Little Lies

My excitement drains as our male model enters the studio, wearing a white terry cloth robe. This can’t be happening, is my first thought, immediately followed by, of course this is happening.

And I am 100 percent certain it’s happening because of me. I don’t understand why Kodiak feels the need to remind me at every turn that I’m nothing to him and never will be.

I turn to face my easel, uninterested in watching everyone else fall under his spell. Kodiak is exactly like the place he’s named for—exceptional, rugged, cold, unique. As much as I hate him, it’s impossible to deny his stunning beauty, or to avoid being sucked in by it.

White terry cloth passes on my right. I don’t want to look up, but I realize I have to. For the next three hours, he’s going to be my primary focus. Even worse, I have to sketch him. Naked. In a room full of my peers.

I’m also aware that this entire thing is—or at least used to be—far outside his comfort zone. He used to get anxious before games when we were younger because it meant so many people would be watching him, and he was always afraid of failing. But he learned how to compartmentalize the anxiety, how to push it down and put it in a box so he could play without distraction.

Maybe he’s learned to like the feeling of being watched. Maybe he’s learned how to feed off it instead of letting it feed off him. Whatever the case, he’s about to drop that robe and expose himself to a room full of strangers.

God, does it ever make me angry. And that anger makes me furious, because I don’t want to feel anything about him, or for him. At all. I want to give zero fucks. It’s clear that’s where he is, so why can’t I be?

His hand goes to the tie at his waist and stays there for several long seconds. Why isn’t he disrobing? Maybe he’s having a panic attack. Maybe he isn’t as okay with this as he pretends to be. Maybe he needs me like I used to need him. The thought is fleeting, childish, and entirely too romantic. Kodiak doesn’t need anyone. I lift my eyes. His jaw tics as I meet his eyes, the palest green. His pupils are pinpricks. Acute anxiety.

But that’s what he was waiting for—my eyes on his. He pulls the tie, and I don’t look away. We’re locked in some kind of odd stare down. I don’t understand what he’s doing. What’s the point of baring himself to me in front of everyone? Is it another way to humiliate me?

The robe slides over his heavily muscled shoulders and down his arms, piling on the floor at his feet. A collective intake of breath follows. A feminine giggle comes from somewhere behind me and is quickly covered by an embarrassed cough. And then silence.

Kodiak doesn’t break eye contact as he steps back and drops down on the chaise. Which is when I realize what exactly has elicited the inappropriate giggle. Aside from the fact that Kodiak is built like a Greek god, carved out of marble by the most talented of hands, he’s also unapologetically sporting a semi. At half-mast, he has a lot going on, so I don’t want to think too hard about what the deal is when he’s fully erect. Or why he’s hard in the first place. It’s possible he gets off on my misery these days.

He doesn’t make a move to hide his erection. Instead, he reclines and stretches his arm across the back of the chaise. The way he positions himself seems almost careless, but I can see that it’s not. Every muscle is tense, vibrating with disquiet. He bends one knee and the other stays on the floor, which means every person in the room has an excellent view of his ample junk.

He’s uncircumcised, which I didn’t know until today. Although I’m very aware that my dad is also in that category of male. My mom used to talk about the Snuffie and Super MC when I was younger. Eventually I figured out she was referring to my dad’s penis. Yes, I’m scarred for life.

Yes, it’s also kind of hilarious.

Or it was, until I realized all the tube-shaped superhero costumes she’d made had a use. There are some things you should never, ever know about your parents.

Kodiak could easily shift his hand and employ some modesty, covering some of the show he’s putting on, but instead, he splays his hand on his upper thigh, palm down. Again, it seems casual, but it’s what he used to do when he was trying to keep his knee from bouncing.

And still, he’s staring at me, and still, I’m staring back.

I thought I hated him before, but it has nothing on how I feel about him now. I want to kick him in the balls, which incidentally, are resting on the plush velvet seat. Looks like that will need a steam clean after this.