Mixed Double

London 1980s

Ian

Ian Collins had done the prescribed amount of life-drawing on foundation, less at art-school and then later, more regularly in evening classes: mainly because his girlfriend at the time had been the tutor. They had modelled for each other, and he had learned to keep still for extended periods of time, He had crucially also learnt what positions not to try!

Combined with a bottle or three of cheap wine, a joint, and then adventurous sex, it had made for an exciting evening. They had occasionally even produced reasonable drawings.

The idea of modelling on a more professional basis had intrigued him but he lacked the self-confidence for it to be any more than a titillating fantasy. He remembered all too well the day when on foundation the model hadn't turned up. The tutor had asked for volunteers from the class, and he had come so close to stepping forward. Butterflies had done aerobatics in his stomach; some hidden exhibitionist deep in the dark corners of his libido had risen to the challenge. It hadn't happened though. A geeky girl with glasses who he'd quite fancied from the first week of the course obviously had a more decisive hidden exhibitionist, and had jumped up and volunteered immediately. She had disappeared behind a screen, and appeared a few minutes later, completely naked, and nervously excited, had embarked on a series of awkward poses with a twitchy intensity. This unfortunately had made drawing her a nightmare. The awkward sex they'd had later had also not been a complete success.

He'd visited strip clubs and like the life-drawing classes, could always spot the nervous new girl, on stage for the first time. Something about that hesitant initial reveal always set his heart racing and he just knew he'd get an even greater adrenaline fix if it were him getting naked instead.

Now, several years later, He was twenty-six. He was single, living in a squat and on the dole. He was always short of money. He was, however in the best physical shape of his life. The benefit system gave him concessionary rates at the local council swimming pool and at various evening classes around London. He swam every day and attended several life-drawing classes in the evenings. He often considered modelling but invariably chickened out, despite the attraction of the money and his nagging desire. He certainly had the opportunity, although his motives he realised were a bit suspect.

Various people who did do modelling work tried to convince him; London was full of Art-schools they cajoled, he lived within walking distance of all the big art colleges, there was any number of evening classes and small art groups constantly looking for models and it was all 'cash in hand,' unseen by the benefits office. Generous breaks made it not exactly hard work; in many cases, colleges provided showers and separate rooms for their models to change, and the money was good.

His past girlfriend had been almost fanatically opposed to any idea of sexual overtones polluting her life drawing classes and had watched very carefully any student who she suspected of being there just for titillation, it was, as far as she was concerned a purely artistic pursuit of line and form, that just happened to involve naked human bodies. She would have been appalled and outraged by his secret unfulfilled, exhibitionist fetish. Ian felt thrillingly guilty that he found the idea of being naked in front of a bunch of strangers so exciting and had almost convinced himself that he must be some sort of frustrated flasher. He'd even toyed briefly with the idea of stripping, but to be honest he had nowhere near the self-confidence or indeed the equipment to carry that off. Life modelling, if not quite within his comfort zone, was at least comfortably in his skill set.

It was time, he concluded, to at least give it a go. So finally, he took the plunge and got himself a booking as a life model for one of the big London art schools.

On the day, he showered and dressed in his favourite 1930s suit: complete with waistcoat and braces. He'd got it for next to nothing from a charity shop and knew he looked good in it. He continued the theme with a cotton collarless shirt, and black brogues. Over his shoulder he slung an old army bag. He'd wanted to dress stylishly in an attempt to bolster his confidence, even though he realised with mixed feelings, that he wouldn't be dressed at all for most of the day!

His carefully constructed confidence quickly evaporated however as he found himself, with pounding heart and churning stomach, walking through the imposing entrance of the art-school, and walking up to the reception,

"Hi! I'm here to model for the art class. Ian Collins." He announced timidly to the young woman behind the desk.

"Portrait, fashion or... nude?" Her eyes bored into him, and he could sense her assessing him for each in turn.

"Er, nude." Ian gulped, hoping he hadn't blushed.

"First time?" She asked, smiling with a look that let him know she'd already guessed his last answer.

"Er, yeah, I'm a bit nervous..." Ian stuttered, this time definitely feeling the heat on his cheeks.

"No, I meant here, it's easy to get lost. The life studio is on the top floor and in the far corner of the building. We can't have people just wandering into the wrong room naked!"

"Oh, I see. Of course, thanks." He tried to compose himself as she leafed through lists on a clipboard, found his name and handed him a nametag.

"Just pin that somewhere it can be easily seen. You'll need it to access the rest of the building. The canteen etc." She smiled again. Then adding just in case, it hadn't occurred to him.

"When you get dressed again at the lunch break, obviously"

Ian suspected she was enjoying his discomfort.

"I might have to pop up later just to check you found the right room!" She gave him a little wink and Ian wriggled with embarrassment.

He nervously negotiated the staircases and corridors, entering eventually a large life drawing studio with a tutor and a handful of students. He identified himself to the tutor, painfully aware of the appraisal of the students, who looked frighteningly young, and predominantly female. The tutor indicated a small door to the left, where Ian found a compact shower cubicle and a small changing area, with a table and full-length mirror.

Still totally at a loss to rationalise why exactly this was stirring up such a mix of sensations, he pulled off his black brogues, took off his jacket, waist coat, unhooked the braces and lowered his trousers, shirt and underwear and stood trembling and naked in front of the mirror. He'd seen so many models awash with self-confidence and with genitalia that drew whispered comments of admiration. One male model had been referred to as the fireman, naively Ian had initially believed the reference was to his regular job.

What he saw in the mirror now was a confused, terrified little waif.

The mirror crushed any self-confidence he had tried to conjure up. He wasn't very tall and despite his slim physique, well defined muscles, and flat stomach he just didn't look, well, very masculine. He wasn't bad looking he supposed, but in a slightly androgenous way that made some people assume he was gay. His pale skin had only the faintest trace of the tan he had worked so hard on during the summer, his floppy fair hair needed a haircut, and he had only a few wispy pale strands of hair on his torso apart from the more slightly ginger patch between his legs. His flaccid penis hung straight down pathetically. It was, he told himself optimistically, at least average but, On the plus side, it did seem quite thick and was more impressive when erect. He had heard the turn 'show or grow' and was definitely a grower. Pity he thought, he wasn't going to be able to do any growing today! He toyed with the idea of sliding the foreskin back, giving his penis a little extra length and revealing its crowning glory, a well-defined and sculptural glans, (he wasn't too keen on what he thought were crude slang terms; helmet or bell end). He realised however how exposed it would make him feel and decided against it.

He contemplated just dressing, making some excuse, and making a run for it.

A knock and a voice at the door made him jump.

"OK in there?" The Tutor's voice came through the door, sounding impatient.

"Just a minute." He lowered the tone in his voice and tried to make himself sound decisive.

He'd almost talked himself out of the whole humiliating idea, but he realised he was finding the imminent prospect of exposing his nakedness to the scrutiny of this art class, being posed at their demand into revealing and vulnerable positions, deliciously intoxicating. Plus, the money would be extremely useful.

He didn't have a robe to change into, but instead put the long, white cotton, collarless shirt back on. It hung to just above his knees and the crisp fabric was reassuringly comforting. He gave his penis a last-minute tweak, took a deep breath and with heart pounding walked out, trembling into the studio.

Ian should have remembered the poor timekeeping of art students, from his own days at college! The room had now filled, and the number of students had grown to nearly two dozen; still mainly female, aged probably between eighteen and twenty-one. Most were busy sharpening pencils and adjusting easels or just lounging about in a manner they imagined suitably Bohemian. Some were setting up a couch: chair, footstool, cushions, various none too clean throws, old curtains, and verminous scraps of cloth on a wooden platform in the nearest corner of the room under the direction of the tutor. The floor of the studio was ingrained with decades of graphite, chalk and charcoal dust and was covered with outlines of model's feet, reference crosses in masking tape and random faded patches of spilled paint. Ian could already feel the soles of his feet getting filthy.

The students had dragged easels, scraped chairs across the room and stacked drawing boards into the places they hoped would give them the best view, whilst all the time chatting animatedly to each other. The noisy buzz of conversation eased as they spotted Ian's hesitant emergence from the changing room and with his stomach turning somersaults and his cowardly penis, shrinking away into his pubic hair by the second, he turned to the tutor. The tutor raised a hand and those eyes that weren't inspecting almost fibre by fibre Ian's shirt turned to him in expectation.

"Hopefully, this is all of you?" The tutor's intolerance of late arrivals was well known.

"I know most of you haven't done life drawing before and probably some of you are wondering why you have to do it at all!"

The Tutor was at pains to explain why he felt life drawing was an important discipline. He did it every year, to each fresh intake of students and by now he knew his speech off by heart.

"The naked human form is the most challenging subject you will ever face as an artist." He began pompously.

"The human face and body are the first things we learn to recognise, the first things we can distinguish and differentiate, the first things we see and learn to read as infants. Then as we grow older, we become visually lazy. We think we know what we are seeing, and so draw what we know. but we also instinctively recognise the smallest inaccuracy, the tiniest deviation. and so..." He added with what he hoped was a crowd-pleasing flourish.

"We need to learn to SEE!"

Several students were eyeing Ian speculatively and he squirmed under their gaze.

"Stripped of the artifice of clothing, the human body is an extremely complex series of curves and planes that we understand instinctively. Every human being is different, to capture that on paper you are going to have to look, and look again, do not be afraid of spending most of today just looking!"

Ian's squirming intensified.

"Ian is a professional model, he won't mind your scrutiny. If you need to move in closer, and measure, just remember you might be blocking the view of other students who will also be concentrating on the same area you are measuring..."

Sheer terror coupled with an exquisite sensual pleasure flooded Ian's body. He had no explanation for it. It just seemed like some weird hunger, finally being fed small scraps of sustenance

With that the tutor moved over to Ian

"Shall we start?" He inquired imperiously of Ian, who realised he was finally going to have to remove the last barrier between his naked body and all those searching eyes.

Ian took a deep breath, and desperately avoiding looking down unbuttoned his shirt and decisively slid it off his shoulders. The warm air from a fan heater, that had thoughtfully been placed to warm the model's platform, wafted across his lower body gently caressing his pubic hair and he struggled to ignore it.

He was Naked!

No Gasps. No laughter. In fact, for Ian's hunger, nothing...Total anti-climax. Ian turned, remembering that at least his ex-girlfriend had said he had a nice bottom. He risked a glance below. His penis was like an attentive puppy, sensing that someone had just thrown a ball and contemplating chasing it... Ian took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. The puppy just fell asleep.

Deciding against the nasty looking tubular chair with its grubby vinyl seat and backrest, Ian pushed it away. He shunted the accompanying, naff looking footstool underneath with his foot and then arranged a grimy pile of cushions on the couch and started his pose. The pose wasn't particularly difficult or hard to keep. He stretched - draped on his back with his stomach arched over the cushions. With his lower body gratifyingly taut his penis flopped over to one side, where out of his line of sight it started to send conflicting signals of imminent arousal or humiliating retreat.

One of the biggest fears, pretty much the only one in fact for a male life-model is the dreaded prospect of an erection! Immediately turning the whole situation blatantly sexual and guaranteeing instant notoriety, blacklisting from future modelling work, anywhere, and instant pervert status.

Certain positions and situations are also problematic for the model, causing serious shrinkage, where the penis, bereft of the force of gravity, and neglected of its rightful blood supply, will retreat to a remnant of even its default state. Cold is the worst culprit, causing countless male swimmers on nudist beaches to pause for a quick tweak before leaving the water.

Joanne

More late students trickled in and the draft from the door opening and closing played subtly across Ian's body in a disconcertingly arousing way.

After the first few minutes had passed however, Ian relaxed and retreated into his thoughts, steering well clear of anything that might cause problems, which turned out to be almost everything.

Suddenly the door opened, and a powerful draft of air washed over him. A breathless female voice floated towards him.

"Sorry I'm a bit late, is this the right room?"

"What room were you looking for?" Ian heard the voice of the tutor sounding confused and slightly annoyed.

"The life class, I'm booked to..." she paused, noticing Ian listening intently in naked anguish on the platform.

"... model, er, for it. I'm Joanne Thompson" Her voice tailed off.

The tutor testily announced an impromptu break and Ian rose, hurriedly pulled on his shirt, and turned, jealously curious to inspect the interloper.

The tutor was consulting a clipboard, whilst a feisty looking, stunningly pretty, bright eyed girl with a boyish, tangle of dishevelled red curls stood uncertainly and nervously in front of him. Every male eye in the room, and quite few female's were turned to her as she confronted the confused tutor.

The tutor announced in a voice that betrayed his indecision.

"Apparently we have two models booked for today!" He conceded with a condescending nod to the annoyingly expectant redhead.

They both approached Ian and the tutor explained with exasperation:

"Ian, apparently there's been a bit of a mix up. Joanne says she was booked and obviously so were you. We do get double bookings occasionally, but this one is a little different."

"I'm not sure of the legalities, but I think there are some college guidelines or regulations that say we're not supposed to have a male and female model together in the same room, er... nude. It's a bit of a grey area, but to be safe we need have the consent of both the whole class and the models concerned if we want to go ahead. Of course, if Joanne wishes to reschedule, I'm sure we could arrange some compensatory payment for today's cancelled booking?"

The tutor looked almost pleadingly at Joanne, who paused, looked uncertain and then came to a decision.

"I'd prefer to stay," she said quietly. There was a sense in her tone that suggested that it had taken all her courage to build herself up for this moment and that if she backed away now, she probably wouldn't return.

The tutor looked trapped and with a small shrug of resignation, reluctantly put the idea to the class who, agog at this new development, all consented eagerly. He hesitated and with obvious trepidation, turned to Joanne and Ian.

"Well, the students seem ok with it, so just to be sure, do you consent?"

Joanne looked Ian up and down, he gave a little nod and a relieved smile played across her lips and looking straight into his eyes she said decisively.

"Yes, I'm Ok with it. I consent."

"Yeah, fine by me, yes, er, I consent." Ian smiled wanly at the newcomer, intrigued, but inwardly a little peeved that she had diluted his long-awaited moment.

The tutor indicated the changing room and with a rustle of her voluminous skirts and a determined toss of her head Joanne bounced over to the door.

Joanne closed the door behind her and as it clicked shut waves of panic flooded over her. She stood in front of the mirror and took deep breaths, whilst with trembling fingers she slipped off her jacket, skirts and top. She had deliberately selected the ridiculously expensive panties. They had been a reward to herself for finally plucking up the courage to approach the college for modelling work a week earlier. They were, she now realised irrelevant.

She had spent much of the summer sitting and subtly practising poses on the beach and slowly winding herself up into a fervour as she fantasized about the prospect of modelling. She had even tried a few poses out, naked in the privacy of her bedroom at home whilst watching TV. Even that had been horribly nerve wracking, and the practice was quickly dropped after her near heart attack when her father had knocked on the door! The idea had practically reached the level of obsession by the time she had boarded the train up to London, nervously entered the art school and approached the person in charge of booking the models.

She had been told by her friend in London that the colleges quite often booked over a month in advance. She might not get a day at once and that it might not be for a couple of months. Joanne was quite relieved, she wanted to take this slowly.

She had therefore been terrified when the college told her she could do a day in a week's time. Impetuously she had made the booking and it had taken three glasses of sparkling wine in a local wine bar to calm the shaking. The panties had been a mad wanton extravagance, a celebration of her wicked naughtiness and completely out of her normal comfort zone.

How quickly that week had passed.

As she stood in the changing room dressed now only in the panties, she forlornly thought how incongruous they looked. She realised they didn't even cover her untanned areas! The stray strands of bright orange pubic hair escaping out the sides were just so wrong. I look like an orangutan at a fetish party, she thought, smiling to herself weakly at this exaggerated image, desperately trying to cheer herself up.