And Then It Is Tuesday

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A young man's first life modelling job.
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And then it is Tuesday, at seven o'clock. Or ten minutes to. And I'm in what passes for a changing room. The art teacher met me at the door, saying nothing about anything, certainly nothing about the fact that the last time she saw me I had just ejaculated in front of her, giving no indication that she had shown me her genitals for that exact purpose. Really, she barely looked at me, which, if I'm honest, is what I was expecting, and what I wanted.

I stood in a cold bathroom, with a sink, a small wooden chair, a toilet and a mirror. A draft of cold air was seeping in from between the glass and the wooden frame wall of a small frosted window. This wasn't going to help with anything. I really didn't know whether the audition, so called, was going to be the exception rather than the rule, either way I knew I didn't want to walk out in front of a class of strangers with a wind chilled penis. I opened the door, looking for something, for someone, looking for the teacher I suppose. There was nobody there. I took a step towards what I thought was the art room door, behind which I could hear some voices. Then I could hear some steps coming towards the door. For some reason, for the usual reason of not wanting to get caught doing something slightly silly I retreated, back to the bathroom. I closed the door again and waited. She spoke.

"How are you doing in there?"

"Well, uh."

"We're ready, when you're ready. Just come out through the door to your left."

"Uh, yeah, uh"

"You don't need a robe or anything do you?"

I did, this is what I wanted, something, anything, so I wasn't walking naked through another corridor, so that I wasn't going to step through a doorway with nothing on, into a room of clothed people, something, anything to delay that moment.

"No, uh, of course not, it'll be fine."

"Uh-huh. We shall see you shortly then."

Of course, we'll see you. I looked at myself in the mirror above the sink, wondering whether I had the nerve to go through with this, whether I had the nerve to back out. I shut the toilet seat and lid and put my foot on it to take my shoe off, then the other one, then my socks. I stood with bare feet on the cold tile floor, my toes clenching involuntarily. I pulled my jumper off over my head, then my t-shirt, stood for a few seconds to try to acclimatise. It was cold, the breeze was giving me goose bumps. I undid the button on my jeans, undid the zip and pulled them down over my legs and stepped out of them, quickly slid my pants off. My cock had again retreated. It had been crushed by my jeans anyway, was stuck to the bulge of my testicles, standing out about an inch or two from its bed of dark pubic hair. I folded my clothes, lay them on the top of the toilet seat, stood, naked and freezing. I looked down at myself again. Was it worth trying to coax some life into it? Would I feel better walking out with something resembling a man sized penis? I was about to fondle myself.

"Are you ready? Are you coming? The class is expecting to start at seven."

"Yes, I'm ready, ready."

I opened the door. She was standing directly in front of me, looking at my face, quickly down at my chest, my legs, my exposed genitals. I looked at her, at the outline of her breasts, the familiar peaks of her nipples.

"Excellent. Follow me then."

"I might just go to the toilet."

"Of course."

I went back into the cubicle, lifted my clothes off the seat and held my cock over the pan. I needed to go, I knew I needed to go, yet I couldn't. I pressed down, shook my penis. Nothing. Maybe I was still delaying this. Did I want to go through with it? I took a deep breath, turned and went out.

I walked down the short corridor towards the art room, listening to the voices, wishing I was warmer, wishing I could at least feel my penis sway in front of me, it felt stiff, a solid but small, a little pointing ridge of flesh sticking out, almost bouncing horizontally in front of me I wished I could feel my balls hanging. There was nothing. Perhaps this was good, I told myself, this was what they wanted, look at David, look at all those old statues and paintings, all with small cocks. I looked down as I reached the door. My scrotum was tight, my penis was still protruding out but at a length that barely extended past my balls, a slim funnel of pale skin.

"Oh fuck it, fuck it." I opened the door. I stepped in.

To a class of about fifteen, about ten women, five men, mixed ages, the youngest seemed about twenty, oldest fifty something. All with paper in front of them, pencils and sticks of charcoal, sitting in a circle of seats that had been placed around the platform I had stood on the other day. They all looked up as I entered, I did not catch anyone's eye, I tried my best not to do this, but I could sense them all looking at me as I stopped in the doorway, as I stood on front of them all. The teacher approached me.

"Well, we'll leave it up to you how you stand, or sit, but if you could pose for half hour periods and then we'll have a ten minute break. Okay?"

I nodded.

"Right."

She looked me up and down, seemed to allow her gaze to linger over my midriff. I walked to the platform, felt the wooden floorboards beneath my feet, felt a breeze stiffen my own nipples, shrink my exposed penis even further. I felt the gaze of the room upon me, felt each set of eyes appraise my form, I stepped onto the platform, my cock wobbling, my balls bouncing just slightly as I did so, still I felt each woman staring at my naked body, each of the men – two in their early twenties, one thirty something, the others at an indeterminate older age – looking at my penis and scrotum. I could sense them looking, looking there, looking at this part of me, perhaps pleased, perhaps glad that this model was not bigger than them, that this model did not have a cock like a horse, in fact had a small, had a little dick really. I allowed myself to let them stare, and judge, I reassured myself that it didn't matter, small, huge, buried within my pubic rug or hanging down by my knees, they didn't really

care.

Though I knew they did. I knew they did. The men and the women. I stood and faced the room, stood in as neutral a pose as I could manage, my hands behind my back, left wrist held by my right hand, standing with my right leg slightly bent, my weight on my left hip, my head turned to my right. I knew they would not be able to look at me without appraising, in the coldest manner, the size and appearance of my genitals. It didn't matter they were here to draw, did not matter they may have paid for this, that they were artists, they were also people, and even if they didn't care, they looked, even if they didn't know it they had already looked at my nude form with sexual criteria before they began to look with more artistic interest. The women looked at my cock and thought of – what? Were they straight? - thought of how small, how pointless, how disappointed they would be if a man undressed for them and revealed that, they might not think it aloud, or even acknowledge the thought, but there it was. Perhaps the more experienced would know, they'd know that soft and small does not always mean hard and small. If there were lesbians present I was sure they were looking at me, at my bare and chilled organ and were thinking what, what is all the fuss about. And the men, were they straight, if they were they were looking with aforementioned relief, with no small amount of glee, but also with some affection, with some feelings of warmth, friendship. It was possible they were also admiring, not my cock, or not quite, but me, for not caring, for standing here, naked, in front of fully clothed strangers, and not caring that my penis was as it was. They would be protective almost, whether they were large themselves or not, they would feel welcoming. They would also have seen this before, not just in life drawing class, but in changing rooms, in locker rooms, if they were gay, they would have seen it in bedrooms, they knew, for certain, even if my current state was an example of surprising smallness, that men's cocks came in a variety of shapes and sizes, that even large men had small moments.

And the gay men, I assumed some of them were, what did I think of this, what did this make me feel? That I was exposing myself in front of men who were turned on by my nudity? Who wanted to see me nude, who wanted to draw me but who would be as aroused as I might be if a young, reasonably toned, let's say small breasted but quite pretty girl was standing in front of me without any clothes on. There was no way it could be avoided, at least half the room, including the teacher, were at, were willing to let themselves get to some level of arousal over the fact that I was exposing myself for them.

I could hear them drawing. I stood, I forced myself to look at nothing but floor, I felt cold air against my body, I felt every breeze and eddy as it swirled over my penis and testicles. It still felt strange, of course it did, it felt odd, nice, but odd to be naked, here, in a room this size, in a room that wasn't my own bedroom, or a changing room, with chairs and windows, desks. And in front of people, people who were dressed, who were not naked, it wasn't a beach, it wasn't any sort of nudist colony or spin the bottle, naked party. This was just me, I was the only one here who was naked. But it was nice somehow, it felt good, suddenly, being looked at. I wasn't relaxing, quite the opposite really, I was becoming tense, but quite pleasantly so. It was suddenly like a medical examination, like fifteen doctors were looking me over. I felt the room's gaze on me, I felt each of the women, each of the men looking at my naked body. It felt good being looked at.

I was beginning to enjoy the sensation, honestly, I was beginning to enjoy the ridiculous imbalance of power in the room, I was naked, they were not, I was showing them my body as they were clothed, and yet they were all staring at me, none of them could take their eyes off me, all of them absolutely had to keep looking at my naked torso, at my chest, my face, my legs, the dark tangle of my genitals. It was nice getting looked at, I felt good, having the details of my body studied.

I allowed my eyes to rise from the floor. I took a quick glance around the room, I stole some swift looks at who was drawing me. The young girls looked like students, which I supposed they all were, full of youth, fresh skin, charity shop clothes and earnest expressions. The older women looked as if they were getting their second wind of bohemia. They were wearing long and loose dresses, baggy shirts with buttons undone, hair tied in messy knots, large and pendulous breasts. This, of course, I noticed, having still only had just one orgasm in three weeks, I noticed the breasts in the room, full and heavy, small, pert, none of them encumbered by a bra, all of them shielded from view by thin layers of cotton, all feeling the cold, or all feeling the erotic pinch caused by my own exposure. I looked, without looking, could see eight or nine pairs of swollen and pointing nipples. The room was cold, I was still cold, my cock was continuing to stick out, stiff, small, from on top of the barrel of my balls, my own nipples were stiff and rigid, and I could see the taut pricks peaking from all of their breasts. I looked, they looked back, I looked at the face of one of the older women, I felt safer doing this, safer than catching the eye of any of the younger ones, I looked up at her just as she looked obviously down at me. She looked back up at my face, smiled, just, barely perceptibly, and looked back down at my penis. And this also felt good, it felt good, everything did, that this heavy, grey, big breasted artist was looking with intent at my prick.

I shift my gaze. I feel my cock relax, it begins to hang down slightly, over my balls, I can sense it become heavier, I somehow sense the room change, I can feel the eyes of each man alter. They notice this first, not the women, not even the older ones (though I think of this, I think of the cocks they must have seen, as artists, as mature women, married, widowed, divorced, they must have been places, seen places, I think of the years of sex, the decades of fucking they have lived through, how old are they? They would have grown up in the seventies, right, when everyone was at it, when penicillin and the pill meant everyone was screwing themselves senseless, because they could, because they felt obliged to. And I thought of her, the one I had looked at already, with the long grey hair, the big hanging tits, heavy under the tent of her vest top. She looked me up and down again, perhaps she had noticed the slight extension of my cock, I looked at her and imagined the other cocks she had seen, the strange and familiar cocks she had held, that she had held in her hand, in her mouth, between the valley of her tits, the tens, the hundreds of erect and soft pricks she must have fondled, she must have had in her bed, in her, inside her, inside her cunt, I imagine her cunt, I picture the hang of her belly burying the expanse of her black and grey pubic hair, I picture the dark pink dripping ripple that is her cunt, and the pricks that have entered, the stiff members that have parted her labia and stretched her wet hole, and I visualise her arse, I think of her, years ago, days ago, this morning, bent over a bed, across a mattress, a man hunched over her back, I think of her demanding, because she can, because she has no reason not to, that he fuck her now, that he stick his fat cock inside her now please, I can hear her, see her say it, fuck me now, stick it in me, stick your stiff cock in my arse, stick it up my bum, fuck me senseless, fuck me hard, fuck me like you hate me, come on you worthless shit, fuck me with your fat cock).

And the men in the room, accustomed to all sorts of penile behaviour, see immediately that the cock on display has gotten bigger, just a bit, but bigger. They will assume that I have relaxed, that the atmospheric conditions have changed, not, no, not that I am getting an erection, no, but they would have seen it. I look at the men in the room, this also feels safer, than looking at the younger women, it is okay if I catch their eye, even if each one of them is gay, no man would care, certainly no man here, if a look is exchanged, we are all men, we are all men with cocks, with testicles and scrotums that shrink and expand without any apparent reason. The men will think I am looking at them with intent, or they will not, they will think I want to see them after class, for a lift, for a drink, for a quick or long fuck, so they can suck the cock they are now looking at (this would be it, it would be if I was drawing a female, if I went home with one of the young women, we would re-enact the class, I would stand, in silence, she would stand in front of me, she would remove her top, she would stand, still without obviousness, with her breasts bared, and my cock would stiffen, this would be it, I would hold my pose and my cock would become erect and she would approach, as if for a closer look, and she would hold it, she might pull back my foreskin, still for a complete look, but she would keep hold of it with one hand and draw with the other, then she might lick the end of it, she might run her tongue over the shiny smooth tip, she would dip her tongue into the slit of my piss hole, then draw, then sketch, quickly, then drop her charcoal and bury my cock in her mouth. But suddenly I can only imagine the older artist doing this. I look at her again, does she think I am looking at her, does she think this is a flirt, her nipples still show, is she, she would be wet, now, there will be heat between her legs, a sweet trembling sensation, moisture will have invaded her groin, wetness would have spread from inside her, would have flowed out of her cunt, she would be feeling it, she would feel her pussy lips become soaked with juice, the gusset of her panties is stained, is dark and wet, I can imagine her taking a close look at my erect prick, I can imagine her sitting up close, not needing to pretend this is a game, not needing to pretend nothing is going on, she would be calm, she would refer to my stiff cock, "I am going to hold it now, okay, I am going to hold your penis, to get a feel, I shall grip it for the texture, so I can feel, so I can draw each of its veins, all of its ridges. Now I will pull back your foreskin, so I can see the tip, okay, when I am ready I might suck it, yes, if I want to, if you also want me to, I need to draw it first, I need to get this, but I am quite aroused myself, as you obviously are, even though I am older, by what, twenty, thirty years, yet you have an erection, and, I will tell you, I have a wet vagina. So, you stand still, please, I will hold your prick, so I can better draw it, but, I am not about to kid you, so I can also feel its warmth, its heat, its stiffness, so I can turn myself on as well, you are a young man, it has been a few years since I have had a young man's prick in my hand, and, as I said, the sight of this, the sight of your hard prick and the feel of your big stiff prick in my hand is making me really wet, hold still, wait, the sight and feel of your dong, we used to call it this, the feel of your fat dong in my hand is making my vagina extremely wet, God, yes, perhaps I should show you, I am looking at you after all, perhaps you would like to see an old woman's wet fanny," and she would show me, she would stand and without ceremony strip off her skirt and knickers and perhaps her vest and stand and then sit back down and take a fresh hold of my fat dong and show me her enormous tits, show me her swinging sacks of flesh, white and ripe, with huge dark brown areola and thick long erect nipples, she would show me the dark thatch of pubic hair, she would spread her legs and show me the wet lips below and then "okay, so now we are both naked, you with your prick sticking out and me with my dripping pussy. I'll draw, okay, I know you want to come, yes, and so do I, but I will finish this, then, if you want, I will suck your cock, I can suck it so you come into my mouth, and, unless you mind, masturbate myself to an orgasm. Would that be okay? I'm sure it would, I'm not even touching you now and your prick seems to have become stiffer, is this possible, I don't want you to come before I have finished drawing, and until I am ready to catch your cum in my mouth, I'm making myself wetter with this, can you see (I can see, I am seeing all of this, I am imaging it all and feeing the tiniest of swellings in my cock), your prick is getting harder and my fanny is getting wetter. I think I might have finished, so, shall I hold it again, or would you like it if I simply placed it in my mouth, hmm?") so they can hold it in their hand, so they can hold my cock and their own and wank both of us onto both of us. Whichever way it won't occur to them that this is anything other than a look. I look.

"Okay, that's the half hour, shall we take ten minutes."

The class moves, people stand, stretch. I relax, look for the art teacher, step down off the platform, ready to return to the toilet, where I think of pissing quickly, where I think to splash cold water over my penis and balls, to quell any notions of arousal.

"Perhaps you'd like to see what the class had drawn?"

I look at her, wondering if she means it, wondering if she is making a joke.

"Uh, well." I try not to look down at myself, try not to acknowledge anything.

"Most models like to see we make of them."

I look around for a robe, something to cover myself with, I think perhaps I should ask for something.

"Come on, we'll need you ready again in ten."

And I follow her instruction, it seems natural to do this, obligatory. I step down off the stage, still nude, with my penis relaxed enough to bounce in front of me, I walk across the room, cock swinging now, bobbling against my balls, swaying side to side, I walk to the first of the group, she steps aside and lets me stand to look at her sketches. And I look, I look at myself in shades of black and grey, I look at my nude form, my cock is small in her drawings, perhaps she didn't have time to draw it later, once I had softened, I cannot help but study my penis, the dark smudge of pubic hair, the round sack of my balls, the length of my dick, all a contrast against the rest of my pale skin. I walk to the next stand, one of the younger girls who holds our her sketch pad for me to flick through, I take it, cannot help but notice her glance down as I approach, she smiles, sort of sheepishly and can't stop herself from lowering her gaze down to my penis, I let her look. What else can I do, I'm the one who is nude, I'm the one standing here with my cock out. I look at her drawings, again I'm drawn to the sketches she had done of my penis, pubic hair and balls, again she caught me at my most taut and withdrawn, my penis does look unmistakably childlike, if it wasn't for my patch of brown, here black pubic hair, snailing up to my navel, and the round and wrinkled pouch of dark skin underneath my cock. She caught me all right, I think I look good, slim but reasonably well toned, fairly good looking I suppose, and if my cock looks small it looks nice, it looks like the penis of a model, of a statue, which is what I hoped earlier, if I'm honest my penis might be small but she has drawn my balls and scrotum like their huge, I look at each of her drawings, it's the same in each, my penis is a mere dab of light in the shade of my pubes, my scrotum massive, thick, swollen with my heavy testicles, dark against the paler skin of my thighs.