The Drawing Room
My God his dick is big, the girl thought, adjusting the sketchpad on her
easel. I’ve never seen a dick that big. Imagine if he got an erection. I could
hang my coat up on it. I could throw hoola-hoops at it like I was at the county fair.
This is ridiculous, the guy thought. We’ve spent three classes drawing dicks. When are we gonna get a female model? I know what the male figure looks like: narrow hips, high calves, wide shoulders. I can look in the mirror for Christ sake. There’s a reason why artists paint women. Dicks are ugly. They stink. Look at it. Hanging down on his leg like a brown bannana, like a strangled turtle.
Why is everyone staring at me? the dick thought. It’s cold in here. Why doesn’t he put me into something warm? A vagina would be nice. Or a mouth. That girl over there, she’s got a nice mouth. Big and warm. For God’s sake, what is she doing with that charcoal?
This class is too long, the model thought. Three and a half hours of this shit. I hope my girlfriend doesn’t find out. She’d kill me. Maybe I should just tell her—explain how we needed the money and how it’s better for me to do it than for her. No way I’d let her do it with the body she’s got—the artists would all have hard-ons. These horny eyes. Just look at them. Hey! Why does that girl keep staring at my dick?
This is embarrassing, the charcoal thought. Pretty soon I’ll morph into a penis. What’ll my brothers and sisters think? They’ll say, hey did you hear about old Harry, he became a dick and now he’s hanging on the wall of some girl’s apartment in Oakland. No way. I can’t let that happen. It’s disgraceful. I should break off from this bitch’s hand while I’m still here. Why doesn’t she use lead? It’s much more vulgar. Lead doesn’t care what becomes of it. It’s dense and insensitive.
I know I’m supposed to focus on the whole body, the girl thought. But just this once, a penis protagonist. Look how easily it molds into form. This charcoal is great, makes shading so natural. Should I add the scrotum to the picture? I don’t know, looks kind of damaged. Maybe I’ll leave it as it is—a projectile with a heart-shaped head. Like cupid’s arrow. Or maybe I’ll add the bow in the background. Make it surrealistic.
I can’t hold this pose any longer, the model thought. My legs are shaking. I don’t care what time it is, I’m changing positions. These people don’t give a shit about me anyway. I could freeze to death for all they care. I could turn into an ice sculpture. All they want is a temporary outline. Something to keep their minds off their problems. They’re probably all psychologists or pre-med, looking for catharsis. There’s no art in catharsis.
When is this dude gonna change positions? the guy thought. I’ve been looking at his dick for twenty minutes now. At least if he turned around, I could forget his gender. An ass is an ass. It’s bisexual. Why am I taking this class anyway? It’s not like I’m getting credit for it. I figured there’d be a bunch of hot models. Beautiful girls interested in meeting artists. But no. All we get are these pathetic dudes with giant cocks. Great. How am I supposed to feel? I hate drawing cocks. I’m no good at it. Maybe it’s this damn lead. Maybe I should switch to charcoal.
Yeah! the charcoal thought. Take me from this bitch! She’s turning me into a dick. How humiliating. Who do you artists think you are? You perverts. Use us up and then throw us away. And you’re supposed to be sensitive? Yeah right. Was Picasso sensitive? How many wives did he have? Too many. And he drew them all in charcoal as if he was counting on his fingers. God, I wish I was something else. A non-corroding material. Like varnish or paint. Paint sticks and stays. It’s not wishy-washy. It doesn’t need hairspray to survive. But not me! I crumble. I smudge. I vanish into stardust.