not really an exhibitionist, but . . .
I used to do life-study modelling for local artists: I'd been on the other side of the easel too, knew the whys and what-fors, so it seemed like a nice idea to give something back. 2hrs a week sat in the buff in front of strangers also nearly doubled my dole money, so it was too good a job to refuse.

There's nothing at all erotic about it - imagine being naked and trying to hold very still while under close scrutiny by a dozen strangers: if anything it has quite the reverse effect, and my usually respectable looking flaccidity would do it's best impersonation of Michelangelo's 'David'. The bastard. I wasn't even too phased when a pretty young goth girl I knew socially joined the class.

Well, that was the case until the last class of an 8 week block. A few less artists than usual, a relaxed atmosphere, and a more relaxed pose - me languorously draped across a couch amongst flags. Near the end of the session, I'm in pose, idly musing how accustomed and unconcerned I'd become to doing the job, and out of some self destructive spite, my mind starts throwing up outrageously erotic images . . .

Heart starts pounding, blood flowed south, and my fruits tightened in their bag: thinking hard about skeletal famine children and concentration camp victims stopped me from properly saluting the flag, but it couldn't prevent some obviously visible growth and stirrings. Having trouble contolling my breathing, on the verge of panic but still trying to hold the pose, a couple of huge beads of sweat rolled from my forehead, right down my nose and splashed onto my stomach.
Managed - just - to keep it from reaching 'semi' level, but couldn't stop it from squirming around a bit.

Longest five minutes of my life.
Never did another life class.
Couldn't look the pretty goth girl in the eye again. (Hi Rachel!)

Finally though: a genuinely appropriate reason for having to apologise for teh length?
(kiki chunt now available in blank, Sun 5 Feb 2006, 16:10, Reply)