darkwall
Well-known member
The young woman looked nervous as she propped herself up like a mermaid on a rock. She was entirely naked, her boyish-looking body yellow under the lighting of the classroom: the blemishes on her skin made more obvious. Her pubic hair was trimmed, a small detail that made her self-consciousness palpable to us. She had privately thought about the way she would be displayed and she had presented herself accordingly. Everything from her painted toenails to her short combed hair was premeditated in a nervous fashion.
Before her we were sat, rows of staring public school boys. For me, at least, she was not sexually attractive, but I was still fascinated by her. The idea that she would so blandly submit to position after position was something incomprehensible to me and yet alluring to my adolescent nature.
The classes were disproportionately popular given that they began in the evenings after our study hour and so ate into our leisure. This was not in itself surprising, given what they promised: what was strange was how they were barely talked about. ‘You going to life drawing, Peters?’ one might casually say. Yet there were no jokes, or anything revealing what the classes were: our conversations were checked by the same hypnotic allure, like a dream we all shared that would vanish if we spoke about it.
The master was Fellows, a kindly mottled old priestly type who was delicate in his approach. During the sessions we talked to her through him, as if she was a creature he had summoned. She would undress behind a screen, which always seemed strange to me. After she emerged and he took the screen down, he handled her clothes in the most gentlemanly of fashions. Often during a difficult pose he would enquire how her blood flow was doing. She would always smile and say that it was like being in the sea – it got easier after a while.
When it was the tea-break, she dressed herself in a blanket and walked around looking at our drawings. Mine were better than most, but I was no colourist and so I’d always save doing the colours until after the break so that I could escape with it at the end. Sometimes she’d talk to us and we’d ask her stupid things like what her favourite movies were. Not one of us ever touched her, but she was real, realer than what was in the textbooks or the biology classes.
When one was with her one felt that one was missing out on a large part of things. "It" didn’t look the same as up on the screen, but it still smiled and asked or answered things. It still did something funny to you, like we weren’t really talking at all and what was happening was deeper, stronger, older.
I met her in a bakery in the town one afternoon. She seemed smaller somehow, and less remarkable in make-up. I examined her face for signs while we stood in the queue together. Slowly up her neck and across her cheeks there spread a redness that was so strong, that when she turned to leave I had to bend my head and pretend not to have recognised her.
After that day, I changed to nature drawing instead. I never saw her again, but I can still picture her, with Fellows saying, ‘observe the shape of the ulna, boys,’ while her shoulders shook almost imperceptibly in the cold of the long bright classroom.
Before her we were sat, rows of staring public school boys. For me, at least, she was not sexually attractive, but I was still fascinated by her. The idea that she would so blandly submit to position after position was something incomprehensible to me and yet alluring to my adolescent nature.
The classes were disproportionately popular given that they began in the evenings after our study hour and so ate into our leisure. This was not in itself surprising, given what they promised: what was strange was how they were barely talked about. ‘You going to life drawing, Peters?’ one might casually say. Yet there were no jokes, or anything revealing what the classes were: our conversations were checked by the same hypnotic allure, like a dream we all shared that would vanish if we spoke about it.
The master was Fellows, a kindly mottled old priestly type who was delicate in his approach. During the sessions we talked to her through him, as if she was a creature he had summoned. She would undress behind a screen, which always seemed strange to me. After she emerged and he took the screen down, he handled her clothes in the most gentlemanly of fashions. Often during a difficult pose he would enquire how her blood flow was doing. She would always smile and say that it was like being in the sea – it got easier after a while.
When it was the tea-break, she dressed herself in a blanket and walked around looking at our drawings. Mine were better than most, but I was no colourist and so I’d always save doing the colours until after the break so that I could escape with it at the end. Sometimes she’d talk to us and we’d ask her stupid things like what her favourite movies were. Not one of us ever touched her, but she was real, realer than what was in the textbooks or the biology classes.
When one was with her one felt that one was missing out on a large part of things. "It" didn’t look the same as up on the screen, but it still smiled and asked or answered things. It still did something funny to you, like we weren’t really talking at all and what was happening was deeper, stronger, older.
I met her in a bakery in the town one afternoon. She seemed smaller somehow, and less remarkable in make-up. I examined her face for signs while we stood in the queue together. Slowly up her neck and across her cheeks there spread a redness that was so strong, that when she turned to leave I had to bend my head and pretend not to have recognised her.
After that day, I changed to nature drawing instead. I never saw her again, but I can still picture her, with Fellows saying, ‘observe the shape of the ulna, boys,’ while her shoulders shook almost imperceptibly in the cold of the long bright classroom.
