Davidè died on June 15, 2018. He was 35. I think the saddest
part of death is that the deceased is locked at that age, with that history,
forever. In Davidè’s case his entire disgusting history, including the months
preceding his death, is freely available to anyone with the internet and the
right search terms (you can save yourself the effort and visit www.fitfulfires.com).
Davidè’s unlocked laptop was still logged in to his blogger dashboard and,
after posting the final update to his twelve readers, I had a little snoop.
In Davidè’s drafts was the following sordid little gem. I do
not post it out of disrespect, but for context. I’m trying to tell his story
here, and the story cannot be told without what succeeds. It is also, to my
knowledge, completely true. I present it verbatim below:
--
I used to do life
modelling for the Adelaide Art Society back in 2013. I didn’t need the money,
but I was living in Adelaide in a long distance relationship and I needed more
than my monthly visits with the love of my life to keep me going. It turned out
posing naked in front of strangers was what I needed. I’ll spare you my
reasoning and cut to the chase.
My modelling
‘induction’ was exhilerating. It was a volunteer-run workshop of three
40-50-year-old women, all who had been modelling nude for years. The workshop
was pretty relaxed, they served wine, introduced us to common poses, model
etiquette, safety, etc., before culminating with everybody stripping and
getting comfortable being naked in front of strangers. They said I was a
natural. I was put on the roster.
My first gig came as a
surprise about three weeks later with a rushed text message asking if I was
free to fill in for a last-minute cancellation. I flushed all over, checked my
calendar, and gave an immediate ‘yes’. They sent the address, I grabbed a
towel, and got in the car.
I arrived right on
time, soaked in sweat and sick with nerves. I hadn’t showered. I hadn’t had
time to masturbate. All of the horrible things that could go wrong flashed
through my mind on the drive there: body odour. Body hair. A pervasive hard-on
that would have me mocked and frog-marched out the door? I was so choked up I
could hardly greet the very nice instructor, and found myself suddenly in a
change room.
All I could remember
when getting naked was how tiny my dick looked. It was like a little nub, not
hanging but poking grotesquely out of my forest of pubic hair. I tried to give
it some panic-strokes to get it bigger, but it just swelled with blood but
remained the same fucking size, like a bulging doorknob shamefully peeking from
my crotch. I choked down a gulp, secured the towel over my waist, and walked
into the art space.
Assembled were eight
women and three men, ranging in age from early-20s to mid-60s. They were
setting up behind a variety of drawing mediums, and nobody really paid me any
attention. I stood awkwardly in front of a laminex tabletop when the instructor
came over to discuss poses, and told me I’d be going through a series of short
1-2 minute poses to ‘warm up’ the artists, then a longer, 20-minute pose on the
tabletop. She then gestured for me to disrobe, folded her arms, and took her
place behind the artists.
I untied the towel
and, like clockwork, went through a series of poses I was taught in the initial
workshop. I had never been so aware of my body as I had during those first two
minutes. Was my cock at a weird angle? Was it still tiny? Were my balls
hanging? Could they see my asshole if I turned my back to the group? When I
think back all I could really hear was the sound of intense scribbling, but my
self consciousness only allowed focus on myself.
Eventually the
instructor called my posing to a halt, and nodded at the table. I was to be in
what’s known as ‘supine hero(ine)’, which was made modern-day famous by Sophie
Dahl in her controversial ‘Opium’ advertisement for YvesSaintLaurent (google
it). And Sophie Dahl was what kept creeping into my mind as I arched my back,
feeling my muscles tighten. The instructor asked for my legs to be splayed
more. I obeyed. My balls shifted. My cock flopped, and I felt it’s full girth
roll down my stomach and point wanly at the artists. I clenched my teeth as I
tried desperately to stop the erection, praying for it to revert to its tiny
nub form. I ended up grunting as piled bodies, old men, dead dogs, flashed
deliberately through my mind. Before I knew it the instructor called for a
break. Twenty minutes had passed in an instant. I was dumbstruck.
I was also desperate
to urinate, but I didn’t want drops of hot piss hanging off my knob during the
second session. So I put the towel back on and sat on the table, suddenly
aching all over. The instructor came over to me, rested her wrinkled hand on my
towelled thigh, and softly started talking. The conversation went something
like this:
Her: “So…what’s on
your mind? You look tortured up there”
Me: “I did?”
Her: “Your face was
twisted. You kept grunting. What’s wrong?”
Me: “Oh nothing, this
is my first time. I’m just nervous?”
Her: “No you seemed
fine at the start. What are you thinking about?”
Me: “Honestly I’m just
trying to be…professional. I didn’t realise I was grunting”
Her: “Yes, well. We’re
here to draw the human body, no matter how it presents. Please just let
yourself be. Free yourself. You’ll be great”
With that she gave me
an awkward side-hug, plopped off the table, and called the class, and me, back
to our positions.
I lay back on the
table, naked, and tried to resume the same position from before. My bladder was
straining and my joints protested, but the first session went so fast I figured
I could endure it.
“I need those legs
spread wider, please” came the instructors throaty command. I obeyed. My cock
lolled lazily back to it’s position in my pelvic fold, and I felt it swell.
Immediately I gritted my teeth and thought of my grandmother on the toilet, and
sighed as it receded ever so slightly.
“Wider, please”, came
the voice. “We’re trying to carry on from before the break. Those legs are too
closed”. I looked skyward and spread them wider, feeling a breeze on my
ballsack and a squeeze on my cock as my thigh lightly trapped it against my
groin.
“And” the voice
continued, “these people are paying good money to be here. And I am in turn
paying you. Stop that twitching”
With that my face
flushed red. My cock swelled as my balls tightened, and I felt it stagger
slowly across my stomach into the biggest, most ridiculous erection I’ve ever
had. I was splayed naked and erect in front of these people, and I burned with
shame and arousal.
I heard a snicker. A
tsk. My cock bobbed up and down as I imagined myself splayed like this in front
of the audience. I imagined being photographed like this. I imagined the old
instructor dragging her nails down the underside of my shaft in front of all
these people. My cock slapped up and down on its own then burst, flowing ropes
of burning jizz into my navel and down my stomach. Shame washed over me. I was
disgusted with myself. I heard artists packing up. I lay there with my eyes
closed.
I don’t remem
--
And that’s as far as he got. He used to tell this story
after a few drinks, but always with more bravado and less detail. He told me
quite soon after it happened, in fact.
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