Copyright July 2012, Sofia Bane
“Hold it, Elliot, please,” Ivan snapped at me from behind his canvas.
He was talking about my pose, but Hold it meant more than he realized, since I’d had to piss since arriving at the art studio. I’d been a nude model for a beginner’s class in the morning, and since Ivan was a rising star painter, when he asked me to stay for him afterward, I couldn’t say no. He had the faintest Russian accent, a muscular physique, and a gaze that sometimes made me feel very, very young. Now, since I had to piss and since he was looking at me with a deep frown, was one of those times.
“Your legs look terrible. Twist your knee – your other knee,” he motioned impatiently. I was obligated to shift my weight, felt my bladder stretch inside of me. “The satyr I’m working on is frolicking, not having a fucking seizure.”