Art School

Thoughts From a Podium

“Be simple; without making it complicated. Be ethereal and pure.”

I can feel the dumbfounded look on my face as I stared at the black clad woman. Her face shines in the bright hallway. The linoleum floors are reflective and created a weird glow on the white cinder block walls. My bare feet stick to the floor as I shift on them slightly.

“ So do I get paid now or after?”

“Well, I don’t think you have many places to keep the cash now do you? The old bag stares at my member pushing against my robe as she says it. The cloth is soft against me, but is not doing much to keep me warm. I feel the fall air penetrating the entire building, charging at me. Her yellowed teeth are shiny with spit and some of it flecks against my chest when she talks. I look down to see little orbs of it in my black chest hair. My concave little chest looks pathetic. The professor uses one paint-caked hand to wipe her mouth.

“Let’s get started” she says, and turns; walking into the classroom. The lights are dimmed inside and she sort of fades into the room as she leaves. Down the hall, the huge aluminum door slams back against its frame, and an arctic blast blows my robe, causing me to shiver. I feel my junk leap into my chest as my entire body hardens from the cold. A petite woman walks towards me. Her green dress and black pea coat fluster slightly as she wrestles with the large black portfolio in her arms. It was easily as large as her, and I feel myself warming again as my head is clouded with her musty perfume. She is a head shorter than me and reminds me of a girl I had held on a cold New Years, my head resting on hers. As she walks past, she glances at me slightly, and my breath catches dryly in my throat; she smells like a sexy antique shop.

“You need help?” My throat stings slightly and I wince hearing how cackly and meager my voice sounds. She is already too far into the room to hear me; or I am being ignored. My stomach rumbles slightly, and I pat it as my sticky feet carry me into the dim room. The professor is blathering about some obscure brush stroke or other obscene bullshit, encouraging her students to improve upon what I offer them. I laugh in my head as I take the podium. There isn’t much to improve on; a small- dicked naked little white man. Tomorrow I go back to work, and these people; they go to coffee shops, and bodegas. Fuck it. It’s hot on the stage with the lights against me, and I thank the Gods for that little miracle as I feel my better half extend a bit. It reminds me of how plants lean into the sun, phototropism or whatever it is The green dressed woman has a seat in the front. At least the next three hours won’t be an entire waste.

The email had come a couple weeks before. The art department had lost a large portion of its funding, and as a result, most of the models had had their pays cut from $250 a class to $50. It was bullshit, and I don’t know why I kept coming here. Sally, another of the models that had applied the same day as me still got her $250, but myself and some of the others figured she was fucking the department head. She was fit, and a post-graduate student from this university. It made sense. My robe drops, and my skin tingles as the sudden cool hits me. The girl in the green dress works her eyes over me.

I inhale and hear my breath in my ears; it rushes in an out and I begin bracing my muscles for the long haul. In my periphery I can see the crest of my shoulder, and the door into the room. My arm muscle flexes a bit, and I swear that it was bigger than I remember it being. Maybe all of the lifting at work is finally starting to pay off. After eight months of being my boss’ personal dog, I have lost weight, and toned up a bit.

I fixate back on the girl in the green dress. Parts of me are starting to cramp, and my head is getting a bit light. After standing in these asinine poses as long as we have to, certain parts of your body seem like they’re about to fall off. Some girl had talked about it being some sort of muscle displacement or blood circulation issue that I may have had, but I really hadn’t been paying attention to her. I feel my foot go cold and then numb, and the girl in the green dress’ eyes roll over me more. I concentrate on her.

Her breasts are small and perfect and curve defiantly into her top. I can almost catch whiffs of her perfume from here, and I try to bathe myself in her scent. In my head, I replay our conversation in the hall. Where had her eyes wandered to? I saw her turn from the door, and look down at the knot in my robe. Or was she looking lower? Had she smiled? I know she did. She couldn’t have. But what was she thinking when she did it? Could she see the little lump of myself jutting at her? What did she think? I look at her again, she is arching her back, stretching before leaning back into her easel. Her ribs stick through the dress a bit, and her skirt pulls up to reveal clean, white knees. Her neck is slender and her hair sits around it like various sharp little rocks on a cliff. She is so put together,every eyelash, every strand of hair must have been labored upon for hours. I know she had looked at it. Not at the knot, at it, and then she had smiled. I know it. I replay the doorway in my head again.

Stare at the fan. Do not go hard. Stare at the fan. I count the number of slits in the ventilation duct near the ceiling. 15…16…17. Do not go hard. Its bad enough she probably knows you’re staring at her. Do not go hard. What if she thinks I’m thinking about her? How the fuck am I supposed to approach her after the class like this? “Hi, I know you just spent three hours looking at my naked ass, and yes I was thinking about you, so if you saw it move or twitch I’m sorry, but how about coffee?” Who the hell am I kidding? Do not go hard. God I just want to lay in her hair.

The door cracks and a sliver of light crashes across the room.

“Is this two-oh-eight?”

I know that voice.

Samantha? It couldn’t fucking be. I know she had talked about taking night classes but it couldn’t fucking be. My eyes strain against their sockets and I swear I feel my orbitals cracking under the pressure as I try to see her. It can’t fucking be.

Jesus Christ.

She sits down next to my future green wife. Do not go hard.

Fuck.

Do not pass out. The room swims. Do not pass out. My stomach is limp, and I feel my heart pressing against my ribs. I want to run out and hide in a stall, hide in a closet, get in my car, and have nothing but darkness and the lights of oncoming traffic to keep me company. Do not pass out. I clench my teeth. I have to focus. Stay up. I have to focus. The room is swimming and my skin is clammy. My knees are so wobbly I arch up slightly on the balls of my feet to tense my calf muscles and regain my balance. How dare that bitch. How dare she come here. She knows I work here.

She looks up and I see a brief flash of panic across her face. Then a sense of glee. She looks down at my tiny little cock and makes the same kind of scrunched up face one does when ogling a newborn. Then she leans over to the girl in the green dress, and whispers, smiling. They both look up. Do not pass out.