Like any young guy starving his through college, I'm always in the market for easy money. Scanning the paper a few weeks ago I saw an ad asking for a nude model. Being the somewhat shy type, I started to pass it over. That is, until I saw how much it paid. Three hundred bucks! One session for an hour and a half. Temptation found me in front of the vanity mirror seconds later (oh, the vanity). I stripped down and started gawking at myself. Well, yeah we guys do that pretty much every time we get out of the shower. But those performances are more like Arnold's Conan, not so much Michelangelo's David. I had to prepare myself by trying every possible pose they would ask of me. The Thinker, Atlas holding up the world, Swooping Crane. I even had my head between my legs to see how I'd look to a bunch of people staring at my every facet.

Then I saw it. How could I forget? As a nude model, one surely cannot forget about his package. The night walker cometh! I froze as my imagination took off. The first thought that hit me was, what if it's cold in that room? Excuse me, we asked for a male model. Oh! And worse, what if the room is filled with Aphrodites, all chewing on the ends of their erasers, taunting me, staring directly at my... No, no, no. Don't stir. No stirring! Back vile thing!

The average man's mind will process a sexual thought once every eight seconds. So, for a single session lasting one and one half hour, my penis could potentially betray me six hundred thirty times. By the second, that three hundred dollars was looking less and less like easy rent money, and more like hard work. If I was going to convince myself to do this, my rational mind had to get busy.

Who cares if that stuff happens while you're up there? it asked. You're only human. You're only a man! Look at the statistic. Where does it say, only you think about sex every eight seconds? Nowhere! Every guy experiences that. Unless he's quite unfortunate, eh? When you're standing up there, those people are going to remark, 'My oh my, That is one healthy male specimen.' The rational part of my brain was right, as usual. I decided there was nothing to be insecure about, so I called and got the info. That night I did a few extra push-ups, no big deal.

I wore a white t-shirt and blue jeans like I always do, not that it mattered. When I got to the studio, the instructor, the lady who placed the ad, paid me up front and showed me to the dressing room. I figured if things went south, or even north, I could just dash with the money in-hand, knowing I was already paid. Puns aside, it was a reassuring thought. I put on a bathrobe and she directed me to an elevated platform that sat a couple inches above the carpeted floor. It was a classroom-type setting, fifteen desks, a few men, but mostly women. The instructor introduced me to the class, and asked if I'd like to know all their names. I was straight forward and told them I was pretty nervous, and wouldn't remember two names, let alone fifteen. That got some smiles and I actually started to relax. Without making me guess, the instructor showed me the pose she was using for the class. It was pretty simple. I stood facing them, my head down and my arms at my sides clasping my hips. For the first five minutes while she explained emphasis points, I could feel their eyes on me. I hardly noticed I was holding my breath so it was kind of the instructor to acknowledge my color change. Then it began.