Time to Think
At Art School, Marjory discovered she had the skills but not sufficient imagination, dedication
or ego to be an artist, so she became a wife and mother. Twenty years later when all except her
youngest had fled the coop, she set up a studio in her basement and gave classes to people who had
always wanted to draw but never got around to it. Her ‘Life’ classes proved the most popular, but
this evening the model hadn’t arrived and the students watched with concern as Marjory’s fragile
Her son, who sometimes joined the class, offered to telephone and sort out the problem. He
sprinted upstairs, stood quietly at the top and counted to a hundred, then ran back down to inform
his mother that the model had left town leaving no forwarding address.
‘Oh my goodness! It’s too late to find another! What on earth shall I do?’
‘I’ll model—but I choose my own poses.’
‘You're too young! I need a professional!’
‘Mum, I know what to do.’
With ill-concealed nervousness Marjory apologised to the class while Antony slipped behind
the screen, stripped, checked that everything was as it should be, pulled his nervous penis back to
normal size, stepped onto the podium and adopted a series of athletic three-minute poses that kept
the would-be artists delighted and very busy.
Marjory gazed at her son in apprehensive awe. Bringing up three previous teenagers had taught
her to interfere as little as possible in Antony’s life, and she’d always assumed his lack of close
friends, avoidance of groups and preference for solo pursuits like computing, karate, swimming and
reading meant he was a bit of a nerd. But under the spotlight her son was transformed into a
handsome young god with well-defined muscles; manhood jutting almost too proudly from its nest
of pubic hair. She gazed nervously around. No one seemed perturbed; the busy scratching of pencils
the only sound.
She felt dizzy and sat down. This morning Antony had been her baby. Tonight he was a man!
When had it happened? A chunk of her life was missing! She’d been too busy to notice. The
realisation was bleakly depressing.
For the twenty-minute poses Antony chose difficult positions, yet remained utterly still,
exuding a confidence she’d never guessed he possessed. Close-cropped hair emphasised his fine
head and smooth young neck. And such well shaped legs! In the two-minute breaks between poses
he wandered naked among the easels and stools to look at drawings and charm the students with
praise, questions and ingenuous smiles. Marjory’s heart missed several beats. What must her
students be thinking! Models should never mingle with students when naked!
Antony had been practising for two weeks; since intercepting the model’s phone call saying she
was moving interstate. He told himself he was doing it as a social experiment. People didn't
question a nude man posing for an art class, but what if he wandered around naked between poses
and during the break? If he could charm everyone into accepting him doing that, it would prove
taboos against nudity were not inherent in human nature. There was also another, perhaps more
truthful reason that he kept tucked away at the back of his brain in case anyone found out; the idea
of being naked in a room full of dressed strangers was a turn-on and had so fuelled his nightly
wanking sessions he was starting to worry about the loss of sleep.
Most artists’ models are lazy, keep their legs together and avoid difficult positions. Antony did
karate kicks, gymnastic exercises, handstands… complicated and powerful positions that often left
him exposed and vulnerable. But he wasn’t stupid. If the students guessed he was getting a thrill out
of it they’d despise him. It was essential to appear naïvely innocent. Luckily, difficult poses require
constant monitoring to avoid sagging; this, combined with the discomfort, ensured any arousal
remained cerebral. Time passed quickly.
At tea break Antony jumped from the podium and began handing round biscuits and beverages
with such friendly, guileless naiveté that everyone assumed he was unaware of the extraordinary