His Muse

Stare all you want, you piggy-eyed man. After all, you’ve paid me for the privilege. Not enough to keep me off the streets, though, to end my days of living hand to mouth.

The room is cold, the chair hard on my exposed rump. Gooseflesh pimples my naked skin.

“Keep still,” you command.

I blink and then stare back at you trying not to see you or your hands as they trace the outline of my girlish breasts in the air. You lick your lips and return to your drawing. I hold perfectly still, as an artist’s muse should.