I'm Not in Love

CHAPTER1

Remi

He is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

A cluster of chatty art students, each clutching an enormous portfolio bag, obstructs my view of the Adonis leaning casually against the back wall of the life drawing studio. I shuffle several steps to the left. Once in an optimal location for surveillance, I strike a pose—arms crossed, hip slung loosely to the side. The picture of indifference, if not for the craning of my neck.

I fail wildly in my attempt at nonchalance—my inquisitive pose is an applaudable imitation of the paparazzi who once stalked me. It’s better, now that I’ve fallen off their radar. A visual arts college student isn’t nearly as intriguing as a filthy rich, tragic orphan. But for years after I lost my parents, I couldn’t rub my eyes without it making the Garner City Gazette society page. Reporters are among my least favorite people, still I refuse to blush with humiliation that I’m scrutinizing this stunning young man in precisely the way they scrutinized me.

“Let those seated in the second balcony stare, but, darling, never let them see you sweat.” I’ve discarded most of Grandmother’s cynical and undoubtedly elitist advice, yet I take this piece to heart.As much as I’ve been trained to pay little attention to the hordes who choose to gawk, I’ve also learned to offer nothing in the way of reaction. Haughty stoicism is the rule for the distinguished upper class.

After a shamefully long reexamination of my subject—though I admit, shame normally falls far beyond the walls of my tightly regulated emotional wheelhouse—I find myself creating a mental tally of his physical assets. What makes him so pleasing to my discerning artist’s eye?

With my well-honed observational skill, I start by analyzing his basic facial architecture: cheekbones and jawline. Undistracted by his shaggy mop of fair hair, I admit the new student’s classically chiseled bone structure would rival that of a traditional Christmas card angel… if angels, in fact, had bones. His nose is also admirably streamlined.

Moving on to his lips… they’re not as full as the ones I usually choose to, uh, plunder, but are, nonetheless, finely made.

So caught up in the riveting vision, I’m startled when coyly, with narrow eyes of hazel, the young man brandishes the all-knowing stare of a seer. His gaze slides over me in the manner my fountain pen moves across Smooth Bristol drawing paper—evenly and without faltering. I shiver. It’s as though he’s avoiding my introspective appraisal...

The noisy clunk of a drawing board hitting the studio floor distracts me from my blatant assessment of the new student. Ziggy Gorham, who reportedly fell off his mountain bike descending the steep granite staircase in front of the Garner City Fine Arts Museum, is trying to set up his drawing board. His thigh-to-ankle cylinder cast—fully exposed thanks to a pair of cherry red running shorts—isn’t cooperating. None of the student artists near him seem inclined to lend a hand, so I head over to his drawing chair.

“Um, Ziggy, that won’t work. You need to balance it on one leg, like this.” I adjust the board, so it rests less precariously on his wiry, uncasted cyclist’s thigh. “See?”

“Dude, you’re a freakin’ lifesaver.” Appreciative of the easy fix, he brushes his stringy hair from his eyes and grins up at me. “Many thanks.”

“No problem.” Ziggy would benefit greatly from the use of common sense. Nonetheless, his appreciation is like chicken soup for my prickly soul.

Despite how hard I’ve tried to push all memories of my parents from my head, I can’t seem to forget the “to whom much is given, much will be required” lesson they drilled into my youthful mind. And though I’m far from a people person, this lesson is part of me.

Yes, I’m a (reluctant) helper.

Once my Boy Scout deed is done, I refocus my attention on the unknown student, homing in on his lithe physique. It screams modern dancer—can this young Adonis squeeze his ass cheeks together tightly enough to hold a marble between them? I stifle a snicker. Even with his bland expression, the man leaning on the wall by the studio door is the most stunning human being I’ve ever encountered. And I’m not one to dish out lavish compliments on a mere whim.

It feels natural when I shake my lanky limbs from their creepy stalker pose and move across the classroom toward him. My plan is to welcome the newbie to class and find out if he’s busy tonight.

Among the undergrads at LaCasse College of Visual Arts, I’ve been able to meet my complicated life’s rather uncomplicated ambitions: my painting is unsurpassed, and I enjoy an active (anti) social life. In other words, I indulge in meaningful art and meaningless sex. As a senior, I have briefly acquainted myself with every one of the most distractingly beautiful men in attendance, or so I thought until ten minutes ago. And rarely are my advances rejected by other students because I’m an Adonis, as well. Being beautiful makes everything easier.

I fight my blooming grin as it may render me approachable to my peers. I refuse to risk emotional entanglements no matter how insignificant. And I chalk it up to having learned my lesson the hardest way possible. At nine-years old.

Drawing the Undraped Human Form is a seniors-only course. The administration is apparently of the mindset that underclassmen are unable to sketch live naked bodies without drooling. I wipe the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. Isn’t it ironic?

Life drawing is at the basis of much art; watercolor is my preferred medium. I’m talented enough to make Grandmother’s cheeks pinken at the uninhibited detail of my frequently masculine subject matter. Extracting a blush, and on occasion a flustered sigh, from my stuffy grandmother is an admitted secret pleasure. I slide my hand back and forth across my lips, rubbing briskly at the four-day growth in a further effort to smother my smirk.

The unknown student in the oversized tee, snug joggers, and worn moccasin-style bedroom slippers, launches a counterattack to my closer position. He leans to pick up the army-green duffel bag resting at his feet—an odd choice, as most LCC students are addicted to trendy art portfolio backpacks—and drifts to the front of the room. Without a second glance, he bypasses the scattered art chairs and easels that are directed toward a pewter-gray, left-arm chaise lounge.

When he stops to chat with Professor Santini, frustration sets in—I’ll hit on him at the end of class. Sliding my lust to the backburner, I get down to art-student business. Last night was a late one thanks to ceramics major Joey Ramirez—he’s exceptionally good with his hands—and this morning, I’m the worse for wear. Choking back a yawn, I place my messenger bag beside a drawing chair instead of an easel.

I retrieve a drawing board from the wooden storage cabinet that lines the wall beneath the oversized window, straddle my chosen art horse, and lean the board against my denim-clad thighs. Muscle memory takes over from here as I finish setting up. After pulling my chin-length hair into the elastic band I’m wearing on my wrist, I’m ready for class to begin.

I glance around the classroom as students file in. Some straddle drawing chairs, but most stand and adjust their easels. Not one of them greets me, which is exactly how I want it. Smiling grimly, I realize that my Adonis is nowhere to be seen. I sniff in uncharacteristic disappointment. He’s probably an underclassman who found himself in the wrong studio thanks to the twisted hallways of the antique Clayton Arts Building.

It’s barely October; I can’t be expected to have yet acquainted myself with all the pretty young men—the freshmen and transfers—who have joined the pretentious ranks of Garner City’s top art school. As an overachiever (strictly in terms of art and sex), I’m determined to find him. I’ll visit the dining hall for lunch—even gorgeous people have to eat. When I “bump into” my Adonis, I’ll buy him a meatball sub and charm him with abundant, over-the-top compliments. Shouldn’t be too difficult to get him into bed.

Keep it simple, Remi.And by this, I mean do what feels good. Nothing feels as good as creating dazzling art and achieving satisfying orgasms.

It’s now past ten, and there’s no sign of the life model. This doesn’t bode well for the next two weeks, during which we’re supposed to work with the same model on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings.

“Good morning, class. As I mentioned last week, we’re about to dive into a two-week series with a new-to-us life model.” Professor Santini takes his place in the center of the worn, wide pine floor where a model will hopefully soon pose, putting an end to his introductory babbling. “We’ll begin this unit in a traditional manner, starting with gestures. Then we’ll proceed to short standing poses.” He wipes his brow to suggest that the model will then be exhausted. According to the grapevine, posing is physically and mentally draining work. I’ve never given it much thought. “After a break, we’ll proceed to longer sitting and reclining poses.”

A live nude model offers art students a variety of poses, so we can best study the human anatomy. I’m ready to see the subject Santini referred to as “(deep sigh) utter perfection.” For a long moment, I hold my breath and gaze with anticipation at the classroom door, hoping the new series model will scurry into the room, displaying extraordinary physical traits that compel me to capture movement and flow and form.

The folding screen in the back corner of the room vibrates lightly. The model must have snuck in while I was preparing for class and is now stripping down behind the screen. The students quickly finish setting up, and then the classroom grows hushed in expectation.