Friendly Gestures

Why were these thoughts coming to her?

He must have been 70, slightly wrinkled, and she should be focused on the study, the pose, the shapes that made up his body. This was a figure drawing class after all, something to train her eye, her hand on.

But focus, that wasn't the problem. In fact, it may have been the root of her struggle. She was very focused- on him, his pose, the shapes that made up his body and damn, those shapes; he was definitely in shape. He was quite a bit older, but as the saying goes, he aged like a fine wine. A nice vintage, his body was something to admire. His skin showed its age; tan and rough, but drew taught when he posed, his muscular physique quite apparent. It wasn't all show, either, as the poses he'd put himself in, the strength required, you could see the sheer power in his body as he slid from pose to pose with such grace.

And grace, well it was that grace that spoke to not only his ability to carry his body, but possibly a slight peek into his history. He created such unique forms, used the space he had well, provided such interest in his poses and arrangement of his body as a series of three dimensional shapes, he couldn't have been new to this. The drama in how he settled, it was as if every pose was a still from a movie, a snippet of a story; a caricature of an imagination well traveled.

She wondered if maybe he was an artist himself, as it was clear to tell he knew what he was doing. There are certain rules to composition, ways you can arrange your work to guide the eye, and it seemed like he knew this very well. From the curve of his spine, the flow of action through his pose, the taught, firm chest, the chiseled abs, the trail of hair leading between his legs, every detail took her on a whimsical exploration. And maybe it was his mastery of this, or her dirty mind, but it all led to only one thing. She couldn't take her eyes off it. No matter the pose, how he contorted his body, as long as it was visible, her gaze was on it.

Thick.

Heavy.

Hanging.

This man, I mean she could be studying horses and would be hard pressed to find proportions so wild. This man was lean, very fit; in the build of a distance runner, and what she saw came as quite the surprise. It hardly looked real, dangling there between his legs.

He smoothly moved into another pose, his curves once again graceful, now even more so. His body flowed in an s curve, action flowing from his neck, through his spine, gracefully finding the new pose. Her eyes followed the action down his body, secondary action of his manhood mesmerizing as it slowly settled into its new position, like a pendulum, this grandfather cock slowly coming to a rest.

She broke her focus from the paper to take another gaze at the art standing in front of her, but he was nowhere to be found.

It was also in that moment that she noticed other students were milling around, her easel drawing quite the array of glances. Some smirks, a few furrowed brows, but generally, a lot of attention.

'Focused, weren't you?'

She stood there, frozen, eyes forward, trying her best to close off her peripheral vision. It was if they were speaking for her body, as she wished she could slink out of there to prevent her embarrassment. He saw her page, like most everyone else had, and it quickly became apparent where her focus lied.

She turned her head to acknowledge him and immediately blushed, his still nude body mere inches from her. A quick glance was all she could steal without exposing herself as a pervert, but even that was enough. He hung there even closer than he himself stood, and she very quickly felt her face become hot.

'You're not the first one to notice, don't worry.'

He must have noticed, despite her attempts at subtlety. A smile of embarrassment crept across her face:

'Oh no.' she thought.

You've done quite a good job on these, lovely work!

She smiled sheepishly in response; 'Thank you, your poses were so dramatic'.

If this was only the first class she had no clue how she'd make it through the semester...