Figure Drawing.

Yesterday, my heart throbbed. I walked through three locked doors, following a sickly skinny man with a heavy key. He led me to an empty room, a thin layer of sawdust covering the carpet. "Renovations," he said, "We'll be done soon. You can change here." I slipped out of indigo jeans and a black top. I stood in the room, both hands on the wall, telling myself to breathe. I looked down at my body, tied in a thin string bikini. Brown, simple, lovely. I tiptoed to an adjacent dimly lit room, crawled onto a circular podium. Fifteen men sat before me with enormous sketch pads and thick charcoal. Lamps illuminated my curves, my bones, my skin. I focused on the man with the easel. Kind eyes, kind hands. They joked about their jobs, I laughed and tried to stay still. I joked with them, like I was one of the guys. I was careful not to move my body, just my tongue. My elbow ached, the man with a scruffy beard said: "Five more minutes, guys." I sang Venn Diagram in my head. I glanced at a sketch pad, the contour of my skin delicately sewn into the pale paper. It was strange, to see my body in some one else's eyes, in someone else's hands. It was unreal and intangible, but I loved every passing moment. An amazing experience.