John Holmes - Porn King

Outside, the library chimes were signaling two o’clock. A sudden clatter in the next room, mixed with voices, told me the class was breaking. I found a hanger and quickly stripped down, removing everything I had on—shirt, jeans, shoes and socks, even my wrist watch—until I stood bare-ass naked among the file cabinets. An old bathrobe that looked and smelled as if it hadn’t been washed since the year one was hanging on a hook. Luckily, I’d brought a clean towel with me from the gym. No sooner had I wrapped it around my middle when the door to the storage room opened. There stood Miss Nichols, all 220-plus pounds of her, wearing a brightly flowered kimono that hung loosely over her shoulders, untied and open at the waist. The slightly parted fabric revealed a view infinitely more tantalizing than the one that had been on open display.

“They’re waiting for you,” she said wearily, moving inside.

I brushed past her mumbling a barely audible “thanks,” my heart racing all over again at the urgency of her words. After spending time in a dingy changing closet, the classroom seemed uncomfortably bright. Natural light, sunlight, streamed through a wall of glass, which may have been ideal for the artists but not for me. My eyes have always been extremely sensitive to light, and they water easily (they turn red and ugly). No way could I sit facing the windows, staring into the glare. There was another concern, an even greater one. The majority of students were girls in their late teens, very attractive California beach types. The thought of sitting before them with everything hanging out was embarrassing enough, but would I be able to control my often overactive imagination? It would take considerable concentration on my part to keep from becoming aroused. In a moment I’d be asked to remove the towel from my waist, unless catastrophe struck.

I found myself almost wishing for something devastating to happen—an earthquake, hurricane, or tidal wave—anything to delay the inevitable. The more I dwelled on the subject the more apprehensive I became. I could feel my scrotum tightening, and my stomach knotting up. What was I doing in the place? Why was I the only person in the room not wearing clothes?

Money, plain and simple! Money to eat, money to live, money for school… I’d been working for six months to save enough to attend UCLA, washing dishes and cars, waiting tables, taking odd jobs whenever and wherever I could. I had to keep coming up with ways to keep the money coming in. Modeling for a Life Drawing class wasn’t the greatest job in the world, but it was one of the most interesting and the pay wasn’t half-bad.

“It looks like we’re ready to begin, Mr. Holmes,” the instructor said, motioning for me to take my place on the high stool in the center of the room. In my absence, the students had rearranged their easels into a circular pattern, like theatre—in-the-round. I made my way through them, nervously fingering the terry wrapping at my midsection to check that it was still in place, and sat with my back to the window, purposely facing the ugliest male in attendance.

The instructor followed on my heels. “Strike a pose that’s comfortable for you,” he said. “Once you’re set you won’t be able to move”.

I positioned myself more squarely on the stool, resting one foot on a rug and bracing the other on the floor. Then I leaned over placing an elbow on my knee, sinking my chin into the cup of my hand. I looked like a poor substitute for Rodin’s “The Thinker.”

“That will do,” commented the instructor without much enthusiasm. (Did I sense some impatience on his part, or was he beginning to annoy me?) “But haven’t you forgotten something?” He added, “The towel. Just drop it on the floor. We’ll use it as a prop in the exercise.”

I stood reluctantly and loosened the towel letting it fall free. Exactly where and how it fell, heaped or in artistic folds, I don’t remember and didn’t much care. My mind was on the students and their reaction to my nakedness.

At this point in my life I wasn’t quite sure whether the Almighty had blessed me or cursed me. I only knew that I was “different.” And painfully sensitive! One crack, one sarcastic remark, and I was ready to bolt out the door. There were no words, thank God; none that I could hear, anyway. But I did detect muffled sounds about the room: a throat clearing, scattered murmuring. Or was that my imagination, too?

No sooner had I removed the towel then I was back on the stool, trying to duplicate my earlier pose. In my eagerness to resume the crouched position I must have turned slightly, for when I looked up I was not facing the ugliest guy in the class; he was off to the right. What I found instead was a young lady with lustrous, long dark hair, penetrating eyes, and full, sensuous lips. She was seated on a low stool, her easel angled at her side, and she wore a paint spattered smock that covered her blouse but offered little protection for the rest of her. And the rest of her was sensational! Her tight little miniskirt riding up her thighs, her long smooth legs— and the shadowy recesses in between—made quite a show. Had she kept her legs motionless, the view would not have been quite so captivating. Although her feet were planted firmly together, her thighs seemed to pulsate, opening and closing like butterfly wings in super slow motion. She fanned them apart and then pressed them together. Spreading, closing, spreading: the movement was hypnotic. At times her thighs opened so tantalizingly wide that it was almost possible to discern the dark patch under her skirt. She appeared to be wearing panties. Then, again, she did not. It’s doubtful that any of the students saw what she was doing. She moved so slightly, so effortlessly in a subconscious way that it would have taken a prolonged, studied look to discover she wasn’t sitting absolutely still. Even then, because of their vantage point, they could not have noticed anything more than the most subtle changing of positions.

I followed her every move, no matter how fractional, and as I stared past the inner reaches of her smooth thighs into the blossoming, uncertain shadows, I was drawn uncontrollably into a wild sexual fantasy. God, it was starting! A tingling sensation raced through my groin, fed by the powerful juices of some unseen current. I felt myself hardening and rising until a part of me was pointing directly in the darkening depths, straight as a ramrod, as if to say, “I want you!” If her movements went undetected, mine did not. My dimensions had altered drastically; creating a stir among the young artists who sat facing me. They turned from their easels and began to buzz. The murmuring encircled the room like “The Wave” in a football stadium.

“Did I miss the bell—or are we taking a break?” An authoritative voice asked rhetorically from somewhere behind me.

An uncomfortable silence followed as the students straightened on their stools and returned to work. I willed myself to soften, but the more I concentrated on that seemingly simple feat the more I stiffened and throbbed. I felt flushed. Beads of perspiration formed on my brow; my hands and crotch grew clammy, the air felt suddenly stifling.

I began breathing uneasily through my mouth, parching my lips. I wanted to lick them but I didn’t dare, not with my eyes focused on her. In desperation, I shifted my glance to the back of the room, then upward toward the ceiling. Still haunted by the smoldering mental images, I began to count holes in the acoustical tiles. When that failed, I turned to a wall chart showing a sexless human form with its muscles exposed.

The discovery of the well-defined rendering had me wondering why Id been accepted to model for the class, for that matter, Miss Nichols as well? As a prerequisite for Life Drawing, the students had to complete a tough course in anatomy—similar to one required for pre-med majors— in which they had to learn the names and locations of all the bones, muscles and tendons in the body. Miss Nichols’s bones were much too padded to be a good subject. At 6’3” and 175 pounds, I was lean and lanky. The only muscle I displayed—more openly than I’d intended—unfortunately wasn’t illustrated on any anatomy chart.