"You mean..."
"Nude," he confirmed. "But the nakedness of the body is secondary. What I seek is the nakedness of the spirit beneath."
My shoulders stiffened as memories flooded my conscious mind. The years of conversion therapy, the exhausting prayer sessions, the fasting until I was too weak to stand… The exorcism when I was sixteen had left scars that weren't visible but cut deeper than any physical wound.
"I... I'm not sure that's appropriate," I stammered, backing away slightly. "We could work with clothed figures, or perhaps—"
"Micah," Ezra interrupted, his voice gentle yet firm. "What you're feeling right now is precisely what holds your art captive. That fear, that shame, wasn't born in you. It was placed there by others who feared what they didn't understand."
He stepped closer, and I fought the urge to lean into him. "Who told you your body was something to be ashamed of? Who convinced you that being seen was sinful?"
I tried to swallow again, but my throat was raw, like I’d been eating sandpaper. “How did you know?”
"It's written in how you carry yourself," Ezra said, answering my unspoken question. "The way you flinch from certain forms of contact. The religious iconography in your work, always depicted in states of torment or ruination." His voice softened."Dear boy, they broke something in you, didn't they? Told you that your very nature was a sin."
I couldn't speak, even if I’d known what to say. He was right. It was as if he could see straight through me, into my very marrow, where I’d buried those terrible memories.
"What if they were wrong?" he continued, moving around me in a slow circle. "What if what they called sin was simply truth they were too frightened to face? What if your darkness isn't corruption but clarity?"
I shook my head, trying to clear it of his words. "If the other faculty found out—"
"But they're not here," Ezra said, coming to stand directly before me. "There's only you and me and the truth of who you are beneath all those layers of imposed shame. The artist in you knows that this boundary must be crossed if you're ever to create with complete honesty. Embrace that part of you. Embrace the fear."
He gestured to a large screen, one meant to provide privacy while undressing.
I stared at it for a moment, then took a deep breath, centering myself. This was just an artistic exercise. Figure drawing was standard practice in any art curriculum. Yet there was nothing standard about this moment, about the way my heart hammered against my ribs or the strange mixture of fear and anticipation making my blood run hot and thick to places it shouldn’t.
Still, how could I resist when I knew he was right?
I stepped behind the screen and undressed with shaky hands.
When I stepped out, Ezra was standing at an easel, arranging charcoal and paper. He looked up briefly, and I warred with myself about whether to reach down and cover myself. But he looked away before I ever reached a conclusion.
"Stand here," he said, indicating a spot where the studio lighting would cast dramatic shadows. "Turn slightly to your right. Chin up."
I followed his directions, hyperconscious of my nakedness, of the cool air against my skin, of Ezra's eyes studying me. The shadow inside me stirred restlessly, both shrinking from this exposure and somehow reaching toward it, recognizing something essential.
"Arms at your sides," he instructed, moving around me, adjusting my position with light touches that left trails of heat on my skin. His fingers pressed against my shoulder, turning me fractionally. "Head tilted just so." His hand cupped my jaw, adjusting the angle with a gentle pressure that was both impersonal and intimate.
My heart raced as his fingers slid over skin no other man was supposed to touch. All the shame buried in me clawed its way to the surface, but my body didn’t get the memo. My face flushed as I realized with horror that I was getting hard, and without the protection of my clothes, I had no way to hide it. I tried to twist away, but Ezra wouldn’t let me.
His eyes dropped, and I reached to cover myself.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s—”
“My dear boy,” Ezra said, gently touching my wrists. “There’s nothing wrong with you, and you have no need to be sorry for anything. Even the Godly say the body is a temple. And temples are where sinners go to worship, are they not?”
“I…Yes, that…that makes sense.”
“God made Adam and called it wonderful,” he said. “And you are made in His image. Why would you hide that from me? From art? That’s why we’re here, Micah. Don't hide it, Micah. Show me."
Slowly, I relaxed and let him pull my arms away.
I remained silent, allowing him to position me like a doll, each touch both impersonal and strangely intimate. When he was satisfied, he returned to his easel and began to draw.
"Most artists never truly understand what they ask of their models," he said, his voice low and focused as his hand moved across the paper. "They see the human form as an object, a technical challenge to be mastered. They never consider the experience of being seen so completely, of surrendering to another's vision." His eyes met mine briefly before returning to his work. "That's what separates true artists from mere technicians, Micah. The capacity to understand both sides of the creation."
I stood motionless, my limbs growing stiff from maintaining the pose, yet strangely energized by the intensity of his focus. Once he started drawing, I thought the attention or the uncomfortable position might be enough to shut down my strange arousal, but every time his eyes flicked up to look at me, my cock hardened further.
