I love art class. Not because I'm the next Picasso. Far from it. It's also not because it's an easy A class. And it's not because I get away with texting in class. I'm not worried about the fact that it's the only class where people don't judge me for being who I am. Don't get me wrong, those things are great, but they're not why I love art class. No...
I love art class because of the hunk of eye candy I get to look at through the whole hour.
I get to watch his perfect lips form words. Watch his artist's hands work in elaborate gestures. Watch his sassy hips sway as he walks from one side of the room to the other. Because he is not a student. He doesn't sit near me. He's not the teacher's pet. He is Mr. Way, the instructor. And he's the most beautiful man in the world.
I was hooked since day one of this year, senior year. The school realized I hadn't filled my fine arts credits. I wasn't joining the shitty marching band, and I wasn't good enough for choir. Music theory was out of the question, so they stuck me in here. I hated the idea of it, because I can't draw for shit. That all changed when Mr. Way walked in.
He's a new teacher. Actually, I think he graduated from this school himself. And his brother, Mikey, just left last year. I didn't move here until sophomore year, so I didn't get to meet him in his school days. That's fine though, because when he walked through that door on the first day...I swear either time or my heart stopped.
It's no secret that I sometimes swing towards guys. And I knew right then that I wanted to swing straight towards this guy. His soft black hair feathers around his face. I can just imagine tangling my hands in it in a moment of passion. His hazel eyes feel like they pierce right through to my soul. Hopefully not, because then he'd see all of this attraction I have for him. His tiny, upturned nose managed to look adorable instead of snobby. And his voice...Oh, god his voice. It's just impossible to describe.
I loved watching him fumble around on the first day, not really sure what to do or say. He ended up handing out syllabuses and supply lists that he had to search almost the whole hour for. Once that was done he told us to draw what we were feeling, so he could get a feel for our art. Somehow I feel like drawing myself pinned to his desk by him wouldn't have gone over too well. But he said he wanted us to be completely honest so he could get to know us a little. So I took my chances and drew a black haired boy jacking off.
It wasn't necessarily me. Just a boy my age with a similar style. He still called me in after class to talk about it. Asked me what it meant. I shrugged and told him the truth. Well, the half-truth. I was horny. End of story. He just laughed and said that most kids my age are. Then he showed me some of the other boys' drawings. Most of them were either completely naked women or an intricately drawn pair of boobs. He said he was proud of me because I actually drew what I was feeling and not what I was thinking.
I'm not a prideful person, but hearing him compliment me was pretty great. I left that day with a huge grin on my face. When I got home my mom was really suspicious of it. She asked me what had me in such a good mood and why I was late coming home. I just told her I have an awesome art teacher. After all, it's the truth.
