by writerlefter123

A young woman stands centre stage. She is dressed conservatively, as if she has come here straight from an office job ­- buttoned up shirt, suit skirt, a blazer, skin coloured tights, and smart shoes. There is a clothes rail next to her. She speaks out to the audience.

No matter how hard I try, I cannot stop staring at her nipples. I mean, it’s not like it’s that weird, given the context. But it doesn’t look like anyone else in the room is having the same problem. The same obstacle. I’m sure they’re all watching me. Watching me, watching her. JESUS they’re hard.

She takes off her blazer and hangs it on the clothes rail, facing her.

I’m certain the tutor, at least, has noticed my trauma. Smirking at our attempts to take a piece of her home with us. A piece of her we never had and never will but he’s had several times over, on this very floor, against that very easel, smearing his charcoaled fingers across her perfect pink tits and making me want to SCREAM!

She takes off her shoes, and places them on the floor beneath the hung blazer.

I wonder who’s got a hard­-on right now… Twelve ­O’Clock’s easel is positioned unusually low. How convenient. Bet he’s wanking furiously back there, splattering all over that poor canvas, a Jackson Pollock in the making! HA! FUCK. I’m burning up.

She unbuttons her shirt and shows us her chest, which is painted bright red.

A red rash is flowering across my chest like I’ve been sneakily rubbing myself out with my 2B pencil under my sketch pad. And the tutor’s smiling at me from across the room. He reminds me of my old biology teacher. Squinty black eyes beneath a monobrow that’d blow Frida Kahlo’s right out the water. SHIT. Now I’m drawing a monobrow. Just as he’s heading my way. That’s it, a quick smudge here and now there, and tah­dah! Said monobrow is now ‘an expressionist interpretation of the model’s bountiful pubic region.’ He smirks and wriggles his own monobrow suggestively like an agitated caterpillar as he moves onto a NORMAL person who can sketch a live, naked woman as calmly as one decides between smoked or unsmoked bacon.

JESUS FUCK. My paper is still infested with half­sketched nipples. No wonder he’s laughing at me. A fleshly mountain range stretching across the horizon of my sketch pad. ‘Nippoli ­ every boobaholic’s favourite holiday destination’. What THE BALLSACK am I on about?! I think the bloke on my left has fallen asleep which is pretty rude. Oh no, he’s just concentrating. Loudly. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the ­ Wait a minute. It’s not him, it’s ME. Don’t. Breathe. Just don’t…. Feeling dizzy. Dizzy and hot.

She unbuttons the rest of her shirt, and hangs it up next to the blazer. She is in her bra, and we can see her torso is painted a multitude of swirling colours ­ reds, blues, greens, yellows.

Just look at something boring. That’s it, look at her toes. Nice, safe, unassuming toes. I bet everyone in this room has nibbled a million toes in their lifetime. And not in a cannibalistic way. Probably rushing straight home after this to douse their multiple lovers’ little piggies in Nutella. I can hear them salivating all around me. Wet tongues flicking this way and that in anticipation. ENOUGH! I’m starving.

I’m on the tube and she’s here. No­one’s looking at her, and why would they? They don’t know who she is. What she can be. I wonder if she’s wearing a bra. She doesn’t need to, they’re so fucking PERT. The man next to her is taking up way too much room, can he spread his legs any wider?! Must have a massive cock. Or he just wants people to think he does. She’s looking down. Pretending to look at her phone. But she’s definitely wondering the same as me. One hundred percent.

She wriggles out of her skirt, and hangs it up next to the blazer and the shirt ­all now facing her from the clothes rail.

I want to ask her if she noticed me tonight. If, in the room full of eyes, did she feel mine on her skin the most? Did her nipples burn as I traced and retraced their contours and crevices and wondered what they’d taste like dipped in balsamic vinegar?

She turns to face the clothes rail now.

I’m standing in front of my bedroom mirror and my nipples are harder than I ever thought possible. I’ve been pinching and twisting them like they’ve less nerve endings than marshmallows. FUCK they sting. They’re pretty ugly really. Nipples. Two mini, purple volcanoes, lying dormant until one day, they will erupt proteinous lava for one short burst, before they crust over for another thousand years. Maybe it was the lighting that did it for hers. I’ve turned off the main light and thrown a red T­-shirt over the bedside lamp. The shadows make my tits look bigger, which is worth remembering.

My skin is a sort of yellow red. I look warm. I look like fire. I wish they could draw me, right now.

I wish I could feel their eyes on my skin. Peeling me away like wet wallpaper. Wanting to take me home.

She reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra. Cut to black