Study Buddies

Study Buddies

Nate-

Looking around the classroom I realize just how much of a misfit I am among this group of future medical professionals. Why is a right-side-of-the-brain artist like me in this class surrounded by left brain geniuses? Well, maybe they're not all geniuses but they're all pre-med. And way smarter than me. Taking an anatomy class was my art instructor's idea and I'm beginning to think his logic was flawed.

I love creating art and for the most part, I do a decent job of it. I am particularly good at scapes - landscapes, tablescapes, foodscapes, seascapes, cityscapes, cloudscapes... But I'm not so good at bodyscapes. I struggle with drawing people. They come out looking either fake or too perfect, which is just as bad as fake. And since the world is not demanding the next Bob Ross, I'm the one who needs to adapt. I need to get better. At the young age of twenty, I've realized (and so has Mr. Prentice, my art instructor) that I'm a one-trick pony.

Now, halfway through year three, I need to make tangible progress. It was suggested that I take an Anatomy class. An art student can significantly benefit from taking an anatomy class by gaining a deeper understanding of the human body's structure, allowing them to create more realistic and believable figures in their artwork, particularly in areas like drawing, painting, and sculpture, by accurately depicting muscle placement, bone structure, and proportions across different poses and movements. Understanding the skeletal and muscular systems enables artists to accurately represent the human form, including the relative sizes and positions of body parts.

So here I am, a junior at Tufts University, two and a half years into an art program, sitting in an anatomy class and expecting to fail. Sure, when Professor Prentice, bored with my treescapes and desperate for me to take growth steps forward in my work, suggested anatomy, I thought it sounded like a good idea. Yes, understanding bone and muscle structure along with tendons and ligaments and so on will bring my drawings of people to life. But what I didn't realize was that this class isn't just for funsies. It's a real class with a real grade. A hard class. And it counts in my GPA. It is not available to take pass/fail. I have to actually do well in the class.

As an artist, I am lucky to have a near photographic memory. I do not need to perch on a cliffside to be able to paint a scene of beauty. I can take in the sight, remember what I saw and replicate it hours or even days later in the art studio. But committing a vision to memory and memorizing every bone in the human body are two different things. I am not good at that kind of memorization, and there is a shit-ton of it. Everyone else in this class is pre-med and crazy smart. They also have a foundation of knowledge that I am lacking. I feel like a kid playing dress up among adults. I do not belong in this class and I am going to fail so hard.

It's the first day of class, mid-January, second semester of year three and when I walk into the room, I am surprised to encounter something I'm not sure I've seen since grammar school - assigned seats. This is weird. I find the desk with my nameplate and take a seat.

Professor Smythe explains that this course is hard - no duh - and it takes a lot of studying. In past years he has realized that the most successful students study in pairs. He not only strongly suggests study partners, but he has taken the bold step of assigning them. In fact, our buddies are the students sitting next to us. Since I'm on the end, my buddy is obviously the guy on my right. He looks like a nice enough guy. I just hope he's smart enough for the both of us though because if he's counting on me the way I'll be counting on him, we'll both be in big trouble.

Cam-

I extend my hand and shake with my neighbor on my left. He says his name is Nate. I'm halfway through my junior year and I don't recall seeing Nate in any other classes so far along the way. I guess with close to seven thousand undergraduates on campus, I shouldn't be too surprised. But I'm glad Mr. Smythe assigned study partners. I'm good with research and deduction, but memorization is not my strong suit. Neither is meeting new people, so again, thank you Mr. Smythe for taking care of that step. Hopefully Nate will have some helpful techniques to share.

Mr. Smythe goes on to explain that he made these assignments with the intention of pairing residents and commuters so that everyone has a homebase on campus for late night cramming and the ability to maximize all on-campus resources. Obviously that means that Nate lives on campus as I am a commuter. I hope he doesn't mind me crashing his party from time to time as the semester progresses and we get together more and more to study. I need to do well in this class.

I've always been jealous of the students who live (or get to live) on campus. Being raised by a single father, my dad has always done the best he can for me, but financially, we have the limits we have. My scholarship only goes so far and room and board is an expense we cannot afford. So, I live at home and make the forty-five minute commute. Every day. And I work the same part-time job I've worked since the month I turned sixteen. Well, I work at the same place - Target. I've been promoted a few times, so it's not technically the same job. But I always feel like my college experience is completely different from everyone else's. So, yeah. I'm a little jealous.

Between the job, the commute, the classes, the studying... There is not much spare time in my life. I don't exercise enough, I don't sleep enough and I never just get to veg out. I glance over at study-buddy Nate. He looks like a nice enough guy. He looks like most other college guys; he's in broken in jeans, well-worn sneakers and a hoodie sweatshirt. A lot like me. He doesn't look like a rich elite snob. It's probably not fair of me to assume that most residents are spoiled assholes, but certainly some are. And whether or not I find Nate to be among them, I'll still be counting on him to maintain my GPA.

Nate-

So, Cam must be a commuter. I always wondered what that life must be like. To have to live at home, or wherever else people live, and drive in every day... It's got to be rough. Especially if their family is anything like mine. I needed an escape. Bullied my whole life by three older brothers - who did not leave at age eighteen for college - and surrounded by the hate of two parents trapped in a loveless marriage, I fought my way out of there. I fight every day to manage my expenses with loans and multiple on-campus jobs. Yeah, I wonder what being a commuter must be like, but I also wonder what having a happy, supportive, loving home life must be like too. Does Cam have that? I hope so. I guess I'll be learning more about him soon enough.

Much like me, he is a medium build kind of a guy. I bet he's in his third year too and about my age. He's also in typical college kid attire - jeans, sneakers and a hoodie. Maybe where we sleep is the only difference between us. Well that and about a million IQ points.

When he reaches to shake my hand, I see his hand in a way that I've never seen another hand before. It's distinctively masculine in a subtle kind of a way. The veins create a roadmap effect; an interesting topography unlike anything else I'd ever seen before. I realize that I'd never noticed or considered the male hand before encountering this one; the scant light hairs, the maintenance of his fingernails... This is only day one of the class - the learning has yet to begin, but a familiar feeling comes over me. I am compelled to draw. I've experienced such strong and immediate inspiration before, just not related to a person, or to part of a person before. This is new for me. I want nothing more than to rush out of this room and go draw Cam's hand. It's a work of art. Or, at least by the end of the day it will be.

Cam-

Nate seems a little intense. Not in a scary or creepy way, just in a different way. He seems like he's super focused. Like he's paying ultra close attention, which bodes well for me being his study partner. With my time constraints, I'm hoping he'll help me learn better and faster. When he looked at me, it was like he was really taking me in. And when I shook his hand, it was like my hand was his first test of the course.

After class we both have time for lunch in the main dining hall, so we go together and set up a tentative schedule. It seems as though Nate is a busy guy too. I imagine most residents just breezing in and out of their classes, worry-free, carefree and stress-free. I imagine hours of leisure time every week and every day. I guess I was guilty of stereotyping. That is surely the case for some, but not for Nate. He just doesn't have to drive back and forth. But he does work two on-campus jobs to go along with his class load and studying. He is not living the lazy life I imagined.

We decide that we both have time on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. We exchange phone numbers and Nate gives me his dorm room location. Being a junior now, this is the first year he does not have a roommate, so his solo room makes sense as our main meeting place. If we decide that we need to go to the library or anywhere else, we have that option.

On the night of our first meeting, I arrive at Nate's room and I find that he's changed out of jeans and into a pair of very comfortable looking sweatpants. It makes me feel even more like a visitor than I already am. He also no longer has his sneakers on and I wonder about proper etiquette. He lives here. Am I expected to remove my shoes at the door? Am I not welcome to remove my shoes? Am I just an idiot overthinking the most basic of social interactions? Probably.

Nate takes my coat from me and hangs it on the doorknob. He says, "However you want to make yourself comfortable."

Believe it or not, this is my third year and right now is my first time inside of anyone's dorm room. It's... not impressive. I mean, Nate keeps a very tidy and clean room. It's just so small and simple. A tiny room, smaller than my bedroom at home, with a closet, a bed, a desk and a small sink. A laptop sits on the desk. That's it. I guess residents pay more for the location and convenience than for the amenities.

I ask, "Shoes on or off?"

He takes me in from head to toe. He seems to do that every time we see each other, it's like, a thing of his. He smiles, "Guest's choice. Like I said, make yourself comfortable."

So, I step out of my high-tops and stand there like a potted plant.

Nate snaps out of his reverie, "Oh, sorry. I have one desk, one chair and my bed. Again, guest's choice. Would you rather sit on my bed or at my desk?"

Now I've gone from feeling like a visitor to feeling like an intruder. He only has one desk and chair. Do I take that away from him? That seems presumptuous if not rude. I wouldn't mind sitting on the bed, but it's his bed. He sleeps there. It's not like I'm filthily covered in mud or anything, but still.

He reads it on my face and comes to my rescue, "I don't have much here, but for at least a few hours a couple times a week, it's your space too. We don't have time for manners and shit. Seriously. It's okay to just barge in, ditch the shoes, jump on my bed and claim your space. We have work to do."

I chuckle. He's right. And it makes me feel better. And way less awkward.

Nate says, "We'll alternate. Decision made. And hey, if you wanted to bring sweats or whatever your most comfortable in to change into, it's fine with me."

And that's how our routine begins.

Nate-

We're a month in and I've never been so inspired in my life. Cam is my inspiration. I never enjoyed drawing the human form before. None of it. Not faces, not body parts... Until now. That first night, I drew his hand a dozen times. I drew it in a dozen different poses. I almost couldn't stop. The ridges, the veins, the rough spots, the smooth spots... It felt oddly intimate. Like I was a voyeur or a spy. Like I was intruding. I could never tell Cam that I've been drawing him. If I was honest with him would he be okay wit it or would he feel betrayed? Maybe even violated?

On that first night in my room, he took his shoes off. I hoped he would. He was wearing socks, but nonetheless, his feet were as inspiring as his hands. After he left my room at ten o'clock at night, I stayed up until three AM drawing his socked feet in every position I had the pleasure to see them in. For the first time ever, my art was real. I embraced the imperfections. Previously when I would draw people, I always tried to make them perfect. People aren't perfect and that's where I went wrong.

I have been embracing Cam's imperfections. His imperfections are what make him such a compelling subject. The scar on his right hand, the healing scab on his third knuckle, his messy hair after pulling off his hat, his deeper left dimple than his right, the pimple on his nose that is almost but not quite gone, the left sock that is threadbare at the heel and the right sock that is dirt grey on the sole... I see these things. I see them, I remember them and then I draw them. I produce them at a furious pace and Mr. Prentice says it's my best work ever. He would know, he's been judging my work for three years now.

He's all proud of himself for suggesting anatomy class; he thinks he fixed me. It's not the class. But to be fair, had I not taken the class, I would never have met Cam. Cam is my muse. When I draw Cam, I don't feel the need to hide or correct the imperfections. The imperfections are art. I am getting an A+ this semester and it's all thanks to Cam's hands, Cam's feet, Cam's face, Cam's toppled sneakers by my door... Yes, I drew his sneakers. All worn and tattered, loose-laced and bent tongue, I was compelled to draw them. In the past, I would have only thought to draw a brand new pair right out of the box. But now... his beat up comfortable looking kicks have personality. They tell a story. They're real.

I've also drawn his face. A lot. His hands and his face are the only skin I've seen, so I've drawn him from the neck up in about fifty different poses and from about a hundred different angles. But I need more. As interesting as his hands, socks and face have been, I need to see his taught back muscles. His clavicles, his collar bones, his ribcage, his abdomen... I need to find a way to get his shirt off. Even if it's just for a minute. I've got that photographic memory.

Cam-

We've been studying together for about a month and it's going well. It doesn't seem to come naturally to either of us, but we're both trying, which is what makes us a good team. We also take little breaks and we spend them talking. It's nice getting to know Nate because I haven't really had time to make any friends at school. I'm just here as little as possible and I spend the rest of my time working and studying.

I've told him all about how my mom died from cancer when I was just ten and how my dad has been everything to me. I told him about my job and my life aspirations. He listened to it all in that Nate way of his. He has this way of making me feel like I'm the only person in the universe.

I also learned about him and his family life. A life he was desperate to get away from. I always thought I wished I had siblings but after hearing Nate's horror stories about what life was like being the youngest of four brothers, maybe I'm glad I was an only child.

Tonight it's really hot in his room. Like really hot. He tells me that the temperature is controlled for the whole building and this happens once in a while. Maintenance might be working on something and it should cool off in a few hours. But it's crazy hot. We don't have time to pack our stuff and head to the library, so we'll just have to deal with it.

Right there in front of me, Nate pulls off his sweatshirt. I've seen guys without shirts before in my life, but seeing Nate right now is unexpected and... exciting. There is a sudden stirring in my crotch. He crosses in front of me, shirtless, and opens his closet. He pulls out a t-shirt and turns back to me, "You should take off that sweater. You're gonna melt."

I get a long view of shirtless Nate before he pulls the t-shirt on. I don't know why I didn't look away. My eyes were trained on him. They wouldn't budge in any other direction. He doesn't look like he spends any more time in the gym than I do, but his smooth unblemished skin was transfixing, all stretched across his natural and subtle musculature.

I clear my throat, "I don't have a t-shirt under the sweater. Just me."

He chuckles, "In high school I was a life guard in the summers. I have seen too many shirtless guys to count. You don't have anything I haven't seen a million times before."

I blush a crimson red. Does he really expect me to spend the whole night shirtless?

He laughs, "That's a true story, but here." He tosses a t-shirt at me from his closet. "Borrow this."

The red drains from my face. It is really hot. I look around the tiny room and there's nowhere to hide. No privacy. I guess I have to just change my shirt right here in front of Nate, like he just did in front of me. If we were two friends at the beach or at the pool, we'd be shirtless together for hours. But this isn't the beach and I feel like I'm on display. But my only other option is to sweat to death. Nate is watching me, but I guess I was staring at him too. And in such a small room, there's nowhere else to look. He just has this way of looking that feels like more than a normal look.

Nate-

I've been taking studying with Cam seriously. I am not pre-med and the class has nothing to do with my major, but in addition to protecting my own GPA, I owe it to Cam to go in 100%. He is unwittingly helping me in my art class by being my new inspiration. The least I can do is be the help he deserves as his study buddy in reciprocity. While We're together, it's all about anatomy class. What I do after he leaves, well that's my time and my business.

Tonight I cranked up the thermostat two hours before Cam got here and told him that I had no control over the situation. The truth is that I am in complete control. I am the one who cranked up the heat and it worked. I had to take my own shirt off first and act like it was no big deal, but then I got my reward. He pulled that sweater off. It's freezing out today, of course he was wearing something warm. Something much too warm for my sauna of a room, so he pulled it off.

I took about one hundred mental snapshots in the all of five seconds he was shirtless. His skin, his bones... wow! He was more spectacular than I imagined. I mean, artistically speaking. He was a real boy standing before me, shy and vulnerable. An Intriguing subject. He would never be a male model. Good. Perfection is boring. Real is interesting - beautiful, even. And that's why I've been so inspired and why Mr. Prentice has been raving about my work. Cam does not work out and thank God that he doesn't. His subtle pecs are the ideal size for his small, round, dark nipples. His neck is longer than I thought. His lightly toned arms are toned just enough. The contours of his hips are mesmerizing. The curve of the slight mound of his lower abdomen makes my heart skip a beat. And his belly button is the bullseye that draws my attention. It's a vertical oval and just about a half an inch deep. I want to see it stretched and pulled in a thousand different directions.

I take all of this in in about three seconds, because Cam quickly becomes self-conscious. He turns around before pulling my t-shirt on. It was perfect that he did, because it gave me a view of his back. I could see every bump of his vertebrae before his spine twisted it's way under the cover of my shirt. I saw his back muscles stretch, flex and twist. I saw the waistband of his Under Armor underwear above the waistband of his jeans. In five total seconds, I saw enough to keep me drawing for a month.

I knew that if I could get even just a glimpse of Cam without a shirt, that I would have all of the inspiration I would need for the rest of the semester. What I didn't expect was that getting that five second glimpse of Cam shirtless would give me the raging erection that it did. Also in just five quick seconds. Wow. I had to sit down quickly. I was wearing sweatpants after all. I hope Cam didn't notice.

Cam-

Nate and I are starting to become really good friends. I don't know why I waited so long before making a friend at school. Maybe the right person just hadn't presented himself before now. Well. Here he is.

The midterm exam is next week, so we both agreed to meet up on Saturday night. We have only done our regular Tuesdays and Thursdays up to this point, but we're worried about the big test. We both work all day on Saturday, so I'm picking up sub sandwiches on the way and bringing them to his room.

I'm not sure why, maybe because it's a Saturday, but this feels different. Like it's more than just studying. I'm not sure exactly how to define the "more" but I feel it. I find myself taking a shower after my Target shift. I spend extra time picking a sweater he hasn't seen me in. Extra time fixing my hair just so. I'm even wearing my newest Adidas sneakers in favor of my everyday beat up high-tops.

There is a circle drive in front of Nate's dorm that never has any parking spaces available, but tonight there is one. It's my lucky break. With my backpack of books and the bag of food, I won't have to trudge long distance across the parking lot. It's a warm evening for February in Massachusetts - fifty degrees. I park, grab everything and turn to get out of the car. It's 7:00 and dark outside, so I can't see much, but I quickly realize why no one was parked here. Right under my driver's side door is a huge pothole. A huge pothole that is now filled with melted snow. And while I couldn't see this, I sure did feel it when I plunged both feet right into it.

Shit.

I drag myself and my loaded arms up to Nate's room and knock on the door with my forehead.

Nate-

There is a dull thudding on the door. I open it and there's Cam. The sight of him makes me involuntarily smile. But he's not smiling back. He looks miserable. I mean he looks great, but distraught.

I don't know why, but I spent more time today cleaning my room in advance of Cam's arrival. I always keep a neat room, but I found myself dusting and tidying more than usual. And I kept on my jeans instead of changing into sweatpants as I usually would whenever I get back to my room. I'm still embarrassed ad surprised about the erection that sprang out of nowhere last week. Subconsciously I think maybe the jeans will do a better job of concealing any further developments tonight.

But back to Cam. I've never seen him like this before and I'm concerned. "Cam?" I put my hands on his shoulders and guide him into the room. "Are you okay?"

He reluctantly steps inside, but stays at the door. "I stepped right into a puddle. Actually, it was more like a small lake. Both feet. Above the ankles. I'm a mess."

I take his backpack and the bag of sandwiches from his hands and place them both on my desk. "Would you get in here? You must be freezing."

"I'm gonna mess up your floor. Even if I take my shoes off, my socks are soaked too."

He seems completely frozen in place. I pull his coat off his shoulders and hang it in its usual space on my doorknob. "I can wipe up my floor, no problem. Right now I'm only worried about you. We need to get you out of these cold wet things."

I take a good look at him for the first time. He's not wearing his usual old high-tops. He has new, though soaking wet, sneakers on. He's also wearing nice jeans and a better sweater than he'd wear to school. My dick responds in my pants and I'm glad for my own jeans.

I lead him to the bed, squeaky squishy shoes and all. I sit him down. He's still kind of dazed and maybe only half aware of what's going on. I pull up my chair and sit. I put one of his feet in my lap and begin untying his lace. He did not exaggerate. He is soaked to the bone. The shoe is soaked. His sock is soaked. Even the bottom four inches of his jeans are soaked. The poor guy. Unlaced, I pull the shoe off and toss it by the door. His white Nike crew sock is drenched. I peel it off him like a banana and I wring it out, making a puddle on the floor. I do the same with his other foot and suddenly my new friend's two bare feet are in my lap. I didn't want to see them under these unfortunate circumstances, but nonetheless, here we are.

Cam-

When I realize that Nate has pulled off my shoes and socks and my bare feet are in his lap, I snap back to reality. It's not like I'm injured or anything; it was just a silly accident. I got wet. No big deal.

Nate is looking at me in his Nate way - he's all focus and concentration. On me.

I begin to pull my feet away, but he grabs me by the calves and holds me in place. He says, "You're wet and you're freezing."

"It's nothing."

"It might be warm for winter, but it's still February. You need to get warmed up." He wraps both hands around one foot and squeezes his warmth into it. I tense, but he just gently rubs his hot hands on my cold foot. Then he switches and repeats the routine.

"Now my hands are cold," he says. "I've got warm socks you can borrow, but we need your core temperature to go up first."

He lifts his shirt and there's Nate's chest and navel again. I begin to respond again. He presses my still chilly feet against his core. My toes knead into his pecs and my heels sink into his soft abdomen. He is like a human electric blanket and his warmth almost burns my feet. I can feel his heart beating beneath my toes. No one has really ever taken care of me like this before. I'm already feeling better, but I'm also feeling self-conscious. I'm glad I took that shower after a long day at work, but still, my bare feet are pressed against another man's bare chest. He can tell that I'm feeling uncomfortable, so he kindly distracts me by taking my mind off the proceedings. He begins quizzing me on the bones of the feet. At first I laugh, but then I realize that he's being considerate. He's helping me and making a joke of it, taking away the weirdness.

After five minutes of this, he pulls out my feet and says, "You're studying on the bed tonight, under the blanket. I'll take the desk." He stands up and goes to his closet where he pulls out a pair of socks and a pair of sweat pants. He clears his throat, "The bottom of your jeans are wet too..."

I get it. He doesn't want my dirty wet pants in his bed. I wouldn't either. My feet are warm now, but they won't stay that way if they stay bare. He tosses the socks and sweatpants to me and then, unlike that time when I changed shirts, he turns away and gives me privacy, which is good because I'm semierect in my pants. What the hell is that about? Just because a really goodlooking dude's hands were all over my cold bare feet, I should get an erection? He busies himself with something while I pull off my jeans and pull on warm sweats and socks. I am completely warmed through now. I feel good.

I notice that he was busy arranging my soaked sneakers mouth down on the heat vent. He says, "I couldn't help but notice that you wear a size ten. Me too. Depending on how long you stay, you might need to borrow a pair of my shoes too. These will probably still be wet when you leave."

I've only known Nate to be kind and generous, but this is another level. He hands me my sandwich, a napkin and a bottle of water. "When we're done eating, I'm running down the block to Starbucks to get us hot chocolates. You'll stay here under the covers and continue to warm up."

I'm about to protest and tell him it's too much. It's not like I fell in a wintery lake and almost drowned. But I say nothing. I like being taken care of. And hot chocolate sounds really good. While I eat, he wipes up the wet dirty mess I made of his floor.

"Nate, you've gone way above and beyond here. Thank you for making me feel..." I trail off, not sure of the right word or even how I actually feel. If I think about it, I feel warm, I feel important, I feel cared for and I feel very liked.

Nate waves it off, "I'm just trying to be a considerate host." Then he chuckles, "The secret is to imagine what my sadistic brothers would have done to me in the same situation and then just do the opposite."

"What would they have done?" I ask.

"I was the youngest and the smallest. They would have sat on me, stripped off my shoes and socks and tickled me until I couldn't breathe. Once I was close to passing out, they would have woke me up by beating the shit out of me. First tickle me, then hurt me. Having always been the only artistic one in the family, I was also the most sensitive. They recognized that early and bullied me both physically and emotionally my whole life."

Nate is such a sweet guy. How could anyone want to hurt him? I say, "I'm so sorry you had to live through that." Then I ask, "Artistic? What do you mean?"

Nate-

I let it slip the other night that I'm artistic. He still thinks I'm pre-med, presumably like everyone else in the class. I've waited too long now to tell him the truth. I need him to think that I take being his study partner seriously. Plus, it's true. I do. And I need him to not know that I've drawn hundreds of pictures of various parts of his body, and he's the reason my art instructor has a new found respect for me.

Since Saturday, it's his feet that I've been drawing. I dreamed of finding a way to get him out of his socks, but obviously I couldn't have planned that crater in the parking circle that he stepped into. It was a confluence of factors that brought him soaking wet to my door that night. Fate intervened and I got to see Nate's gorgeous feet. And I was sure to take them in from all angles. Like his hands, the veins on the tops of his feet were masculine, but not gross. A little hair, but not hairy. Well-trimmed nails. Pinkish, bulbous toes. Not only were they presented for visual inspection, but I got to touch them. I got to hug them into me. I wanted - no, needed - to see them for my series of drawings. I just didn't expect to enjoy the experience as much as I did. And I relived the experience repeatedly buy drawing them in so many different positions.

Anyway, I dodged the question. I just said it was an appreciation for art that was in stark contrast to my Neanderthal brothers. Cam let it go at that.

It's Tuesday, so he's coming back again to get an early start on studying up for the second half of the class. The midterm exam was yesterday and we both think we nailed it.

He arrives on time and he hands me a large brown paper bag. "Freshly laundered and with many thanks," he says.

My sweatpants, socks and spare shoes are inside. Yes, his Adidas were still too wet to wear home that night. But he's wearing them now and they look good on him. I still like the personality of his beat up old high-tops, but these are enticing too. I unpack my bag and it gives me a little thrill to know that his feet were in my shoes.

He puts a hand on my shoulder and says, "Seriously, Nate. I could have spiraled. I wouldn't have been able to focus or study and I could have bombed the midterm. You rescued me."

That is a huge exaggeration, but I don't refute his claim. I also feel like we should study less tonight and do something fun. We just finished a test and haven't even begun the next topic. I tell him that and surprisingly, he agrees. I ask him to think about what we could do, nothing too expensive as we're both poor college students, while I run down and get my laundry from the basement of the building.

Cam-

When Nate leaves to grab his laundry, I decide to help him out by putting away the items he loaned me on Saturday. He had been right, my shoes were still too wet to wear when I left, so he loaned me his spare shoes. I thought a lot about how nice he was when he took care of me. As a doctor, he'll have a great bedside manner. Or maybe he's studying to become a nurse. I guess I don't really know. I open his closet and return the sweatpants and socks to their appropriate stack and I set his shoes on the floor. I can't help but notice a very large sketch book carefully placed against the side wall out of view. I remember him saying something about being artistic and my curiosity is piqued. I pull it out and find another behind it. I take them both and flip through the first one.

And then I'm picking my jaw up off the floor. Every page of it is full and it's full of me. It starts with just my hand. It's my hand like a hundred times in a hundred different positions. It's drawn in amazingly specific detail. My face is in none of the drawings but I know it's my hand because of my scar and the arrangement of my scattered freckles. The next series of drawings is of my face, but only from the shoulders up. Again, there are dozens of them with my expressions ranging the whole gamut of emotions, and in all of them, I am unaware of being seen.

The next section features my feet in socks. Lots of them. And their definitely my feet and my socks. I can tell. He has the shape and contours just right. Even the small hole forming at the toe of the pair I keep forgetting to throw away. Why would he draw the hole? Wouldn't he want to hide that blemish? Instead, he almost seems to emphasize it. Buried in between them is one drawing of my high-tops. It's actually really cool. It never occurred to me that a pair of worn and tattered shoes could have such character. The way the laces dangle free and the tongues flop open, they almost look sad to be without their feet. Can sneakers look wise? Mine do. They look like they know where they've been and they're waiting to go on their next adventure.

The series after my feet is of my torso in clothes. In one, I'm flopped on Nate's bed with my face hidden, buried in my hands. My sweatshirt has ridden up so the bottom hem bisects my navel, creating a halfmoon crescent and highlighting the bump of my lower abdomen and a strip of the waistband of my underwear. The very next drawing is one moment later when I'm full-out stretching and my shirt is up to my ribcage. My belly button is pulled into an oval. Did this ever actually happen or is this something Nate imagined? He's also captured me bent down digging in my backpack where a strip of bare back between my shirt and my waistband is unintentionally revealed.

And then I'm completely shirtless. Again, my head is kept out of the drawings featuring my body, but it's no doubt me. There are identifying clues like more freckles and an unfortunately positioned mole. He's got me from all angles as he showcases his mastery of shading the contours of my body. Is this how he sees me? In front of the mirror, even subconsciously, I know I'm looking so I pose. But Nate's drawings are completely candid and I never see myself this way. I assumed unguarded shots would be repulsive, at least to me, but somehow, I look better than I really am.

I'm just an average guy. I know I'm not overly attractive. I'm average height, regular weight, brown hair and eyes, I spend no time in the gym. I'm just a guy. But not in Nate's artwork. I'm more toned, more contoured, more interesting than I ever thought myself to be. But something feels creepy. It's like an unauthorized biography.

The most recent series is of my feet again, but this time, of my bare feet. I've never considered the human foot before for anything other than functionality, but he made it a subject worth viewing. Again, the feet are undoubtedly mine. My bare feet that he only saw one time three days ago after I stepped in that puddle. What did he do? Wait until I left and then start drawing me from memory? Or did he take pictures with his phone that I wasn't aware of?

Just then, the door opens and he catches me looking through his sketch books. At first he looks guilty, like he was caught red-handed. Then his guilt turns to anger.

"What are you doing? You're going through my things? Those are private!"

The nerve of him. "Excuse me? Private? Whose privacy was invaded here? Every one of the sketches is of me. Every freaking one of them. And they're done in extremely fine detail. I mean, this isn't just your imagination; they're too spot on. All of my flaws are on full display. Without my consent."

Nate scoffs, "Flaws?"

Nate-

Cam says, "I have so many questions. You're obviously a talented artist. You have hundreds of drawings here. Every damn one of them is of me. Am I your assignment?"

It's time to tell him the truth. I have no choice. I explain about being an art major and how my work had plateaued in recent months. I tell him what my challenges were and how my instructor suggested anatomy class. I say, "When Mr. Smythe paired us up, I never expected it, but you inspired me. From that first moment when you reached out and shook my hand, I knew I would draw that hand that night. And I did."

"You did a lot more than that. But okay. So why keep the flaws?"

"That's the second time you said that. What are you talking about?"

"Every single drawing has a flaw. All of them. My scar, my mole, too many freckles in too many places, my birthmark, the wrong toes are too long, the hole in my sock... My too-soft belly where most people have abs!"

"But that's it right there. Abs are the supposed ideal but not the reality. Most people in fact don't have them." I lift my shirt and show him evidence of the crunches that I never do. "There is beauty in honesty."

"There is ugly in honesty. People buy clothes, wear makeup, fix their hair, work out in the gym to hide that 'honesty'. They don't like it."

"I have a room full of classmates and a professor who completely disagree. Every day they can't wait for the newest drawings in my series."

Maybe I shouldn't have said that. He blushes even redder than before.

"So I'm the star of your freak show?"

"Cam--"

"Even in the ones of my head and face... My hair is messy, my expression is wrong, my smile is shit. My zit! You could at least have left out my pimple! You could have fixed all of those flaws. You're clearly a talented artist. As such, you are like human photoshopping. You could have corrected all of my mistakes, but instead, it's almost like you highlighted them."

"I kind of did. I mean, I never drew you shirtless until after I saw you shirtless. I never drew your feet until I saw them. I'm not guessing here. I'm drawing the real you. And that's what makes these drawings so good."

"By showing the world my gross ugly insecurities?"

"Cam, you are a spectacular specimen. I've captured the real you. And none of those things are flaws. It would have been a mistake to fix your hair, cover your scar, ignore your pimple and leave out the cute hole in your sock."

"My personal insecurities are cute to you?"

"None of those things are flaws. True beauty and perfection lie in the imperfections. You are a walking work of art and these sketch books are full of proof."

Now it's his turn to scoff.

"Seriously. I'm acing the class. Mr. Prentice wants me to be in a show at the end of the semester."

"Featuring drawings of me?"

"Every drawing I've done all year is of you."

"I'm so glad to be of service," his tone is all sarcasm. "Unwillingly and unwittingly." He steps closer to me, "Did you take pictures of me? How much of a creep are you?"

I hold up my hands in surrender, "No. I swear. I just have an artist's eye and memory. I see something and if it inspires me, I remember it. Forever."

"So, I've really helped you out here?"

I nod.

"And what do I get?"

He's sounding angry again. I was hoping he'd realize that we've become friends, but that's probably not enough. I try, "I help you study. You helped me in my class and I'm helping you in yours."

"He shakes his head, "No good. You're in the class too. We're both benefiting from studying together. What do I get?"

"Hey, Cam. I really wanted to tell you, but then too much time went by and I started to enjoy our time together. I mean, I think of you as--"

"As an object. A means to an end. In this case, a means to an 'A'."

He steps closer still and pushes his finger into my chest. "What do I get? How can you help me in my field? Honestly, I haven't even decided what kind of doctor I want to be yet. Maybe you can help me decide." He pushes and suddenly I'm backed up against the wall. "Maybe I want to be an ENT. He glides a finger across my throat, tugs on my ears and presses down on my nose. "I could be a urologist, specializing in male patients, focusing on the prostate, the penis and the testicles. I could perform a thorough examination on you and see if urology is for me. You could be my first patient. My test subject. I'll have to run several tests to ensure everything is in proper working order."

I swallow hard. I don't want it to, but my dick twitches. Do I deserve this? I know I crossed a line, but...

"Or maybe a podiatrist. Let me go at your feet for a good long time while I decide if that's a line I'd like to pursue. You think your brothers were bad? Wait until I finish with you."

Up until this point, I was only afraid that I might have lost my new friend, but now I'm afraid for more than just that. I was tortured my whole life until I left for school two and a half years ago. What Cam just said hurt me more than he could possibly know. I close my eyes and turn my head as I try to hold it back but a tear streaks down my cheek.

He takes his probing finger out of my sternum and suddenly Cam is hugging me.

Cam-

I'm an asshole. He shared with me the hell his brothers put him through growing up. Why did I have to say that? I'm a fucking moron. Was I upset about being lied to by my new friend - yes. Was I justified in making that comment - no. And I didn't mean it. I would never hurt this guy. Nate has been so nice to me. And so generous. And when he took care of me on Saturday night, he was gentle and kind. And then I go and say something so awful to the nicest guy I know? What is wrong with me?

Still hugging him, I guide us to his bed and sit us down. He's not sobbing, but he's still shaken up. I rub circles on his back. "Nate, I'm so sorry. That was a horrible thing to say. Please forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive." He sniffs, "You have every right to be mad. I violated your privacy."

Did he though? Do I have any real damage here? No. I say, "Even if you did, it doesn't make what I said okay. I didn't mean it. You're right, I was mad. But really it was more shock than anger."

"I should have been honest with you from the beginning. I was afraid you'd want a real study partner and you'd dump me. I didn't want that. You triggered some kind of inspiration in me from the beginning. I couldn't explain it, but I knew I wouldn't find it anywhere else. So I worked really hard to be a respectable study partner for you. That was always real."

I'm still rubbing circles on his back. He's right. He has been a good partner. He loans me his room, his clothes, his shoes, he took care of me in my moment of need... I guess I helped him in his art and with his grade, but that was all incidental. I didn't know I was helping him. He's been helping me with intention. What have I really done for him?

So I explain my new theory of imbalance and ask if there is anything I can do for him.

"Keep being my partner and my friend."

I hug him sideways, "That was gonna happen anyway. What else can I do?"

He blushes.

"Okay... Clearly there is something. What is it?"

"Well, I could use one more bit of inspiration."

My smile ever so slightly fades, "What do you mean?"

"Well, I haven't submitted a nude human drawing yet. You've been my inspiration so far..."

I bark out a laugh. "You really had me going there--"

He grins in a way that tells me he's not joking, "Hear me out. Human nudity has existed in art for centuries."

That's true. But not my human naked form.

Nate continues, "Even male genitalia. Seriously. Centuries. Now Mr. Prentice doesn't expect each student to find a live nude model. We're just supposed to use the old imagination. But that's what stalled me before, making it all up. Creating what I imagined to be picture perfect instead of something real."

My mouth turns dry. "I'm no male model."

"Good. Every part of you has been perfect so far."

"But not that part of me."

"Cam, you saw my sketches. Every one of them with your face was only from the shoulders up. Every one of them featuring any part of your body was only from the neck down. There is no connection. No one will know it's you."

He's right again. The body shots are not tied to me. I ask, "So how would this work? I drop my pants for five seconds while your artist's eye captures the needed mental image and then I go away?"

I shrug, "I would rather you stay. I've never made a bodyscape before. I'll throw in a pizza."

I giggle at that. "So, I'm really not a model."

"Right. You already said that. I already told you I don't want a model."

I stare down at my feet, "I mean, look. You know how I'm average height, average weight... Average, average, average?"

He says, "I find you to be anything but average."

"What I'm getting at is that you might not find my subject matter in that particular region to be particularly interesting. Comparatively speaking."

Nate-

Oh. I get what he means. "Have you seen centuries old statues and paintings of naked dudes? None of them are what anyone would call well endowed. It's not supposed to be erotic. It's just another example of the human form as art."

"Uh huh."

"I'm serious. Look, what are you even comparing to? You're not a urologist yet."

He snorts.

"How many live penises have you seen? Porn actors are chosen for a reason. They do not represent the average person on the street."

I think he still feels bad about what he said before. That seems to influence his decision. He steps out of his shoes and pulls off his sweater. "Nothing above the neck," he reminds me.

"Absolutely not."

As he unbuttons his jeans he asks, "What do I do?"

"Lie on my bed and play a game on your phone. Give me twenty minutes."

"That's all?"

"That's all I'll need."

His jeans drop to the floor and he stands there in his underwear and socks. Then he strips off the socks. He asks, "After the drawing is complete and my underwear is back on, does your photographic artist's memory thing have a delete button?"

I smirk and nod, "Totally."

He smirks back, "Liar!"

And then he drops the underwear. He gives me a slow panoramic 360 degree view before climbing on my bed and settling in. I waste my first full minute by just staring in awe. I shouldn't have been surprised. I've been completely taken in by every other part of this man from his hands to his feet and everything in between. Of course his penis is perfect too. Well, perfectly imperfect. Is it large? Not particularly. He hasn't shaved recently. The penis itself leans left. He's nicely cut and uniquely shaped. While his penis in its flaccid state is average in size, his testicles are larger than average. I pull up my desk chair and sit beside him. He starts to grow a little.

I clear my throat, "Models are supposed to keep still."

That cracks us both up, "You might want to look more at your pad than at me. When it feels watched, it likes to stand at attention. You said this isn't a pornographic drawing..."

"Right." I look at my sketchpad. How could I blame him for getting hard when I myself and rock hard in my jeans. I focus on my drawing and he settles back down.

Cam-

I needed to balance the scales with Nate, but maybe things have swung back too far the other way. Did I owe him this much? I guess it was no big deal. I just laid on his bed for twenty minutes and relaxed. When he gives my foot a jiggle, I assume that the twenty minutes are up.

"Show me," I say.

He grins, "Are you sure?"

I nod.

He turns the sketch pad and it's both my penis and not my penis at the same time. I mean, I recognize myself, but the sketch is how Nate saw me. And while he didn't embellish my size, he made me look more substantial in some way. More impressive. Not how I'd ever seen myself. I am decidedly not beautiful, but his drawings of me are. And this one is no exception.

I say, "I think you used your imagination after all."

He frowns, "You don't think it's good?"

"Yeah, it is. And that's why it's imagination. I don't know the artist's tricks like you, so I don't know what you did there, but you did something."

"Cam, all I did was draw you. Like all the other times."

"Uh huh." I sit up. "Suddenly, I feel naked."

Nate laughs. When he stands up, I can't help but notice a generous bump behind the denim covering his crotch. The sight gets me going again, and it's not even being stared at. He adjusts himself and catches me staring.

"Oh, my goodness," he says as he scrambles around the floor in search of my underwear.

He saw that I am just about at full mast at this point. Now that's embarrassing for both of us. And it's another memory that the artist will have forever. And that thought makes me even harder still. This man will be able to close his eyes and conjure up a mental image of me fully erect anytime he wants for the rest of his life. Shit. Now I'm leaking precum.

Nate emerges with my undies and hands them to me.

"This is a whole other class. Maybe if I go for my masters..."

I laugh and swat his arm. "I guess I'm a grower."

"I'd say so."

"Let's go get that pizza."

Nate-

He drives and I pay. Since I don't have a car, that plan worked out.

While we're eating, tucked into a quiet dark corner, the waiter asks us if this is a first date. First I blush, then Cam blushes and finally the waiter blushes. He offers us free dessert for sticking his foot in his mouth.

As he walks away, I tell Cam, "Actually, I kind of think of last Saturday as our first date."

I'm not sure if he blushes again or if he's still blushing. "Why do you say that?"

"Because it was a Saturday. Because I found myself dusting my room, picking out a nice sweater and putting on jeans instead of sweats."

He hides a smile behind his drink, "I did the same thing. I even took a shower after work. And then I put on my new shoes, which I promptly dunked in a sludgy ice bath."

I smile, "The thing is, Cam, I've been inspired by you since the day we met. I've been drawing you every day since the beginning. I didn't understand it at first, but I didn't question it either. I just went with it. You saw my sketches of you. They're superbly fantastic, more so than I am. I mean I was always a competent artist, but my best work is you. You are better material than I am an artist."

"He smiles back, "I feel the exact opposite."

My smile falls.

He bumps his toe into mine under the table, "I mean, you are a better artist than I am material. You make me a better subject. You see me better than I am. Flaws and all."

"Let's not have the flaws argument again. Perfection is boring. And it's not real. You, Cam, are neither boring or fake. The semester doesn't end for weeks, but technically I have enough sketches to take me to the end of the class, yet I don't want to stop drawing you. I don't want to stop seeing you. And I don't just mean to study for Anatomy. And I also don't mean as friends."

"I've hardly had any friends in my life."

"I meant," I say, backtracking, "Not just as friends. The friendship part is important to me too."

"I am no artist, but I am an expert at studying anatomy. I may not have had as many opportunities to study you as you have had with me, but I'm intrigued so far. I can't draw or paint or sculpt you, but I would like to study more. I want to use you as my reference material."

My ears turn pink. I pay the waiter and we practically run out of the pizza place.

Cam-

Back in Nate's room, I'm feeling a little less bold than in the restaurant. But then he pulls off his hoodie and for just a moment, his sweater beneath journeys up to his armpits. The glimpse of his skin causes a rush of blood to flow to my dick and suddenly I'm not so shy anymore.

I walk up to him and kiss him. It's a little clumsy at first - this is my first kiss at the embarrassing age of twenty - but we both settle into it. While our tongues get acquainted, my hands maneuver their way under that sweater and begin their own examination. He giggles several times as I make mental note of each of his ticklish spots. He is covered in goosebumps as my fingers trail lightly up and down his spine and around to his stomach. More giggling.

I grab the bottom of his sweater and pull it free from his body. He tries to do the same to me, but I stop him. "It's my turn. I am considering a career in dermatology and I think I need to perform a full examination on every inch of your body to help me make up my mind."

Nate snorts, "Considering the position you were in a couple hours ago, I guess that's only fair."

I turn him around and the expanse of his back is beautiful. His spine, his shoulder blades, his ribs... The whole package. I kiss the back of his neck and he giggles again. I turn him back to facing me. Nate is also average height and weight, like me, but I think it works better on him. He has more definition in his pecs and arms than I see in the mirror, but then I remember how Nate drew me. He insists he's not enhancing my physique. He says he draws me as he sees me. How does he see himself? Right now that doesn't matter much. It's about how I see him.

Before I met Nate, I never thought a navel could be sexy. That was before that time he took his shirt off. Since that time, I've seen flashes and glimpses as he has stretched and reached for things around the room or as he has slipped into and out of his coat before and after class. I've been mesmerized every time. If he ever works out, he does not work his abs. In all honesty, he has no abs. But that's fine by me. He's perfect as is. Or, I guess he would say, Imperfectly perfect. His skin is smooth and taught over a thin layer of insulation that mounds slightly above his jeans. His belly button is a perfect round innie hole that goes just deep enough to want to explore without being scary. He has very little body hair, but the light treasure trail leading my eyes from that gorgeous navel tantalizingly disappears behind his jeans. And now I'm working the button and zipper.

His jeans are bunched at his ankles and I nudge him onto his bed and lie him down. His erection strains the seams of his underwear and it begs to point skyward. It will have to wait. The jeans won't come all the way off until I can get him out of his sneakers. I take a teasingly long time, playing with the laces and unwrapping each foot like a cherished gift. I remember how he carefully took care of me three nights ago right here on this bed. He placed my freezing feet on his burning hot chest and pumped his warmth into me. It was so tender and intimate of a gesture that I haven't stopped thinking about it every day since it happened. And my dick hardens every time.

With Nate's shoes, socks and jeans all finally off, he is completely naked and allowing himself to be at my mercy.

Nate-

I have never felt so vulnerable in my whole life. I am stripped bare and exposed. I regret every minute that I didn't spend in the gym, which is exactly that... every minute. But then I replay the speech I gave Cam earlier. That shit's not real. Besides, Cam is making soft grunts of approval. Those approvals are registering in my cock which is now throbbing and dripping in precum. He begins naming off the bones in my right foot and I laugh.

"That's gonna take all night!"

"Are we in a hurry?" he asks.

I guess we're not. He finishes my foot and gives my arch a sloppy kiss. I laugh again, but this time because his stubble tickles. He gives my other foot a brief but tender massage before working his way up my legs. He investigates every bone, muscle and tendon along the way, teasing, tickling and tantalizing me as he goes. When he finally makes it up to my pulsing and waiting penis, he skips it and lavishes kisses on my stomach. It's not easy for him to do because my protrusion is stabbing him in the neck. But I have no complaints. His tummy kisses are delightful.

He spends the next excruciating fifteen minutes tracing his fingertips along every rib bone, my inner arms, my arm pits, my neck, my pecs and my navel. And then he kisses me again for another five minutes. Even though he has yet to touch me where I most desperately ache to be touched, I feel like he's been edging me for an hour.

He looks at my pulsating and leaking cock and says, "No imperfections. Just perfection."

I can't blush because all spare blood in my body is otherwise occupied. Cam stands and pulls off his sweater. God, is he beautiful. He ditches his jeans and pulls down his boxer briefs. He is at full erection as well. I find his penis to be as perfect as he claims mine is, but at full erection, his size is not nearly as average as he claimed to be. I never really considered my own size, but I think we're pretty compatible. I spread my arms and he lets me envelop him.

Cam-

We are both naked and perfectly lined up from head to toe. I am on top. We are in each other's arms and pressed together. We are knee to knee, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, belly to belly, chest to chest, nose to nose and lips to lips. My fingers are entangled in his hair and his are running up and down my spine. My whole body hums with electricity. I am feeling a million sensations all at once.

Our cocks are lined up along each other's too. We begin to slide and glide up and down our respective and comparable lengths. Our tongues find each other again and our rhythm picks up. We have both been at peak horniness for over an hour now and I can only speak for myself, but I'm gonna blow soon.

We continue to rub and glide a few more strokes and Cam says, "Oh. I'm gonna cum."

He doesn't have to tell me twice. I reply, breathlessly, "Me too."

Within five more strokes, we make a wonderfully hot sticky mess between us. As our respective orgasms wind down, We stay pressed together and kiss a whole lot more. Eventually, I get up and tell him to lie still. The small sink in his room is put to good use as I wet two wash cloths and go to work on cleaning us both up, including draining the collected pools in our navels. For two skinny (but not scrawny) dudes, we made a pretty big mess. Then I take my time using a towel to dry him off. As I work the towel around his beautiful body, his dick begins to come back to life. I take it in my hand and it quickly firms up the rest of the way.

He says, "Have we progressed from anatomy to biology?"

I grin down at him, "Actually, I think we're into chemistry now."

He laughs. And then he stops laughing because his toes curl and his fists clench the bedsheets as I take all of my friend deep down my throat. It takes an enjoyable twenty minutes to drain him again, and this time, there is no mess to clean up.

He trades places with me. He grips my iron rod in his hand and squeezes, "This is one bone we haven't studied in class."

I snort, "This must be extra credit."

He takes in my full length and my eyes roll back into my head. Mr. Smythe gets my vote for teacher of the year. His study buddy system is brilliant.