His eyes twinkle. "Deep down, aren't we all?"
An image of Court stroking himself through his briefs flashes in my mind. He's definitely working with a lot down there, but I've never been obsessed with size the way so many guys seem to be. I'm more of ahearts than partsguy myself. Having a connection with someone is more important than a few inches here or there.
And it's only because the connection Court and I have is strong that I feel safe we'll be able to navigate the recent 'with benefits' add-on to our friendship. I'm actually hoping that after dropping Zane back at his place tonight, I'll go home and see if Court is up for doing some morestuff.
A petite woman with a jet-black bob, wearing a loose-fitting white linen shirt, enters the room, introduces herself as the facilitator, goes over house rules, and outlines the structure of the class.
And then she introduces the model. "Unfortunately, our originally booked model couldn’t make it tonight, but the good news is we’ve found a wonderful replacement at short notice."
I look over at Zane, and he shrugs. Seems this is news to him, too.
"So without any further ado, please welcome our model for this evening, Courtland Matthews."
Zane's jaw drops.
I let out a strangled cough.
The only composed one is Courtland himself, strutting into the room wearing a white cotton robe, flip-flops, and a serene expression, like he's entering a spa for a day of massages and facial treatments, not like he's about to get naked in front of a room of strangers.
"Did you know anything about this?" Zane mutters, leaning over, his eyebrows pinched tight.
"Of course not," I reply, not taking my eyes off my bestie.
What in the world is he thinking?
34
Courtland
My gaze locks onto Buzz at the far end of the room. I should win an Oscar for the way I'm managing to keep the elation off my face, because leaning over right next to him, looking completely blindsided, is my prime target for the evening. Things couldn't have gotten off to a more sterling start.
Maybe if Zane had been nicer to me a few days ago when we ran into each other in the street, I wouldn't have had to resort to tracking down the model for the evening, paying him triple what he would have earned for the class, and then contacting the organizer to offer her my…services.
Now the fucker has to stare at my naked body for two hours.
I hit my mark at the front of the room and slide my flip-flops off. I only made two requests of the organizer. One, the room temperature had to be set to seventy-five. If I'm going to be naked and still for two hours, I want to be comfortable.
And two, my fee for the evening would be donated to the Clovelly Animal Shelter. I'm well aware that what I'm doing isn't the most mature thing in the world, so I wanted to even out the karmic scales a little. Buzz and I did a junior volunteer program there the summer we turned fourteen, so it's a place that's close to my heart.
I take off my robe, and even though there are at least twenty sets of eyeballs on me, there's only one set I care about. He may have watched me jerk off through my briefs a couple of nights ago, but Buzz has never seen me fully naked. Shirtless or in swim shorts is the most flesh we've ever revealed in front of one another.
Until tonight.
I've manscaped. I've moisturized. I ampreparedfor this moment.
I slowly turn my head until my eyes find his.
Everything that isn't him fades into a blur as I smile. He returns my smile with a soft, albeit slightly confused, one of his own. He's not angry. That's a good sign. I didn't want any collateral damage in this operation, and initial signs point to that being the case.
The facilitator informs the class we'll begin with a series of quick gesture poses, lasting anywhere from one to three minutes, to warm the class up. She directs me to stand, then sit on a stool, then recline against the wall, bend my leg, face right, then left, now both hands on my hips.
After that, we move into the main pose for the evening. This time, she lets me choose something that feels comfortable and natural, providing only minimal guidance. I settle into a natural standing pose, one hand on my hip, my head gently turned to the right where I can keep an eye on the easel in the farthest corner of the room.
Everyone gets to work.
I can already pick out who the experienced artists are and who the first-timers are. The experienced ones don't look bothered. They stare intently at me then focus on their canvas. The first-timers' eyes dart around between me and their canvases, never settling on one thing for too long.
There's only one exception in the entire classroom.
