In My Mind
Zane
T wice a week, when I entered the classroom, I would always see her first. Well, actually, the back of her as she prepared all of her materials for class. She sat in the first row, obviously a serious student who wanted to make the best impression. I admired that.
As I walked from the rear to the front, I would brush past her and catch her distinctive whiff. She wasn’t the perfume type, but she always smelled great. I recognized when she changed to the featured scent of the month at Bath and Body Works; I always did the same, but Moonlit Path would always be my favorite.
A few times I said hello to her. She whispered a soft response but never engaged in conversation with me after class, like many of the other students, especially the male students. All of them wanted to sample what they had come to know so well visually.
Never in a million years would I have imagined becoming a nude model, even though I had sketched and painted many of them when I had been an art major at the same university where I now worked. Times were hard since my mother had passed away, and I needed to pay my bills. I had obtained a little success as a painter. but no one would ever take me seriously until I was dead.
Shane was her name. One of the other students had mentioned that she was originally from Atlanta and had moved to Washington, D.C. for college. She was taller than me but, then again, so were most women. Since I measured four feet eleven inches, most girls were taller than me before they finished elementary school. Shane had long brown dreadlocks, coconut flesh and a gap between her front teeth. She wore glasses and tried to hide the fact that she was beautiful by wearing frumpy clothes and no makeup.
I did not become a lesbian until I was in my late-twenties. In retrospect, I probably always should have been one. No man had ever truly appreciated my value or respected me, not until after I was gone and they were trying to convince me to come back. Pain recognizes pain, though, and I often saw agony on Shane’s face during class. I had nothing else to do but stare at everyone while they stared at my body.
The routine was always the same. I would come in, go up on the small riser, disrobe and then strike a pose, which changed weekly. The first week, the instructor had me lie on a Victorian chaise and strike a historical pose. The second week, I had to stand with my back to them and my head bent to the right so they could see my profile. I hated that. My neck had such a crick in it that I had to go home and use a heating pad. The third week, I sat on a stool with my hands folded on my lap. Now we were into the fourth week and I had to stand erect with my back slightly arched, my arms raised over my head grasping a pole, with my chin pointed a little down and to the left.
Class began and all eyes were on me. Pencils were out and the only sounds were the tips whisking across the paper and the low music playing in the background. “Bed” by J. Holiday was currently playing and all I could think about was putting Shane to bed. I had often wondered if she had ever noticed how much I stared at her over others in the class. My gaze
would remain fixed on her while I made love to her over and over again in my mind. I imagined her hands running through my curly, black hair and her tongue on my nipples, that would often become hard just from the fantasy. The third week, I had actually climaxed while posing. In my mind, I had been eating Shane’s pussy and she was screaming out my name: “Emile! Emile!” I hoped no one had seen the wetness of my pussy dripping down the legs of the stool. Then again, it was what it was. If I was going to sit there in the same position for three hours, twice a week, my mind had to do something. Shane had been not on my mind, but in my mind for so long and I decided that it was time to do something about it.
“Hello, Shane,” I said while she was packing up her supplies.
“Hey, Emile,” she whispered back.
“How are things going?” I asked, which took our normal conversation further than it had ever been.
She looked nervous. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
It was like she was trying to hide something, or feared that I had found out something. I knew next to nothing about her.
“I was just asking. We spend six hours a week together, so I was only wondering.”
Shane scanned the room, full of others. “But everyone is here every week.”
I shrugged, standing there in my plush robe and flip-flops. “Everyone else has at least held one conversation with me; everyone but you.” I started to walk away, admitting defeat way too easily. “Sorry if I bothered you.”
She grabbed my arm and, even through the thick fabric, electricity shot up my spine. My fantasy had touched me—for the first time but far from the last.
“Emile, I didn’t mean to come off the wrong way. It’s just that, well, it’s been a rough month for me.”
“I’m a great listener. Would you like to go have a drink and talk about it?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose on you.”
Was that a blush?
“Shane, it’s not an imposition. Everyone needs someone to talk to, and I’ve had a rough year, not just a month.”
“Really?”
“Yes, we all have issues, and it’s important not to keep things wrapped up inside.”
Shane giggled. “A drink would be nice, right about now. But only if you have the time.”
I brushed one of her dreadlocks off her cheek. “Just give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you out front.”
“Um, okay.”