The Perfect Pose

Be a good girl You gotta try a little harder
That simply wasn’t good enough
To make us proud ...
We’ll love you just the way you are
If you’re perfect

– Alanis Morrisette

Missy was notorious for holding a pose. She sometimes worked as an art class model. They liked her because she was good at it – arched back, hand on hip, legs extended, lips pouting. Perfection. Usually, wisps of fabric were draped off-kilter to expose a shoulder, a thigh, or a breast. But she preferred to be completely nude, if not for the class, then for herself, and often for me.

Missy had always been the quintessential girl gone wild. She’d done everything from wet T-shirt contests to going pantyless in restaurants. The only time I remembered making love with clothes on was at her parents’ house on Christmas Eve. The family gathering had disintegrated into a yelling match between Missy and her mom – Mrs. Taylor wasn’t too fond of Missy going braless at a family holiday. I on the other hand, enjoyed seeing Missy’s pert nipples through ecru lace. I made a point of whispering this thought to Missy when, thanks to intervening relatives, the subject changed. Missy beamed. So while Aunt Betty and Uncle Fred discussed the finer points of wattage and Christmas lights, Missy and I slipped into the back hallway and exchanged the gift of fluids.

Months later we received a more provocative gift. Missy had posed for one particular sculptor a couple of times at the university. The guy gained a local reputation, and as a thank you, gave Missy an Art Deco bronze that he had sculpted of her. It became the focal point of our apartment. The artist had captured Missy at her finest: nude and curvy with that distant look only models have and artists see. She insisted on a party.

At the unveiling, everyone huddled in the compact space of our living room. Missy wore a nude-colored catsuit that clung to her form like a layer of glaze. When the bronze was uncovered, a reverent hush fell over the crowd. The sculpture filled in the few blanks that the catsuit left to the imagination. In the moment of quiet, with her friends blushing and me drooling, Missy was radiant. And the dam of conversation burst.

“I could never pose nude!”

“How could you stay in that position for so long?”

“Sculpture is so much more flattering than paintings.”

“Is this recent?”

The party continued in much the same atmosphere – lingering glances at Missy and the bronze, buzzing questions about what it was like to be a nude model, and catty comments laced with genuine jealousy.

Afterward, Missy posed in front of the mirror that hung on our closet door. I lay in bed, with a sheet arranged over my inspired groin, and watched her.

“Am I fat?” she asked.

“Are you kidding?” But she wasn’t listening. She turned side to side, ran her hand up her long, lean legs and patted her heart-shaped bum.

“My ass is too fat.”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Her ass was stellar, no dimples of cellulite, just two plump mounds of perfection. With all that staring at herself in the mirror, how could she not see how gorgeous she was? And if there were any doubt, the sculpture proved it.

“Missy, you’re perfect! Just look!” I whipped back the sheet and let my cock pop free. “One look at you and I’m all revved up!”

It was like I wasn’t there. She tipped up on her toes a couple of times, watching her ass clench as she did, and then turned to go into the bathroom without so much as a nod. When she finally slipped into bed, her skin was clammy, her hair wet, and her breath had the stinging smell of mouthwash.

“What took you so long?”

“I just wanted to clean up a little,” she said.

“You don’t have to do that for me, baby. I like it when you work up a little sweat.” I reached over, ran my fingers through the beaded moisture along the underside of her breast and traced down to her navel. Missy shivered and squeaked out a little moan.

“Damn, Missy, I’ve been wanting to fuck you all night – ever since you uncovered the bronze.”

Missy’s belly tensed and she looked away. “You like it, don’t you?” she whispered.

“The statue? Sure, I like it. Everybody liked it. Didn’t you see their eyes bug out?”

She turned to look at me. “Why do you like it?”

“Huh? Isn’t it obvious?” I circled her belly button and slid my fingers down to her triangle of hair. “It’s perfect and it’s sexy, and it’s you.”

Her eyes glistened as she fidgeted with the blanket, arranging it to cover her groin and my hand. “I don’t think it’s me.”

“What?”

“Something somebody said at the party tonight made me think. I don’t remember posing in that position.”

“But it looks just like you.”

“The face, maybe.”

I tried to remember the exact details of the bronze. I hadn’t studied it closely, but as far as I could tell, the body seemed to be Missy’s. The proportions were right. “Come on, Miss. So the artist took a little liberty with your position, so what?”

“I don’t ever want to be so fat that they use somebody else’s body with my face.”

“What are you talking about, Missy? There’s not an ounce of fat on you, anywhere. You’re perfect, baby. Perfect mouth,” I kissed her lips. “Perfect nose,” I whispered and kissed the tip. “Perfect neck.” I nuzzled in the space above her collarbone. “Perfect everywhere ...”

“Do you really think I’m perfect?”

“Mostly,” I said as I rose up over her and shoved the blanket away. “But to be absolutely sure, I have to taste.”

I crawled down between her legs and rubbed my face in the soft, crinkly hair of her pussy. I pushed my nose between her lips, smelling her. I licked her, light little tongue- tip licks along the crease of her cunt.

I parted her with my fingers and gazed at her gathering dew. I slipped a finger up and down through her, smearing her lubrication all over, rubbing it in upwards, teasing along one side of her clit, up and down, slipping and pushing and rubbing, pressing against her clit with increasing pressure, watching it bob and bulge.

I held her wide open, her clitoris rigidly at attention, and I pressed my tongue softly against it. Teasing licks right on the top of its slick little head.

When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I gobbled her up, kissing and sucking and lapping, finally jabbing at her clit with my tongue, trapping it against the bone, thrashing it back and forth, her juices were everywhere, on my lips, in my mouth, on my chin. I grabbed hold of her hips as she writhed beneath me, my merciless tongue strumming her clitoris, slipping a finger inside her vagina and feeling the climbing tension in her muscles.

When she cried out, I felt the throb of her cunt.

And then, a few seconds later, after she caught her breath, I fucked her, perfectly.

A couple of weeks later, I noticed Missy had moved the sculpture. Instead of front and center, it rested along the back wall. When I asked her about it, she just shrugged.

“I’m tired of looking at it,” she said.

“Not me! I could look at this all night long.” I ran my hand over the bronze and tapped my fingers suggestively in the vee of its open legs.

“Yes, I’m aware that IT doesn’t have any flaws,” she said blinking back tears.

“Oh, c’mon Miss ...” I waggled my eyebrows and tapped into a Marvin Gaye memory. “Ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby!”

Missy didn’t smile.

I strutted across the room, grabbed her around the waist, and carried her to the bed. She’d been moping around the apartment for two weeks, not going anywhere, not talking to anyone, and wearing god-awful sweat suits during the day and flannel gowns at night. Even now she had on a combination – plaid, flannel gown over gray sweatpants.

I pointed to her outfit. “What gives, Missy?”

“I’m cold.”

“I’ve got something to warm you up,” I said. Cheesy line, but we hadn’t made love since the night of the party, so I didn’t mind using it.

“Uh-uh. I’m fat.”

A bell should have rung in my head, warning me to tread carefully, but instead, I plowed ahead without thinking. “Well hell, Missy, anyone would look fat in that get-up.”

She pushed me away and stomped off to the bathroom.

I waited in bed, practicing my apologies, but Missy never came out. I should have seen it coming. The signs were there- -she’d stopped eating and was spending more and more time in the bathroom. I let myself believe she would be fine if I just gave her time. After half an hour or so, I had a feeling of rising dread. The ticks on the clock got louder, the shadows from the window got darker, and the running water from the bathroom never stopped.

“Hey, Missy, I’m sorry,” I yelled. But my voice just echoed in the room and faded into Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Check. Her. Check. Her.

I ran to the door, “Missy? Missy, answer me!”

There was no answer.

I knocked. Still no answer.

I turned the doorknob, my sweaty palm nearly sliding off. The door wasn’t locked. I slowly opened it. Missy’s layers of clothing were puddled on the floor. It’d been two weeks since I’d seen her nude. Her curves were a little flatter, her skin a little paler. Her slender arms were wrapped around the toilet. Drool matted her hair. She was shivering. Teeth chattering. Red-rimmed eyes glanced up at me.

“T-The art class said they can’t use me anymore,” she whispered.