hair held neatly in a bun.  Through the course of my education, I was required to take several figure drawing classes.  I enjoyed them immensely.  I learned anatomy — how the skeleton supports which muscles connected by what tendons covered by variations of flesh.  We were always encouraged to dissect the naked form into still-life shapes, finding their relationship to the next shape, noticing textures and how the light and shadow highlight bits and hides others.  I’d leave these classes, exhilarated, covered in charcoal, on to the next class, but thinking back to our models.  

A model, voluntarily naked on display, vulnerable in front of horny and confused students sketching for good marks, hoping to check things off the rubric while developing an artistic style … or something.  Though I seemed to do ok with the perspective and proportions, I often had trouble separating the still-life before me from their nakedness.   (Those rower’s shoulders were not going to massage themselves.)  I was both mesmerized and jealous. 

Intensely scrutinizing male or female body features and proportions.  How well does this human represent the “ideal” — the golden ratio of Vitruvian Man.  Compare and contrast, taking artistic liberties on the newsprint … and in my mind.  

Picturing my fingers tracing lines.  Examining textures:  smooth, soft, curves, firm, warm, long, girthy, erect, hard…

Since that time, some things have changed:  my goal of looking put-together in professional work attire with respectable hair has flown right out the window with any hope of a well-paying career.   

But what remains is the hungry jealousy which comes from my evolution of becoming both exhibitionist and insatiable voyeur.

As it has happened, I find myself sharing select, very controlled images of my body to a curated audience.  In this community are those who appreciate art and the artists who create pieces depicting the nude form.  I consider my photos artistic (composed by light and shadow and composition, creating a benign landscape or still-life of myself), but also a vulnerable naked display in front of horny and confused students.  Is this “modeling?”  I have been asked about my perspective. 

Imagining myself in their place, I wonder how the models in studio felt and what their thoughts were — how they passed the time, holding a pose, observing each of us while we scribbled and shaded, fingers rubbing the curve of her breast or perfect connection where his glutes met the back of his thighs.  

Do any of my models allow themselves the indulgence of a wandering mind as I do?  In the “gesture drawing” part of the class, a model is instructed to take different shapes — performing stretches, twists, bending, kneeling, reclining; a warm up for the class —  examples of what they might present for a longer pose.   Lights are adjusted to give each artist the benefit (in my case a crutch) of drama to enhance shape.  

As I exhibit myself, I imagine what you think. Are you similarly hungry with desire as I am when I divide into pieces (tear apart) a model with my eyes?  I imagine your gaze sweeping very slowly down my neck as if touching, searching for a reaction — visual evidence of my arousal.  My nipples erect with the attention given by your laser focus.  A warmth … a quickening of pulse, a slight perspiration under the light, an intense needfulness.  Moisture between my legs as I am made alive, stimulated by my audience.  

I am reminded that I am supposed to remain still, while the urge to splay my legs and arch my back is intense.  My fingers finding wet folds, exposing and opening to the shock of everyone in the room.  Sinking two middle fingers deep … withdrawing … glistening, reflecting the light, writhing, wanting to be joined on this pedestal by those in the studio with charcoal covered hands, scribbling and shading, rubbing with fingers, damp, dark gray black smudges on my neck and face and tits and thighs, stomach and ass.  Use me as the medium and canvas. 

Intensely comprehend.   Study.  Cram.   Forcefully turn me over to study me from every angle.  Repeat for memory.  

Use your sensitive instruments — fingers, tongue, cocks —- to probe and yield to the desire we are creating together, surrendering to the trancelike pull of our creative expression.  Frenzied disregard of art studio etiquette.  Normally, only the model is nude, not everyone.  “Form follows function,” taken to the extreme as I am the form and each student performing a function to get. us. off.  Every erect protuberance answered with a warm wet place to stick it, again and again.  We have become abstracted in undulating lines and textures in the dramatic lighting. 

Time is noted, and everyone begins hurriedly working their final details as my expanded universe is brought into focus with the self consciousness of losing myself in thought.  Is my flushed chest or swollen wetness noticeable?   Did anyone feel a shift my aura, moving from passive gray to red as I melted in frantic fantasy?  

I love to observe the various styles and expressions of model and artist, imagining thoughts and narratives in the infinite relationships between.