The Not-so-super Model

The Not-so-Super Model

by Robert Lubrican

zbookstore Edition

Copyright 2025 Robert Lubrican

License Notes

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Rights to use cover art purchased at istock.com

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Table of Contents

Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven

Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Afterword

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 

Pursuant to publisher requirements, all characters in this book are at least eighteen years of age, or older.

Chapter One

The term "Best friends" is a fascinating concept when you take time to reflect on it for a while. Everybody has them. You notice I said "them." That's what's so fascinating to me. Everybody seems to claim having more than one 'best friend' and yet "best" normally implies something singular. The synonyms for best are also singular in nature: top; foremost; leading; preeminent; premier; prime; first; chief; principal; supreme.

My purpose in mentioning this isn't to get into a philosophical or pedantic discussion. This concept is very important to me on a personal level. In my case I've decided that I only had one best friend in my life. His name was Dennis Hooker and he changed my life completely.

He did that by dying.

Dennis and I grew up together, next door neighbors and school buddies until we were separated by the military. He joined. I did not.

Before that, though, he got married to Hannah Lisowski, who grew up in the house on the other side of him. Her family was Polish and she got a lot of grief for that. Children can be cruel. I didn't know it then, but Lisowski comes from Polish for "fox" and that turned out to be prophetic, though not for the meaning of fox that the Poles meant. She was a gawky girl with buck teeth and big, thick glasses. Her mother put her long hair in pig tails until she was in her teens. Fortunately her parents also got her braces and nature worked other magic on her over the years. By the time Denny asked her to marry him she was a stone fox, glasses or not. Laser surgery got rid of those, by the way.

Anyway, he saw something in her before all this happened and was one of only two boys who didn't call her a Polack, or stupid, or any of a host of other cruel names as she grew up. I was the other. I'm a little ashamed to say that the reason I didn't torment her was because Denny was my best friend and he wouldn't tolerate that kind of crap coming from me. The crap lasted well into high school, I guess, because she rarely went out on dates with guys. I would find out later that, for some reason, they all expected her to put out for them, probably because they thought they were doing "the Polack" a favor by asking her out. Children can be stupid, too.

Long story short, after they graduated he popped the question. He hadn't dated her and she'd never been his "girlfriend" but I guess something about her got to him. I was there when it happened. She'd gotten a flat tire and was standing on the side of the road trying to figure out where the stuff was to jack up the car and get the old tire off and all that. We happened along and Denny told me to pull over.

We got out and she smiled at us and over the next half hour we changed her tire for her while she stood there looking beautiful. When we got done Denny turned to her and said, "What would you have done if we hadn't come along?"

"I don't know," she said in her soft voice. "Walked to get help from somebody, I guess."

"You know, if you married me, you could just call me for help, any time you needed it."

"Don't tease me, Dennis," she said.

"Who's teasing? Marry me, Hannah. You could do worse."

"That's not how this is done, Dennis," she snorted. It was the first time I'd heard her communicate scorn. She was soft-spoken and meek, and she rarely said anything at all.

"Who says? I like you and you like me. Why not go with it?"

"You're crazy," she said. "We haven't even gone out."

"I don't know. We've lived side by side for seventeen years. I've seen you every day of my life. According to my mother we used to get our diapers changed right next to each other. We've seen each other naked, Hannah!" He grinned.

"You think you're so funny," she said, and I heard a dangerous note in her voice. I'd heard that same note in my latest girlfriend's voice, just before she broke up with me. Of course Denny was safe. They weren't going together, so she couldn't break up with him, right?

"I'm not trying to be funny," he said, no longer grinning. "Marry me. I know I should have asked you out a long time ago, but it just seemed strange, you know? I mean we know each other better than any other couple I know of. We've always been buddies, sort of."

She looked at me for some reason.

"What about him?" Not, "What about Bob?" or, "What about your inseparable best friend?" or, "What about the guy who lurks in the background every time you talk to me?" Just, "What about him?"

"Bob?" He looked surprised. "He'll be my best man."

"Oh," she said. "I thought maybe you'd want me to marry both of you."

He laughed and reached out to grab her. He pulled her into a bear hug while she squeaked and lifted her off the ground, spinning her in a circle.

"Bob's my best friend but he's only invited to the wedding, not on the honeymoon," he said, pushing his face into her hair. It was loose that day.

When he set her back down her eyes were a little wild but she just stood there.

"Thank you for fixing my tire," she said.

"Anything to help," he said. "See you tomorrow."

When we were back in our car I asked him, "You want to tell me what that was all about?"

"What?" he said.

"You just asked Hannah Lisowski to marry you," I said.

"So?"

"Are you nuts?"

"What's nuts about it?" he said, his voice casual. "She's the coolest girl I know. I've gone out with lots of girls, but she's not like any of them."

"As she pointed out, you haven't gone out with her," I said. "How could you know she's not like them?"

"She doesn't play games. She doesn't gossip. She doesn't think she's God's gift to men. I like her."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe you're supposed to be in love before you propose to a woman," I said.

"You know my grandma?" he asked, apparently changing the subject.

"Of course," I said. I knew everybody in his extended family. I'd eaten dinner with all of them, more than once.

"Did you know she was in an arranged marriage?"

"You're shitting me," I said.

"I'd never shit you," he said. I knew what was coming next. We'd said it to each other a million times. I said it with him: "You're my favorite turd."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I said. "What about your grandmother?"

"She told me about it one time. Her parents were friends with somebody and they all got together and decided that their son should marry my grandma. So that's what happened. She never even held his hand until the minister put it in his at the wedding."

"That's crazy," I said. "I thought that only happened in foreign countries."

"Nope. And she told me that they learned how to love each other."

"So what happened to him?" I knew his grandfather was dead, but not much more than that.

"They got married in 1939 and had my mother just before the war broke out. He was a marine. He got killed at Guadalcanal."

"Oh," I said.

"She said after the war she never even thought about getting married again," said Denny. "She said he was the love of her life and she knew she could never find anybody else who would make her as happy as she'd been with him."

"Wow," I said.

"Yeah. She told me love doesn't just float around like a germ people can catch. It's something two people create when they want it to exist. I've never been in love, but I know I could love Hannah."

"How come you never said anything about this before?" I asked.

"It just came over me," he said, shrugging. "While we were changing that tire I looked at her and I just got this feeling that I wanted to make this girl happy for the rest of her life."

"And it doesn't hurt that she's a knockout," I said.

"Watch it," he warned. "You're talking about my girl."

"As I recall, she said you were crazy," I said. "I don't think she thinks she's your girl."

"I'll change that," he said.

And the crazy thing was that he did change that.

Of course events helped. When he got home I guess he announced that he'd proposed to Hannah and his parents got a little nuts about it. His mother called her mother. They were good friends, of course. Hannah hadn't said anything to her parents, so it blindsided them. When they asked her about it she said all he was doing was teasing her, but Denny insisted he wasn't teasing. It took a couple of days but, suddenly, Dennis was dating Hannah. I guess it took a month for him to convince her he was serious and only then did she tell him she'd had a crush on him for years.

They got married six months later, possibly because she was already pregnant. I was the best man, and I did not get invited on the honeymoon. I made a joke about it at the reception, when I danced with the bride.

"Are you sure I can't come along on your honeymoon?" I asked, grinning. They were only going to Hannibal, Missouri for three days. Apparently Hannah had read all of Mark Twain's books and wanted to see some of the stuff he put in them. They didn't have enough money to go on a fancy honeymoon and both of them had to be back to go to their jobs.

"You're still going to be our best friend," she said, smiling. It was good to see her happy. "But there's a limit, Bob."

"Okay," I said, drawing the "ay" out in a long sigh.

"You'll still get to see plenty of him," she said. "I'm not taking him away from you completely."

And she didn't. I was around a lot. I suppose part of that was because there was no woman in my life, at least not one I wanted to make happy for the rest of hers. I guess I hadn't yet found one I wanted to learn to love.

So she didn't take him away from me. It was the Army that did that. It took him away from both of us. When I think back on it now it sends chills down my spine, because it was a lot like what happened to his grandparents. It took longer, but we lost him just like his grandmother lost her husband in WWII.

We had Denny for ten years before 9/11 hit. In this case "we" means Hannah, their daughter Harper, and me. I had dated a dozen women since they got married, but there were never any sparks. I was still alone, except for them. He joined the Army a week after the twin towers fell, and by the time Mr. Bush got us involved in Iraq he was in the special forces. He said it was to honor his grandfather. He was one of the people who went into Iraq before the war actually started. All we were told (she was told, actually) was that he was there to identify targets and that he was killed after the bombing started.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Harper was almost eleven when her father died. I was "Uncle Bob" to her, probably because neither Hannah nor Denny had any siblings. I watched her grow up like an uncle might, I suppose, except I was probably around a lot more than your average uncle probably would have been. I was the one who taught her to ride a bike and play catch, or at least I was the one who helped her practice that kind of thing. I always had to read her a story whenever I came over, at least until she was about six or seven and said, "I can read all by myself now, Uncle Bob." Then, one time I told her a story, making it all up and after that I had to tell her a story every time I came over. It got so I ran out of material, so I just retold her things I'd read in books, making changes suitable for her age.

While I did this, Denny and Hannah got things done that had been neglected or put off because they were raising a little girl. Children tend to dominate your time. It's just how things are. So I was sort of a nanny whenever I went over. I was also the official babysitter whenever they wanted a night out.

It was natural, when Denny died, that I lend a hand. I was just as torn up about it as they were, or at least that's how it felt to me, but I knew I needed to rise above that and help them get through it. He was gone. I wasn't. That meant I owed it to him to take care of them as best I could.

There was life insurance that helped, but there were a ton of things that had to be done. I won't go into detail, but dying creates reams of paperwork and literally dozens of things that have to be done legally to close or change business accounts and things like that. I also cooked for them for a week. I got help from people in their church, who brought over food that just had to be warmed up to serve. Giving them that much time wasn't a problem for me. I had inherited ownership of the local transfer station, where garbage trucks from a sixty mile radius dumped their loads in a big metal building. My people then pushed it through holes in the floor into eighteen wheelers, which then took them away to an actual landfill. I had seven employees who knew what they were doing before it became mine and didn't really need me, if I had to be somewhere else. I spent most of my time in the large appliance area, salvaging copper and brass and getting the iron pile ready for being picked up by a metal recycler.

It was probably three months or more before it seemed like everything was done that had to be done, or at least could be done. We were still waiting for a couple of companies and one bank to finalize things.

Eventually there was an evening when Hannah and I were just sitting in the living room. It was kind of odd. We weren't talking about anything, just sitting there. I think we were both tired and still a little shell-shocked by everything that had happened and what we'd had to do because of it. Harper was in her room. She'd been spending a lot of time in her room.

"Thanks," Hannah said, suddenly.

"What for?"

"Everything," she sighed. "I don't know how we'd have gotten through this without your help."

"I didn't do much," I said.

"You did plenty."

"Denny would have wanted it that way," I said.

"I know. But thank you anyway."

"You're welcome." For some reason that night we helped her change her tire popped into my mind, and I saw Denny standing there with his lopsided grin, saying, "Anything to help." I almost said it myself, as I thought about it, but then didn't. It was true, but I also thought it was assumed.

"I'm worried about Harper," she said.

"Yeah." I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Would you go check on her?"

"Sure," I said.

I got up and went to Harper's room. She was lying on her bed, reading. She looked up at me when I opened the door. I'd been around enough that she didn't complain that I hadn't knocked.

"You okay?" I asked, feeling lame.

"I guess so," she said.

Then, as if a faucet had been turned on, she was crying. I went and sat down on the edge of the bed and she came in for a hug. I just held her while she cried. Ten minutes later she pushed away from me.

"It will get better," I said, feeling even lamer.

She didn't say anything.

"You know where to find me if you need anything," I said. I'd been sleeping in the guest room pretty frequently, at least two nights a week and sometimes more. We didn't live next door to each other anymore.

"Okay," she said.

And that was it. She didn't cry anymore after that. Hannah teared up a lot, but after another three or four months she seemed to have adjusted.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Years went by and things seemed to find a normalcy of sorts. I still went over pretty frequently but my relationship with them had changed. It was like Hannah and I were best friends, though I don't think either of us would have called it that. I was this guy she could ask anything of, and was comfortable around. Her house was a place I could go to get a good home-cooked meal and hang out with people I liked. She didn't seek male companionship, and more than once I thought about Denny's grandmother, who'd made the same choice after losing her mate. Harper still called me Uncle Bob, but no longer demanded I tell her stories. She got interested in art and that seemed to take over her life.

By the time she was eighteen, Harper had soaked up everything public schools had to offer her, in terms of art, and her teachers recommended she start getting instruction at a more professional level. In this case, that meant getting her into the graphic arts program of the Turnbuckle Academy, which was sort of like a junior college that had bought an old run down strip mall and renovated it into a mini campus. They had a student body of probably a hundred fifty or so. It was expensive, but Hannah felt like it was worth it. It appeared she was right, because everything seemed to take off. The guest bedroom I'd spent so many nights in got turned into Harper's art space, which took up a heck of a lot more room than I'd have thought "art" would take. The bed was still in there, but now it was shoved in one corner and when I used it, I usually had to clear a bunch of stuff off of it. Or Harper did. I wasn't allowed to just randomly touch stuff.

As it turned out, her public school teachers were right. She was good. She got some of her art into exhibitions and finally started to seem like the cheerful girl I'd known before her father died.

When she started her senior year at Turnbuckle, they urged her to begin applying to universities and such. I thought that was kind of stupid, since she still had a whole year before she'd graduate, but that's how they do things these days. A couple of months into her second semester, she started getting letters from colleges. Some were rejections, but two of them showed promise. Both of them laid out conditions for her acceptance into a fine arts program. She had to maintain a high GPA. She had to have letters of recommendation from two teachers and two adults not related to the school system, one of which had to be a professional artist of some kind. She had to develop a portfolio, which had to include a whole bunch of different kinds of art, in a whole bunch of different media.

What was relevant to me about all this was that the portfolio had to include at least three figure studies, and that is where, once again, having Denny as my best friend changed my life forever.

You might think my life had already been changed forever, but in reality I'd still been perking along just like I always had. I'd never had any strong feelings about what I wanted to do with my life. I'd always been a follower and, in my case, I'd followed Denny for the most part. He was the super hero. I was the sidekick. That hadn't bothered me. Great leaders can't be great leaders if nobody follows them.

Anyway, about the only strong feelings I'd had were about things I didn't want to do with my life. Such as join the Army. Basically, other than helping out with Hannah and Harper, I just puttered through life. I'm one of those people who are happy if they have enough money for their basic needs and don't require complicated long-term financial plans to feel like the future will be good. I suppose I'm the kind of person who ends up scraping by on a Social Security check in later years, but my needs had always been simple. I suspect I thought about it like this: "As long as I have books and a couple thousand calories a day, I'll be okay."

That was about to change.

The change started one evening while we were having supper. I either stayed for supper or came over by invitation about two or three times a week, though I didn't sleep in the guest room that often anymore.

"Mom," said Harper through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," admonished Hannah.

Harper made a big show of swallowing.

"Mom?" she said, opening her mouth much wider than needed, obviously to display it was now empty.

Hannah didn't rise to the bait. "Yes?"

"I have a problem."

Hannah waited. I continued to eat.

"You know those figure studies I have to have for my portfolio?"

Hannah took a bite and just nodded.

"I did one of my own hand and it came out okay, but I have to have full figure drawings of a male and female, too. I tried looking in the mirror to do me, but it's not going to work."

"I'd be happy to pose for you," said Hannah, getting right to the point. "Assuming you don't object to drawing your mother."

"Thank you," said Harper. "I don't object at all."

Then she turned to look at me. She didn't have to say a word. I looked over at Hannah and found she was staring at me as well.

"Me?" I said, through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

Hannah groaned while Harper grinned and I swallowed hastily.

"Why me?" I asked. Don't ask me why I was uneasy about this. I mean what could it involve? I'd have to sit still for a while and look regal or something. Wasn't that what you always saw in portraits? Everybody looked regal, or at least interesting. I didn't think there was anything interesting about me.

"Gee, I don't know," said Harper. "Now that I think about it, I guess it will be easy for me to walk around at the mall and find some stranger to come over and take off all his clothes so I can paint him." She took a bite of green beans and (intentionally, I thought) talked with them in her mouth. "Yeah, that should be a piece of cake. There are plenty of weirdoes out there who would jump at the chance."

Now I admit here that my thoughts got a little fragmented at that point, so my brain didn't work all that well. The first thing I thought about was the word "naked", which appeared in my head like the Hollywood sign board on Mount Lee in Los Angeles. Then some synapse in my skull connected that word with me, and then, in a flash, with Hannah, who had already agreed to pose. Of course her situation might be entirely different than "mine", but I couldn't keep my thoughts from reflecting on that. The brain works at the speed of light, or pretty close, so all these images kept flickering like bursts of lightning, bouncing from me naked (and of course with an embarrassing boner) to Hannah who, if you'll remember I told you, was a babe. Then it would be back to me without that embarrassing erection, my cock being wilted and all of two inches long, which was even more embarrassing. Then it was back to Hannah again who, for some insane reason, had assumed a pose appropriate for a porn site, and then I imagined Harper naked, standing there painting without a care in the world. Finally my brain overloaded and the fork fell out of my limp fingers. I think I drooled a little bit. I know one corner of my mouth felt moist.

"You don't have to be sarcastic about it," said Hannah, frowning at her daughter. "And what's all this about nudity?"

"The figures have to be nude, of course," said Harper, as if that should be obvious to anyone.

"Who says?" asked her mother.

"The instructions, that's who."

"Instructions are a what, not a who," corrected Hannah.

"The instructions," said Harper with exaggerated patience. "That's what."

"I'd like to see these instructions," said Hannah.

"Sure," said Harper, who started to get up.

"After supper," said Hannah.

"Okay," said the girl. She looked at me. "Why do you look so pale?"

"He's a man, Darling," said Hannah, who glanced my way and then went back to eating.

"What does that mean?" asked Harper, who was still looking at me.

Hannah glanced at me again while she chewed. I had this horrifying suspicion she could see right into my thoughts. I felt my face get hot and I decided I needed to wash it. Actually, I just needed to get away from her gaze.

I lurched up and staggered a bit as I headed for the bathroom.

"Where are you going?" asked Harper.

"Arrrgh," I answered. I couldn't get their images out of my mind. I realized that boner had actually developed in my pants and felt the embarrassment flood through me. It was entirely different than it had felt in my quick fantasy. It was actually much worse.

"I'll explain it to you later, Dear," I heard Hannah say.

"Explain what?"

"Later," barked Hannah.

That was when I knew, deep in my bones, that Hannah was a secret sorceress or something, and really could see the images in my mind of herself as a naked succubus whose goal was to consume me, body and soul.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I calmed down in the bathroom. I splashed enough water in my face to get the front of my shirt wet, but it helped me get control back. I was a little amazed. I'd looked at both women before, of course, evaluating their sexuality. Like Hannah had said, I am a man. But it had always been just a momentary kind of a nice diversion. I mean I appreciated them both on a number of levels. Harper was a younger version of her mother, but not as ripe. Hannah was a sensual woman, though I don't think she tried to be. It was just natural. It had developed in the first year of their marriage and when I noticed it, I decided it was because she became accustomed to being worshiped as a goddess by Denny. He was insanely happy because she'd married him and he didn't mind showing it. I'd often thought she could make some other guy insanely happy as well, but she'd said on more than one occasion that she wasn't looking for a man.

Harper, on the other hand, was young and fresh and sexy in that way of a promise of joy, like a beautiful present that is forbidden to be unwrapped until later. I was pretty sure she was already making boys by the dozens jerk their meat raw but I had never imagined actually being around her naked. Her, I mean. Or me, either for that matter.

I decided that what had happened to me was like bursting into tears when the stress gets too high. It had just been a catharsis of sorts. It didn't mean I was an animal, or pervert, or horny out of my mind. My own sex life was primarily solitary, but that was fine with me. My hand never has a headache, and I have a whole raft of fantasies I can call on when the need arises. Sandra Bullock is one, just to give you an example.

I stood up and straightened my shoulders. I frowned at the wet front of my shirt, but there wasn't anything I could do about it at the moment. I took several deep breaths and then remembered my unruly little friend. I looked at the front of my pants in the mirror and was delighted that my bone wasn't a bone anymore. I targeted my thoughts on that part of my body and felt nothing.

I didn't even mind that it might very nearly be only two inches long, at the moment.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I got back to the table nobody said anything to me. I saw Hannah's eyes drift to my shirt, but then they moved to her plate. I later found out she'd told Harper I was embarrassed about the posing naked thing and not to mention it again until later.

The rest of supper went fine. My brain, which was obviously perverted after all, kept trying to go back to pornographic images of my dinner companions, but I was able to think of something else.

Afterwards I said I needed to get home.

"You can't leave," complained Harper, who had interpreted "later" as "right after supper."

"Yes he can," said Hannah.

"Mom!"

"Harper, you can talk to him later!"

"It is later," argued Harper.

"You have plenty of time, young lady!"

"Oh, bollocks!" said Harper, dramatically.

"What?" We both stared at her.

"I heard it on a British documentary. Does it sound cool?"

"It doesn't sound very ladylike," said her mother.

"I'm a girl, not a lady," said Harper. "Ladies are old."

"I beg your pardon!" said Hannah.

"I'll leave you two to it," I said, managing meaningful words for the first time since being asked to pose nude in front of an eighteen-year-old artist.

"I'll call you," said Hannah. That sounded odd. She called me all the time, but never warned me she was going to do it.

"Sure," I said.

I left the house and walked down the sidewalk toward my car.

I felt like I'd just managed to avoid the jaws of an alligator.

Or something.

Chapter Two

Hannah did call me, about two minutes after I got home. She knew how long it would take me, apparently. I'd had ten minutes to think about things, which is to say I'd had ten minutes for my mind to run rampant as I drove down quiet streets. It was good they were quiet. I really had no business driving at that point in time. You know how sometimes you drive from point A to point B and when you get there you don't remember anything about the trip? It was like that.

"You don't have to pose for her, Bob," she said.

"I know," I said.

"She shouldn't have asked you."

"I guess," I said.

"Of course she's right. You are the only man she could have asked."

"I guess," I said again.

"But it was ridiculous of her to do that."

For some reason what I thought of at that moment in time was that Hannah thought I'd be a poor model. And since all a model has to do is sit there, that meant she thought the end product would be ugly. A desire to believe otherwise and defend myself caused me to speak before I thought things through completely. That was the real problem in this situation. I hadn't had time to process the whole idea or think about it in any kind of dispassionate manner.

"Come on," I said. "I'm not that ugly."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," she said, her voice level.

I did? Who says I did? Well ... Hannah, for one. That was ... something. Not weird, exactly. But not expected, either. Of course we'd never sat around and had a discussion about either one of us in terms of how we looked aesthetically. Who does that?

"I guess I don't know what you mean, then," I said. I was tired and it was hard to think.

"I meant that of course you'd be uncomfortable being naked in front of Harper," said Harper's mother.

"I guess," I said, going back to what was apparently my standard response that evening.

"You guess? Don't you know?"

"I don't think I know anything," I said. "I think she just caught me by surprise."

"Gee, you think that might not surprise somebody?"

"Did it surprise you?"

"That's different. I'm her mother. She sees me naked all the time."

Talk about offering a jug of water to a man dying of thirst. My fantasies being the man, of course, and her comment being the water.

"I'm tired," I said. "I'm going to bed."

"Okay," she said. "I don't feel like we've finished discussing this, though."

"Fine. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"Okay. Good. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable, Bob. You're not obligated. You mean too much to us for something like this to poke a stick in your spokes."

I blinked. I hadn't heard that phrase in years and years and years.

"I'm fine," I said. "I just need sleep."

"Okay. 'Night."

I hung up and headed for bed. About eight hours of unconsciousness right now sounded pretty good.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Turns out sleep probably wasn't what I needed. That's because I don't think there was all that much of it that was actually unconscious.

I'm referring to dreams, of course, which don't feel unconscious at all. I read somewhere that the average dream only takes a few seconds to play out in the sleeper's mind. A dream that "lasts" for several hours (or even days) in the dreamer's mind might take only the time required to blink one's eyes a few times. That would suggest that our brains can "think" at speeds suitable for space travel, while we're not cluttering them up with conscious thoughts.

I had several dreams that night and, while they might only have taken a total of ten or fifteen seconds of my sleep time, when I woke up I felt like I'd pulled another all-nighter cramming for final exams in college. Let's just say I didn't feel rested.

One of those dreams was about me answering the phone and Hannah saying, "She shouldn't have asked you." Then, magically, I was transported to her living room and we were sitting on the couch. Hannah stood up suddenly and said, "Does my butt look fat? I think this outfit makes my butt look fat." And I answered, "No, I don't think so. Actually, your ass is perfectly symmetrical when compared to your waist and luscious titties." For some reason calling them "luscious titties" didn't faze either of us and felt completely appropriate in this dream.

Then I stood up and said, "But I have a question for you. Does my cock bulge out too much in these shorts?" For some reason I was wearing silk boxers in this dream, and nothing else. She looked at me critically and said, "Well those shorts certainly show it off." To which I answered, "Well I don't want to advertise or anything." Hannah walked around me once, looking me up and down and said, "No, she'll love it. Just make sure you don't take them off. Nobody gets to see that big boy except me!"

In another dream I was standing in a big, airy room with my back to Harper. I was naked and she kept saying, "Turn around, Bob. I can't draw you that way!" But I couldn't turn around because I was masturbating, trying to get my erection to be soft.

Then there was one in which I was standing in that same bright room and Harper turned the easel around to show me what she'd finished. "What do you think?" she asked. The picture showed me standing regally with my hands on my hips. She'd drawn me with a heavily muscled torso and legs. I was gorgeous. Except that my penis looked like a peanut lying on a ball of cat fur.

There was one more that I remembered vaguely. It involved Harper being the naked one, while I was fully clothed. I was lying down on a couch with my leg raised in much the same pose as I'd imagined Hannah in - the porn pose - and Harper was frowning, saying, "It isn't supposed to be this way!"

I'm sure a psychologist or shrink would have a field day explaining these dreams, but all they did was make me frustrated. Obviously this whole pose-for-Harper-naked thing was bothering me. The problem was that I didn't have a clear understanding of why it bothered me. I mean obviously nothing would happen, except she'd draw me. I had fantasies about women all the time, so that wasn't a big deal. I hadn't had one of those fantasies about Harper. I'd looked her over and appreciated her budding womanhood, but all that resulted in was thinking about what a heartbreaker she was turning out to be. By that I mean there would be one winner and a whole bunch of guys with broken hearts, once she was claimed. As for Hannah, I'd had a few errant X-rated fantasies about her when Denny was still alive, but not since he'd died. I started to have one, once, but in that fantasy she was crying and that pretty well put the kibosh on that.

Of course there had been that erection, the night before, when the whole subject came up. And my mind hadn't been disciplined enough to manage things, but I blamed that on the unexpectedness of the whole thing. That's the thing about X-rated fantasies. They can happen at dream speeds, before your conscious mind can do anything about them.

As I think back on it now, I think the whole situation changed on me without warning. I had, for various reasons, put Hannah and her daughter in a box marked "No trespassing". Then Harper popped out of that box like a demented clown, pulling her mother with her, and I couldn't stop myself from thinking about them in ways that, before this, had been off limits.

The problem is, you can't put the djinn back in the bottle once he's been released. I know the story says you can, but it's more complicated than that. In my case once I started thinking about Harper and Hannah and me and nakedness ... I couldn't banish those thoughts from my mind completely. Either asleep or awake.

And the next time I went over there, it got even worse.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It took me almost a week to get up the courage to go back and see them. That was a long time, relatively speaking, at least based on my past behavior. But it wasn't unheard of for me to get busy and "neglect" them for a while. Hannah left me alone, probably to let me work things out in my mind. She knew me well enough to know how my mind worked. And there really was no big rush. Harper still had plenty of time to turn in a portfolio. She still had most of a year of junior college to finish, for pity's sake.

Neither of them acted any different, in fact, when I tapped on the door and then walked in, as I usually did.

"It's just me," I called out.

"Doing laundry," I heard Hannah's faint voice come back.

I was almost bowled over as Harper fairly tackled me. That wasn't unusual, either.

"Come with me!" she said, excitedly. "I just have to show you what I did!"

She pulled me upstairs to her "studio", which is what she'd started calling the guest bedroom. There were two easels set up. One of them had a partially finished oil painting of a landscape on it. The other was covered by a drape. I was used to the clutter of art stuff in the room. All I did was sleep there, occasionally, and didn't spend a lot of time in that room.

"Stand over there," she said, pointing to a spot about seven or eight feet from the draped easel. I did and, with a "Ta da!" she dragged the sheet off of the portrait she'd drawn of her mother.

Harper might have all the time in the world to finish her figure studies, but that didn't mean she wasn't eager to get them done. That was obvious, because this one was almost finished.

That it was Hannah was not in doubt. It looked almost like a black and white photograph, so detailed was it, except it was too soft to have been taken by a camera, at least without a special effect filter. I stepped closer but there were two of me when that happened. One of them was the art critic, examining what turned out to be a combination of chalk and pencil that had been masterfully applied to thick, pebbled paper to create shadows in patterns that produced the illusion of Hannah's form. Up close you could see the strokes and places where chalk or graphite had been lifted slowly from the paper such that it got lighter and lighter until, at one point, one bump on the pebbled surface of the paper was stained and at the next bump wasn't.

I stepped back again, which was required by the "other" me. That wasn't the art critic at all. That was the horndog male who wanted to gaze lustfully on the stunning rendering of a gorgeous woman who didn't have a single stitch of clothing on her voluptuous body.

As I said, the woman on the paper was obviously Hannah. Her facial features were unmistakable, and yet there were subtle differences that made her look like, perhaps, Hannah's sister. I later found out Hannah had insisted on that. This drawing was only supposed to be used for Harper's portfolio, but it if ever found its way into the public eye, she didn't want people recognizing the model. And to her, the finished product didn't look like "her." I think this is the same phenomenon that happens when one hears one's recorded voice. It doesn't sound like "you" when you hear it, not to you. It actually sounds exactly like you to everybody else, but not to you. So what looked exactly like Hannah Hooker to me looked like someone different to her.

I mention their last name here, because the piece was signed in the lower right hand corner. A stylized "Hooker" was done calligraphy style. I'd seen that on other finished pieces and I knew she only signed the things she was proud of.

The irony was that, in this context, it looked (to me) more like the title of the piece, instead of the artist's signature.

That's because the pose Hannah had put her mother in was reclining, with a bolster under her armpit. Her head was supported by her hand, which was in turn supported by her elbow on the bed. Her upper knee was bent just enough to bring that heel to the calf of her lower leg, which created a bit of shadow just below what were obvious wisps of pubic hair. That she'd been lying on the bed in the room was obvious, because Harper had included two pictures hanging on the wall above the bed in the drawing. Hannah's breasts had been rendered full and heavy with large erect nipples on them. The look on the model's face was straight out of the Playboy playbook, communicating that this woman had no problem offering herself to the observer.

In other words, she looked like a high-priced call girl who was reclining, resting, as she watched her favorite customer get dressed to leave her. Her face communicated unhappiness that he was leaving, but a relaxed joy at what he had just given her.

To put it crassly, she looked very well-fucked.

I realized I was standing there with my mouth hanging open, quite possibly drooling, again. My penis announced it was in dire need of sexual attention, having attained a state of erection that was almost painful.

"Well?" Harper's voice held hope. Before I could answer Hannah chose that time to come into the room.

"Harper! You weren't supposed to show him that!" She stopped as if frozen by Professor Ice's freeze ray. All that came out of her immobile body then was a soft, "Shit."

"Don't be that way, Mom," said Harper. "You know people are going to see this."

"Yes, but not Bob," said Hannah, unfreezing.

"It's not a photograph, Mother," said Harper, pragmatically.

"It's close," I sighed. I blinked. I hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"Great," muttered Hannah. "I told you not to show it to him, Harper!"

"I just thought if he saw how beautifully yours came out, he might decide to pose for me himself," complained Harper.

My mind went into overdrive. My eyes were still staring at Hannah's portrait, but in my brain her form was replaced by my body, in the same pose as hers had been. The fact that she had actually been on the bed I slept in when I stayed over, and that she'd obviously been lying there naked - I didn't believe for a second that what Harper had drawn had been from her imagination - didn't help any. And, since Harper's figure studies obviously meant nothing could be covered, that meant my rampant boner was on clear display.

Do not mistake me, I didn't see myself in that imaginary portrait as "waiting for my lover" or anything so tasteful(?) as that. It just looked like a horny old goat to me, slavering while waiting for some poor woman to stumble into his bed to be ravished. I didn't imagine me having cloven hooves, but I'm sure my uncurious mind put them there.

I was saved, quite possibly in a literal sense, by Hannah covering her portrait back up with the sheet that had been over it, originally.

"Mom, you are so pitiful," said Harper.

"Oh yeah? How about you show him you, looking like that," snapped her mother. She blinked and frowned. "No. That didn't come out right."

"I wouldn't mind," said Harper, breezily. "Not if I were as beautiful as you."

Even I recognized that as a blatant attempt to ingratiate herself with her mother, who proved she was just as perceptive when she groaned, "Oh pu-leeez." It actually helped me get some control over myself.

The first thing I did was cover my boner with both hands. That seemed a little obvious, though, so I turned away from both women and went to examine the half-finished landscape on the other easel. I made sure I was facing away from both women.

"You do good work, Harper," I said, as casually as I could.

"Thank you," she said, primly. "So, will you pose for me?"

"Harper!" snapped her mother. "We talked about this!"

"I don't see why he'd object," argued Harper, as if I wasn't standing four feet away from her. "It's not like we're strangers. And you know I can't afford to hire somebody, who, I might point out, would be a stranger. Do you want me looking at a strange, naked man?"

"Harper," said her mother, also as if I weren't there. "I've lived with you all your life and even I felt embarrassed to be that way in front of you. I won't let you put Bob through something like that."

"Well!" I said, explosively. "I guess I'd better get going."

"What?" complained Harper. "Why? You just got here."

I glanced down and realized there was no way I could get out of there with my pride intact unless I sidled out of the room facing away from them. That would look decidedly odd. I reached to do an adjustment, pushing my cock upright. The tip dug uncomfortably into where my belt held my pants up, but it looked better.

"Oh, you know," I said, lamely. "Places to go. People to meet, things to do."

"I thought you were staying for supper," said Harper. "Isn't that why you came over?"

"Harper, Honey, could I have a private moment with Bob?" Hannah's voice was calm.

"What? Why?"

"Please?" said her mother sternly.

"Adults are so ... frustrating!" snapped Harper, but she stalked to the door and stomped down the stairs toward the living room.

It was quiet in the room. I was still facing away from her, though I'd forgotten to make it look like I was "engaged" in examining any other art in the room.

"I'm sorry, Bob," said Hannah, softly.

I was still too rattled to examine her apology. I didn't even know what it was for.

"She wasn't supposed to show it to you," Hannah continued.

I forced myself to say something.

"It's okay."

"I probably shouldn't say this, but in a way I'm glad she did," said Hannah.

That got my attention. I turned around before I could stop myself.

"Why?"

She wasn't looking at me. She was blushing, but her eyes were darting around.

"I shouldn't have said anything. Forget it."

"Forget what?" I was confused.

Finally she brought her eyes to me. To my horror they dropped and fixed on the lump in my pants. I was busted, plain and simple. I couldn't help it. Both hands came to cover my shame again.

"I'm sorry," said Hannah again. Her cheeks flamed even brighter.

This didn't make sense. If anything I was the one who should be sorry. I'd been unable to view her portrait without having inappropriate thoughts; unwelcome thoughts. I was supposed to be Hannah's friend, not some guy who wanted to mount her silky body and bang the living shit out of her. I had betrayed her trust.

Maybe that was what she was sorry for ... the loss of trust between us.

"I couldn't help it," I rasped. "It just happened. I mean the drawing was so ... lifelike."

She looked surprised.

"I'm not angry, Bob," she said. "I just didn't expect you to respond that way."

"I know. I'm supposed to be your friend," I groaned.

"You are my friend," she said.

"You know what I mean. I shouldn't have ... reacted."

She tilted her head, examining me.

"Bob, for some time, now, I thought you might be in the closet," she said.

I froze for a few seconds, trying to make any kind of sense of that.

"What?" I gasped.

"I'm sorry!" she moaned. "It's just that you almost never ask a woman out. You haven't formed any long-term relationships with women since Denny died. And you were so close with him. I'm embarrassed to say this, but when we first got married I wasn't sure I'd be able to compete with you. I guess I thought you'd been trying to look normal when he was still here, and when we lost him you stopped doing that. I shouldn't have made assumptions. I just thought ..."

"I am not gay!" I yipped.

"I can see that now," she said. "I'm sorry for staring. I was just relieved that you reacted ... um ... normally?"

"You stared?" I looked down to see both hands securely covering my groin. I jerked them away reflexively, only to reveal there was still a bulge there. My hands went back but I pulled them up again. I didn't know what to do. I turned sideways and suddenly felt foolish.

"Sorry," she said, shrugging. "I'm a woman. What can I say?"

"I think that's supposed to be my line," I said. I blinked. "I mean I'm a man. Not that I'm trying to excuse my ... uh ... behavior."

"You don't need to excuse your behavior," she said, softly. "I know what that drawing looks like. I don't understand why, but my daughter obviously wanted to make me look like a trollop. I know what most men would think if they saw it."

"Funny story," I said, as relief rushed over me and made me almost giddy. "She signed it."

"What?" Hannah looked confused.

"She signed the portrait," I said.

"Okay." She still didn't get it.

I went to the easel and pulled the sheet off of it. It was instinctive because one needed to see the whole thing before I pointed to the name in the lower right hand corner.

"Hooker," I said.

Her cheeks had lost their glow, but it came right back.

"Oh my," she sighed. "I didn't think of that at all."

"Neither did she," I said. "But that's good. She's still innocent enough not to draw the inference."

Hannah put her hand up and rested it on the edge of the frame on the easel.

"This does not suggest innocence on the part of the artist," said the model, calmly.

"She's a teenager," I said. "Her bloodstream is chock full of hormones. I think she drew you as she wanted to see you."

"I don't want you to think I'm uncomfortable talking about this," said Hannah, taking the sheet from me and re-covering her portrait, "but a lot has happened and I'm not quite ready to confront the fact that my daughter sees me as a woman who wants ... needs ... to get laid. I mean that's what I see when I look at that. Is that what you saw, too?"

That relief I mentioned, when I realized she wasn't angry with me (and no longer assumed I was gay), combined with the relative ease of our conversation in the last few minutes, gave me the confidence to answer her question honestly.

"Actually, it looked more to me like you'd just been laid ... and happily so."

"I should be so lucky," said Hannah, adopting a snarky smile. She held up a hand to keep me from commenting. "Enough of this. Let's go get supper on the table. We can talk about this later." She frowned. "If we need to, I mean. This has all been a bit ... much ... for me, and I suspect you feel that way, too."

"What you said," I quipped.

"I'll try to keep Harper off your back," said Hannah.

I almost groaned as unwanted images flitted through my mind of me on my back, with one of the Hooker women on top of me, followed by both of the Hooker women on their backs, with me ... well ... you know.

Yes, the djinn was definitely out of the bottle.

And he was swirling all around the Hooker house, making changes in the world.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Just to recap and set the scene for things to come, here's the assessment of the changes that had taken place in my relationship with my best friend's widow and daughter.

The way things had been was me, hanging around, being helpful after cruel fate took Denny away from his family. There had already been a friendship, and it simply deepened. My relationship with Hannah had been platonic. To Harper I was a buddy, confidante, and source of information from a trustworthy male. That had been the status quo for the last five or so years.

Then, suddenly, within a week, I had become a man who lusted after Hannah, who didn't seem to mind that I lusted after her. Not that there was any invitation there for anything more than the deeply satisfying platonic relationship we had been enjoying, but it was suddenly okay that I got an erection for her. Or her portrait, as it were. Not only that, but my innocent angel of a "niece" had the capacity to draw her mother in full triple X mode and wanted to do the same with me! Not that I thought she'd assume I'd have a boner while she was drawing me. I hadn't crossed that line, yet. But I got the feeling that, were I to accede to her request, and become her model, and should an erection ensue, her reaction wouldn't be as innocent as I'd always perceived her to be.

Basically, both women had suddenly become sexual beings in my mind and it was obvious I was perverted enough to enjoy that fact.

It was a rather big change to what I had become both used to and comfortable with. Just imagine that the woman you admire and respect approaches you one day and says, "I understand you think about me while you masturbate. Is that true?" That's kind of how I felt. I was sure she was horrified. She was just too polite to scream about it.

Of course I knew Harper was growing up ... would grow up ... would become a fully sexual being. I just didn't dwell on that, or picture it in my mind. In fact I think I avoided thinking about that. The idea of some boy on top of her made my fists clench, so I blocked that kind of thing out.

Now, however, I couldn't block it out anymore. The way in which she'd rendered her mother's face made it crystal clear that she was fully cognizant of female sexuality. Only the fact she wasn't allowed to date yet gave me any confidence that she wasn't ... experienced ... in the ways of love already.

That leads us back to Hannah, who didn't need to be innocent. I'd often thought, over the years, that she was wasting herself. She had a lot to offer a man. But I also understood the concept of not being interested in seeking a new mate. It wasn't exactly the same for me, but I felt like it was close. I had yet to meet a woman who made me feel that if I didn't snare her I'd be sorry for the rest of my life. I had even tried a couple of internet dating sites, but the results had been ridiculously unsatisfying. Hannah didn't know about that. I'd been too embarrassed to mention it. It wasn't that I'd given up looking, but the whole process seemed like it was doomed to failure from the beginning and it was a lot of work to try when I just didn't expect anything to happen. In a way, it's how I feel about fishing. I don't mind going out and enjoying the day, being in nature, but I don't actually expect to catch any fish. I'm just not good at that like other fishermen are.

The thing I kept thinking about was how relieved Hannah was that I wasn't gay. What did that mean? I knew how she felt about finding a "replacement" for Denny, but what did that have to do with my dating life? Why did she care whether I was gay or not? The only reason I could think of was that she was interested in me, but that was ludicrous. We'd seen each other regularly for years and she hadn't shown a single blink of interest in me as anything other than a friend. In fact, to find out she wasn't disappointed or offended when I horned out looking at her portrait pretty much astonished me.

Things were a little confused and I didn't want to read things in error. So basically I just closed the book and did something other than reading for a while.

Harper, of course, wasn't going to give up on trying to get me to pose for her. She needed a male model, for one thing, and I had to admit I was the logical choice. It was the naked-with-an-erection thing that was bothering me. I knew that if I did this, I'd get an erection.

So, to keep the peace between mother and daughter, I decided to negotiate. I did so at supper that night. I probably shouldn't have, because my mind was still whirling. But I did. It went like this:

"So, is there any law that says this male model you need for your other figure study has to be completely nude?"

"Not law," said Harper. "If the body is covered by clothes, though, it's not really a figure study. The point of a figure study is to exhibit anatomy and display how well the artist renders that."

"What if the model was wearing shorts?" I asked.

"You mean you'll do it if you can wear shorts?"

"Harper!" warned Hannah.

I was trying to keep the peace so I raised a hand to stop Hannah.

"I guess we could try that," I said.

Harper was happy.

She was so happy, in fact, that it should have made me wonder about that. I mean what was the big deal? I was going to sit there wearing shorts and she was going to draw me or paint me or whatever. It was just a step towards getting her portfolio in order, right?

So why was she practically overjoyed about my offer?

Except I didn't think about that then.

Which is how I ended up on a slippery slope that would change things even more.

Sort of like how Mt. Vesuvius changed things 'a little' back in A.D. 79.

Chapter Three

During the rest of the meal Hannah forbade discussion about me posing. She also insisted that I be allowed to sleep on it. The next day was Saturday, and I was invited to come to breakfast for further negotiations, should I still be willing to pose.

That night was interesting. Harper's drawing of her mother was fixed in my mind, easy to remember, and impossible to forget. For some reason the pubic hair, created by the masterful use of a pencil sharpened to a needle point, hung around in my mind. It showed astonishing attention to detail, for one thing. It would have been just as easy to roughly shade that area which, from afar, would have also looked like pubic hair, or maybe just shadow. But the way in which she'd done it drew the viewer in, calling the observer to get up close and personal. As I got into bed and relaxed, my penis decided not to join the throng of other muscles that were going limp in anticipation of slumber. Instead, it rose up to salute Harper's talent in producing a portrait any man would dearly love to own. If that portrait was sold at auction, the bidding would go on until the richest man in the room won it, no matter how high his competitors raised the bid.

Long story short, I masturbated while I thought about that drawing. Of course when you do that, if you actually know the model, then you think about her, too. That had happened half a dozen times over the years (with women other than Hannah) but it had been a whole different situation. It's one thing to have a little fantasy about a woman who has no idea you're having that fantasy. Two or three minutes and you get relief and then it's over and she never knows anything about it. But now Hannah knew I'd gotten stiff, looking at her portrait. It seemed a lot more ... personal ... this time. And of course my little head loved to dream up situations in which instead of my hand, it might get to slide into something a lot closer to a real, live pussy. Like an actual, real, live pussy. And even though the portrait hadn't shown anything other than a little pubic hair above a tantalizing shadow, my little head knew which real, live pussy it wanted to plunder.

In other words, I felt a little bad that I thought about fucking Hannah while I fucked my hand instead. I was pretty sure it was going to be difficult to look her in the face the next morning. On the other hand, when I finally gave up and let my little head play out his fantasy in my big one, I came hard and it felt really good.

The next morning I went over there and tried my best not to look at Hannah. Unfortunately, that meant I had to look at Harper, who had chosen to wear a halter top and shorts that morning.

Now you have to understand, here. Harper was a younger version of her mother in many ways. Both had the same bone structure in the face, and the same color of hair. Both had the same interesting mixture of brown and green in their eye color. Their bodies were a little different. Hannah, who was past thirty, had the full, round, soft body of a mature woman. Not that she had any excess weight on her, but she was just obviously in her prime. At eighteen, Harper had a cute little teenybopper body that was taking on the look of advancing womanhood. Her breasts were smaller, but just as proud. While Hannah's breasts hung more heavily, Harper's rode higher on her chest and moved very little when she walked. Both went braless a lot, at least when they were around the house. I knew this because on more than one occasion I'd noticed that unfettered look that breasts have under a T shirt. Nipples poking through the fabric also helped me arrive at that conclusion, but I tried not to stare. I have to say, here, that I suspected their nipples were similar, though.

So what I'm getting at is that looking at Harper that morning didn't do much to keep my mind off her mother. I realized Harper had been talking to me when she said, "Do you have a Speedo?"

"Uh, no," I said, already off balance.

"Do you wear boxers or briefs?" was her next question.

"Harper!" came her mother's warning voice.

"I need to know, Mother," said the girl, without looking at her chastising parent. She looked at me instead.

"Briefs," I said, quietly.

"Then I want you to wear briefs when we do this. Your smallest pair, okay?"

"Okay," I said, faintly. "I was thinking running shorts."

"Briefs," she said, firmly. "I want to stay away from something loose. I'm going to render you nude, just using my imagination for the covered parts, and if you're wearing something tight I won't have to imagine quite as much."

Great. My not even nineteen-year-old 'niece' knew all about bulges and what caused them and could imagine what was making the bulge. But she wanted to see the bulge, just for inspiration.

"Harper," said Hannah, who was listening to the negotiations.

"He already agreed to do it, Mother," said the artist, apparently expecting parental interference.

I had? When had I done that? I mean I knew I was going to, but I didn't remember actually saying I would.

"I'm aware of that," said Hannah, confirming that while I had been staring at Harper's cleavage I'd spoken without remembering it. "You need to be sensitive to his concerns."

"I already told him he doesn't have to be naked," said Harper.

"If you put him in briefs, he might be embarrassed," said Hannah.

"Why? It's no worse than a Speedo. In fact, briefs cover more than some Speedos I've seen."

"And just when have you seen a man in briefs?"

"In magazines and in commercials on TV," said Harper, easily.

"Oh." Hannah frowned. "In any case, there may come a time when Bob is uncomfortable and wants to take a break."

"You mean if he gets an erection?" Harper's voice was as calm as ever.

Both of us adults were speechless.

"Come on, Mom," said Harper. "I know guys get boners. It happens all the time in high school. It happens at the acadcemy, too, but the guys are better at trying to hide it. And then there's the swimming pool. You know a guy has a hardon when he covers the front of his suit with both hands until he jumps in the water."

"I wasn't aware you were so ... well acquainted with ... such problems," said Hannah, weakly.

"I'm not a baby," said Harper, petulantly.

"It's just that you've never ... um ... talked with me about this," said Hannah.

"Come on. What teenager talks to her mother about boners?"

"You are, now," Hannah pointed out.

"Only because it came up in conversation. I mean you think Bob's worried about it and you're obviously worried about it. But I'm not worried about it. I just want to get this done so I know my portfolio is ready to go."

"Let me get this straight," said Hannah. "If Bob gets an erection during this process that won't ... uh ... be a big deal to you?"

I saw a small smile form on Harper's lips.

"I guess that depends on how big it is."

My jaw dropped and I saw Hannah tense up.

"Hey, I'm just kidding," said Harper, laughing. "Come on. It was just a joke."

"It's not a joking matter," said Hannah, tensely. "That is not a subject for polite discussion, joking or not."

"Well, guys talk about how big a girl's boobs are," said Harper, defensively.

"And that's not appropriate, either," said Hannah.

"Okay," said Harper. "No more joking. I'm trying to be grown up about this, Mom. And I really wouldn't feel comfortable using another model, a stranger. I just feel like Bob is family."

Hannah turned to look at me.

"How do you feel about this, now?" she asked. "Are you still willing to do this?"

I swallowed. I had a feeling this was going to end up happening one way or another. Harper wasn't going to give up. And if I was going to do this I wanted everybody to understand things from the very beginning.

"As long as you understand there may be some embarrassing moments," I said.

"Don't worry. I'll hardly look at you. You won't get embarrassed," said the girl.

"I was thinking about your embarrassment," I said. "You claim to understand about men and how they can become ... um ... affected. That doesn't happen in a vacuum. Guys get that way for a reason. If that happens while we're together, can you deal with that?"

Harper was a smart girl and saw through my vague speech instantly.

"You mean you might get a boner because of me?" Harper's voice rose an octave.

"Harper!" groaned her mother.

"What? Isn't that what he said?"

"Let's stop bandying around words like boner, please?" said Hannah with obvious frustration.

"Okay," said Harper, and I saw something I had become quite familiar with over the years. It was Harper's stubborn streak, about to come out. She looked at me and said, firmly, "Are you suggesting that your penis may become erect while we're doing this, and that I may be the impetus for that?"

I shrugged. "You're a very pretty girl," I said. "I've told you that lots of times."

She smiled widely.

"Yes you have. Thank you. If that happens, since it's just you, I'll simply think of it as a compliment. Now. When do you think we can start? Today?"

Things were moving pretty quickly, but the sooner we did it the sooner it would be over.

"What the heck," I sighed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I'd taken a shower the night before, but I wanted to do that again before stripping down in front of Harper. I also wanted to change out of the tiger-striped briefs I was wearing at breakfast. I got them at a white elephant Christmas Party one year and, since they fit me, I kept them. I wasn't willing for Harper to see me in them, though. Even if they were my smallest pair.

I got back to their house around one and, probably because I was nervous, rang the bell for once. I heard teenaged feet galloping down the stairs inside the house with a shout of, "I got it."

Harper opened the door dressed in a white men's button up shirt, splattered and stained with paint in a myriad of colors. Even so, it looked great on her, except that there appeared to be no shorts on underneath it.

"Uncle Bob!" she said. "Why'd you ring the bell?"

"I dunno," I answered as my eyes raked up and down her body.

Noting my inspection, she said, "This used to be my dad's. I use it as a smock, now. I'm about ready for you. Come on up."

She turned from the door and bellowed, "Mom! Bob's here," and galloped back up the stairs toward the guest bedroom/studio.

Hannah walked from the back of the house, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

"Hi. Had any second thoughts about this since we last met?" she asked.

"Only a few dozen," I said, smiling wanly. "Are you sure you don't mind me posing in my undies for your daughter?"

"Why would I mind? I trust you."

"Even though you know I'm not gay anymore?"

She smiled and slapped me on one shoulder.

"She has to learn about men somewhere. Better from you than some furtive boy full of hormones."

"I'll try to behave myself," I said.

"I have no doubt you'll be the ultimate gentleman." She frowned. "If anything does happen, I don't want you to be upset by it."

"Happen?" My eyes widened. My little head, after seeing what was easily imagined as a naked girl wearing only an oversize man's shirt, wanted all sorts of things to happen.

"You know ... like what happened after you looked at my picture the other day."

"Oh that," I said. "I'm still a little embarrassed about that."

"Don't be. Like my daughter said, from you it's a compliment."

"You're very kind," I said.

"What I am is very ..." She stopped, suddenly. "Never mind. Go have fun. I'll check in on you later to make sure she's behaving herself."

I found Harper fiddling with paints. Apparently I was to be rendered in living color. Not only that, but apparently she didn't want to get her 'smock' stained, because she'd taken it off. I saw that, under it, she'd been wearing a tiny bikini. I was apparently staring, because she said, "I like working in this. It doesn't bind. You've seen this suit before anyway." Having dealt with that issue, she went on. "I don't have a dressing room," she said. "If you want to you can change in the bathroom."

I imagined tiptoeing through the hallway in my tighty-whities and running into Hannah. I was already half stiff from looking at Harper in her too-small, neon-pink bikini. I didn't take the time to reflect on how Harper had to know how that bikini affected members of the opposite sex. If I had, I'd have formed a suspicion that she wore it on purpose. If I'd thought about the fact she'd taken her "smock" off before starting, it would definitely have formed suspicions. But I wasn't thinking very well at that moment.

"I'll just get undressed here," I said.

"Fine by me," she said, as if she didn't have a care in the world.

I'd come up with a plan to "handle" the anticipated problem of erections. I'd worn an old jock strap under my briefs. The problem was, now that I was in fact trying to "handle" an anticipated problem, that the operative term in describing my security feature was "old". The elastic wasn't very ... elastic ... any longer, having deteriorated somewhat. In other words, the jock wasn't doing its job. I faced away from Harper and skinned out of my shirt and pants, kicking off my shoes. I bent over to remove my socks and then, surreptitiously, reached inside shorts and jock to tuck things deeper between my legs. Ironically, I had to actually, literally 'handle' the problem.

I finally turned around and presented myself for whatever came.

Harper appraised me with a critical eye.

"Have you lost weight?" she asked.

"A little," I said.

"I remember you having more body mass."

"From when?" I asked.

"From the last time I saw you at the pool," she said. "You look better. More buff."

"Thank you," I said, happy that my attempt to cut down on calories and bump up the burning of them had apparently worked.

"I think this will work out very well," she said. "Lie down on the bed."

"I thought I'd be sitting on a chair," I said.

"I can't display your boy parts if you're sitting down. And if I make you stand, you'll get tired and move around. So lie down on the bed, please."

She put me in much the same position her mother had been, using the same bolster. But she wanted my top leg bent with the heel on the bed. It opened up my crotch completely. What she'd done with her mother had been alluring, mysterious in a way, hiding the good stuff in shadows. With me, it seemed she wanted to make it look like I was bragging. She even had me lay my wrist on my waist, with my hand hanging down, almost as if I were drawing attention to my manhood, saying, "See there? What do you think of that? Pretty impressive, don't you think?" I wondered if she'd paint a smirk on my face.

She stood studying me for a few minutes and then picked up a pencil and started sketching.

"I thought you were going to use paints," I said.

"I need to get the shape roughed out, first," she said. "Don't distract me. I want this to be as good as Mom's."

Actually, the not talking part worked out pretty well. I didn't have to think up things to talk about and she was behind the easel most of the time, so ogling her wasn't possible. I began to relax and not worry so much about my errant little friend in my not-very-tight jock strap.

We had been working about an hour when Hannah stuck her head in the door.

"How's it going, guys?" she asked.

"So far so good," Harper replied, never looking up. She had begun to fill in her original drawing with paints, and was brushing them on the canvas with intense concentration.

"Not too bad actually," I said.

"I brought up some lemonade and cookies if you guys are ready for a break."

"Sounds great," I countered.

"Yeah, I could use a break, too. My shoulders are tense," Harper replied.

I sat up and swiveled around, resting my feet on the floor. I took a glass of lemonade gratefully and drank deeply. I had not realized how stiff I was getting.

"What's the matter, dear?" Hannah asked her daughter, somehow knowing something was the matter.

"Nothing really, I'm just not getting it right."

"How so?" Hannah moved to look at what Harper had done thus far. "Hmmm. Saving that for last?"

I had no idea what she was talking about until Harper sighed and spoke.

"Okay, okay, so maybe I don't have as good an imagination as I thought I did."

"For which your mother is most happy," said Hannah.

"But Mom, how can I draw a penis when I've never seen one before?"

"Another thing your mother is delighted about. But don't tell me you and your friends haven't peeked at things on the internet. I'm told everybody does, and long before they get to your jaded age."

"Well sure, but it's not like you get to stare at it, or study one. Besides, the ones you see there aren't normal. Soft, I mean. What am I supposed to do? I don't want that part of it to look like something a five-year-old drew."

"I don't even want to think about five-year-olds drawing things like that. But I understand the problem. Maybe Bob would help you out if you asked him politely."

I perked up at that and stood up.

"You can't look at this yet!" said Harper, sternly. "It's bad luck."

"True," said Hannah, staring at what I wasn't allowed to look at. "She didn't let me see mine until it was finished."

"Help her out with what?" I asked, as if I hadn't heard the whole conversation.

"Don't be coy, Bob," said Hannah.

"What happened to 'Bob might get uncomfortable and need to take a break'?" I said, affecting a falsetto voice.

"Have you needed to take a break, yet?" she asked, staring at me.

"Well, no, but I wasn't naked," I said. "It might not even be legal for me to be naked!"

"We're not going to call the police, Bob," said Hannah. "From what I can see, this is going to be beautiful, but right now there's this big white spot in the middle of things and if it stays that way it's going to ruin it. Just think about this critically. She needs a model and she needs all the model because she's been a good girl and hasn't gone out and looked at ... inappropriate ... things."

"So I'm supposed to show her my inappropriate thing?"

"I wouldn't characterize yours as inappropriate," said Hannah. "You're a gentleman."

"I won't be if I strip naked and pose for an eighteen-year-old babe," I groaned.

"I'm not a baby!" yelled Harper.

"He didn't say baby," said Hannah, patting her daughter's shoulder.

"What? Oh." Harper grinned. "Thank you!"

"You can't be serious about this," I said, looking with pleading eyes at Hannah.

"Would you feel better if I stayed here?" she asked.

"Not in a million years," I gasped, without thinking first.

"I see," she said.

I hoped she did not see, because if she really could see what was going through my mind, she'd throw me out and never let me come back.

"Of course we can't force you to do this," said Hannah.

"But what am I going to do?" wailed Harper.

"I know a man at the bank," said Hannah. "He's asked me out once but I told him I wasn't ready to start dating again. He's the type of man I think would be ... eager ... to let you study his ... penis."

"That's not fair," I groaned.

"What's not fair?" asked Hannah, her voice full of false innocence.

"Sure, make it my fault that Chester the Molester gets a chance to flash Harper," I growled.

"Bob, we're just trying to be sensitive to your concerns," said Hannah.

"Can I speak with you privately for a minute?" I asked, my voice tight.

"Yes," said both women at the same time. It was as if they'd practiced it.

"You stay here!" I barked, stabbing my finger at Harper. I reached for Hannah's elbow and, none too gently, gripped it, pulling her into the hallway and closing the door.