Raw and Curvy by S.E. Law
3
Mimi
“Ugh,” I groan as the sunlight filters in through the windows in my apartment. Nothing like a bright sunshiny day when I’m depressed and don’t have anything to do. Sitting up in bed, I rub my hands over my face and look around my apartment. “How am I going to fill up all these hours if I don’t have a job?”
Since there’s no one here to respond, I force myself out of bed and put my robe on. Then I walk over to my small kitchen, make a coffee in my Keurig, and toast a bagel with cream cheese. Once it’s done, I carry my little breakfast with me and sit on the couch in my robe.
While I nibble on my bagel, I start scrolling through social media on my phone, but seeing posts about people complaining about having to go to work quickly sends me further into a depressing spiral, and I toss my phone to the other end of the couch. Lifting my knees into a ball, I bury my face in my hands.
“This is what it feels like to be unemployed, I guess,” is my moan. “I’m all alone and a loser.”
The silence and lack of response doesn’t do my mood any favors. It’s just another reminder that without a profession, I don’t really have much of a life. I can’t remember the last time I dated anyone whom I really cared about. I have Jemima, and she’s a great friend, but she’s married with a baby now, and I don’t want to drag her down with my self-loathing. My buddy doesn’t have time for that.
Forcing myself to my feet, I grab my phone from the other end of the couch. “I’ve got to get out of this house,” I tell myself. “But what is there to do? Go for a run?”
The thought makes me shudder because I hate running with a passion. Why people would subject themselves to the sheer torture of pounding pavement is beyond me. But then an idea strikes. On occasion, I take art lessons at the OnDemand Art Studio, and I still have some credit left on my membership with them. I pull up their website to see if they have any classes open this afternoon. This could be fun, and it presents a way to get out of my house. Plus, maybe under the guidance of an instructor, I’ll actually be able to create something more than the blank canvas still sitting on the easel in the corner of my apartment.
Ah ha! They have a figure-painting class with some open slots in a couple hours, so I put down my name and head to the shower to try to pull myself together. I don’t want to look like I was crying for hours last night.
By the time I’m dressed with my hair semi-done and a light coat of make-up, I pack my art supplies into a back pack and it’s time to go. I make it to the school with only a few minutes to spare before the figure painting class is scheduled to begin. There are three models at the front of the class wrapped in large silk robes, and I recognize the teacher talking with them on the dais. Her name is Ms. Weathers, and she is a bit of a character, which is why she’s always been my favorite art teacher at OnDemand. Of course, I love them all, but Hiney Weathers really takes the cake.
Most of the easels around the room are already occupied, so I make my way to one of the three still available on the other side of the classroom. Looking around the room, I eye my fellow students. Oh wow, the crowd seems kind of old with their weathered miens and graying hair. I’m guessing most of the women here are close to double my age, and it would seem that today’s clothing aesthetic is hippy chic. Too bad nobody told me because my distressed skinny jeans and black tank top aren’t really giving off any boho vibes.
Ms. Weathers turns around and walks to the center of the room, clapping her hands to draw everyone’s attention. “Thanks for coming today, ladies. Today’s class will focus on the female form. As women, we come in so many wonderful shapes and sizes, and we’re going to celebrate that with our art. We’ve got three talented models here today who have volunteered to pose for us. So everyone, go ahead and get set up before class officially begins.”
I busy myself getting my paints and brushes out so I can start painting as soon as the models are ready. Meanwhile, Ms. Weathers helps the women get settled comfortably. Two of the women pose on blankets spread over the raised dais. They both lie on their stomachs, facing one another, with their robes removed and their bare backs and tushes on full display. They prop their chins up on their hands, watching each other like they’re having a conversation. One woman crosses her feet at the ankles, while the other keeps her legs straight. It’s kind of like two fauns having an innocent conversation in the middle of a meadow.
The third woman is a bit more exposed. There’s an ornate sofa in the center of the room, a bit away from where the other women are already posed. The third woman removes her robe and languidly lowers herself to the couch. She props herself up in one corner against the backrest and stretches one leg across the length of the couch, hooking over the armrest. Her other leg hangs off the couch with her foot planted on the floor, and needless to say, we can see everything. Is this supposed to be happening? I can literally see the pink gleaming between her thighs, but the woman looks totally unbothered. If anything, she looks a bit bored and then spreads her thighs a little wider while shifting to get comfortable.
Wow. I’ve been to figure painting classes before, but never with a model like this. Nonetheless, it’ll be good practice to draw something new, and I look forward to the challenge. Plus, the woman on the couch is very full-figured, and if I had to guess, I’d says she’s at least forty pounds heavier than me. Despite this, the woman has a sex appeal radiating from her that can only be found in someone who is completely confident in their beauty. And I know at once that I’m going to focus on painting her for this class. Maybe if I study the woman, I can find a way to bring her confidence and beauty to life on my canvas. Maybe I can even find a way to harness a little of that assertiveness in myself.
With determination, I grab my orange paint and squeeze the tube to put some on my palette, but nothing comes out. Frowning, I try to work all the paint towards the front of the tube, and then give it another hard squeeze. Suddenly, paint shoots out, squirting clear across my canvas before splattering on a big, bulky form to my left.
Oh shit. I look up to see where it landed, and my mouth falls open at the sight of a man who must have just taken the easel next to me. He’s got night-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a furious expression on his face as he wipes at his cheek. Even worse, that’s not orange paint on his hand. It’s the lube from my sexy session last night, and the gunky mess is shiny, oily, and imbued with the scent of coconut. Oh god, how did that get into my backpack, and even worse, what have I done?
