I’m completely naked in an unheated basement; about 40 female university students are staring at my ridiculous waif like body. This is so wrong.
Why do I allow these things to happen? I’m basically a rational person, yet here I am in another completely horrible situation of my own creation wanting to run away and hide.
What is happening here is that I got drunk and decided to become a life model. Half because being poor is a powerful creative force and half because I thought I’d never be able to do it – so I knew I had to try.
Christ knows why they call this life modelling – I wish I was dead. At least nobody looks at you when you are dead.
One factor I’d naively neglected to consider was that it is Fresher’s week at the university that I’m modelling for and people are a bit trigger happy when it comes to signing up for things during Fresher’s week – and unlike the rest of the year, they actually attend. The room is packed, people are sat on the floor because they ran out of chairs.
Being naked in front of these strangers is making my head spin violently with paranoid thoughts, my body temperature is out of control, even in this freezing basement I’m burning up. Between the spinning and the heat I feel like a woolly jumper in a washing machine. A jumper would be heaven right now.
I look at the clock and the hands are moving so slowly I swear they’ve stopped. Time flies when you’re having fun.
It’s about an hour in and the pose I’m doing is me sat on a chair with one leg crossed over my knee, my cock is resting flaccid against my thigh. Things are starting to feel almost normal, or rather it’s starting to feel normal to feel this horrible. Perhaps I’m achieving my ultimate aim in all this to liberate myself from the irrational fear of being naked in front of strangers. Maybe I’ve unlearned something taught to me by society since I was a baby.
Then there is a twitch against my thigh. Oh fuck, I think I’m getting an erection, hadn’t counted on that. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’ve seriously got to stop thinking the word fuck – if anything it’s making things worse.
Blind panic. An erection right now would be inexcusable, not to mention literally impossible to hide. I try to think about boring things, ugly things, but they all turn sexual in my apparently filth filled mind.
I try to clear my head using a technique I learned from television where you imagine a bulldozer sweeping away your thoughts. Unfortunately, the bulldozer is driven by a bikini-clad beauty who take a shine to me and hops out the heavy vehicle to invite me to the beach, of course there’ll be sun cream and probably any other cream you care to mention.
I chalk that up as another lie television told me.
Another twitch. I want to check if this is really happening or whether it’s all a paranoid delusion. But I’m fairly certain that if I look down at myself one of the forty people looking straight at me is bound to notice.
I decide that it’s time for the anti erection big guns, sorry gran.
When even that turns erotic I know I’m doomed, also probably going to hell. I solemnly vow never to use my grandmother for such purposes ever again, for the sake of my sanity.
What helpfully happens next is I start having a panic attack. But completely internally, hot sweats, shortness of breath, walls closing in, the lot. All while trying not to let it show to these poor girls.
I’m seriously considering a fully naked bolt for the door. It takes everything, but I force myself to stay, fighting the overwhelming urge to run.
I slowly become aware that my leg has gone completely numb because it’s crossed awkwardly, which proves to be an excellent distraction from the possible erection. I distract my brain from sexual things like construction workers in swimwear, by thinking about the ridiculous pain in my leg.
Somehow, after what seems like forever it is unexpectedly over. I get dressed by the door as people file pass me awkwardly saying thank you.
Wearing clothes again feels amazing, like a really relaxing hug, the type where the world melts away and you are the only two people left, just floating in space forever. Perhaps that is a slight exaggeration, but it felt good.
I collected my pitiful payment and headed straight to the bar to piss it up a wall. No one even mentioned the almost erection, although (and this is probably unrelated of course) one girl did ask for my number.
It is safe to say that I have realised my reliance on clothes goes deeper than just protection from the elements. Clothes are most definitely a crutch.
A month later, to see if I’d ever get used to being naked I life modelled again. About thirty seconds into the lesson I realised I’ll probably never get used to it and that I now had to go through the two hours of torment all over again.