Teddy Bare Pt. 01

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A young man poses for a local artist - his former teacher!
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Author's note -- well, here's a new story for you all to enjoy while I finish the final chapter of my other story, Two Thousand and Ten. Yes, it is coming! As you can see from the title it is the first part, and I hope for there to be at least one or possibly two parts after that.

As always, all characters are over eighteen years of age, and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintentional. I choose character names totally at random -- so there!

So, on to the story!
Enjoy!

*

Life has a habit of not turning out the way you'd envisaged - we all have childhood ambitions to fulfil, aspirations to achieve, hopes and dreams, fears and nightmares - they're all just perfectly normal aspects of the human condition. When I was a kid I'd always dreamed of becoming an architect. While other boys in my school saw football players and rock stars as their heroes, my heroes were famous architects such as Sir Norman Foster, Renzo Piano and Richard Rogers. But in the end it turned out that my life would ultimately go down a very different path. But am I disappointed by the way my life has gone and how my childhood ambition became left behind? Not a bit of it! I love my life, as unorthodox as it is, and if you can spare the time, dear reader, allow me to tell you the story of how I came to be where I am today.

My name is Edward Streatley, though pretty much everyone who knows me calls me Teddy. I'm forty two years of age as I write this and I live on the Atlantic coast of France with my partner, Isobel, a talented artist I'd met through a friend of a friend of my mother. Together, we run a naturist beach resort a few miles up the coast from La Rochelle - a far cry from my original career goal. It's with that friend of my mother that my story really begins when I had just turned eighteen. At that point in my life I had but one immediate goal that even outranked becoming an architect - I desperately, and I mean, desperately, wanted a motorbike.

"I thought you wanted a car?" my mother asked me at the small table in the kitchen where we ate most of our meals.

I was her only child, and for reasons that I will explain later, she and my dad divorced soon after I was born. He did something that she vehemently disagreed with - something that involved me. But I shall come to that later.

"Well, yes," I responded as I poured a little gravy over the roast chicken with potatoes, carrots and broccoli mum had spent the last hour or so lovingly preparing. "But a bike would be so much cooler! Plus, I wouldn't have to worry so much about parking at college - they have a motorcycle parking area right near the students union, and there's always plenty of space there."

"And you're absolutely certain about it?" mum asked me.

"Definitely!" I confirmed.

"You'll need to take lessons," she cautioned. "Not to mention taking, and passing, several tests."

"I had thought of that, you know," I responded a little huffily.

"I know, I was just saying, that's all," Mum answered back.

A short pause of silent contemplation followed before my mother went on.

"Okay, well if you're absolutely serious about it and have your heart set on it, then yes, I'll let you have a motorbike. I'll even pay for your lessons and your CBT test, as long as you don't let your studies slip. But as for actually buying a motorbike, you'll have to take care of that yourself."

So, that was how it all began - a simple and rather short conversation about personal mobility that took me down a road, both literally and metaphorically, that I never anticipated going down.

To cut a long story short, because I know how much you'd rather I get to the juicy parts of my tale, I had to take a job to help pay for the motorbike I'd set my heart on. I was fairly realistic in my aspirations for motorcycle ownership - due to the laws in Britain I would be restricted to a modestly powered motorbike for at least two years after passing my test, and of course there was also the matter of insurance to take into consideration. So I'd ended up doing something that many students did to make ends meet - I got a job stacking shelves in a local supermarket. As I'm sure you can imagine, dear reader, it wasn't the most fulfilling of occupations, neither enjoyably or financially, but it was a start. One thing soon became apparent however - at the rate I was earning, I would have graduated before getting my hands on that motorbike. So I logically asked my mother if she had any suggestions as to how I might speed things up a bit.

"Well, a second job would be the logical thing to do," she pondered aloud. "But of course that'd interfere with your studies, so that wouldn't help matters very much."

"It'd be best if it was something at weekends, or maybe just one or two evenings a week," I added. "Trouble is, I'm at a loss as to what that might be, other than working in a pub or something, and I've already gone down that road and drawn a blank - I'm not the only student in town that needs gainful employment."

"Hmm, well I might have one idea that might suit, but I'd need to look into it for you, if you'd be up for it of course," mum replied.

"Of course I'd be up for it! I'd literally do anything to be able to buy that motorbike!" I asserted.

I'd literally do anything - famous last words if ever there were!

"Can I quote you on that?" Mum asked me, with a raised eyebrow.

"Definitely!" I responded clearly.

* * * * * *

A few days later, as we sat and ate dinner together, Mum announced that she'd come up with something.

"You remember my friend Natalie, don't you? Natalie Fitzworthy?" she asked me.

"Of course I remember her," I replied. "She was my old geography teacher at school."

"Yes, well she's retired from teaching now - apparently dealing with all you ingrates made her decide to reassess her life and she became an artist instead," Mum explained.

"She lives on that old sailing barge, right? Down by the river on the town quay?" I ventured.

"She converted part of it into her studio," Mum confirmed. "Anyway, remember you told me you'd do anything to earn enough to get a motorbike? And that I could quote you on that?"

"Yes, that's what I said," I replied.

"Well, she says she's on the lookout for someone to model for her, and so I put your name forward," my mother said levelly.

"Posing for an artist?" I scoffed, a little derisively through nothing more than force of habit.

"You said you'd do anything," Mum responded calmly. "So prove it. I arranged a meeting with her - you are to meet at her place at six-thirty tomorrow evening."

"Okay," I capitulated with a sigh. "I did say I'd do anything, and you raised me to be a man of my words. So yes, I'll go and meet her at least. I can't promise I'll agree to pose for her though."

So the following evening after dinner, Mum drove me the short distance into town to meet with her friend, and my ex-teacher. The old Thames sailing barge Maggie Bray, presumably named after its original captain's sweetheart, was permanently moored alongside the town quay a little way downstream from the medieval bridge that crossed the river and marked its limit of navigation. It was such a familiar feature of the little market town of Stanmere deep in the heart of the Essex countryside, that a silhouette of it even featured on the town council's logo. It was no secret in the town that it had long ago been converted into residential accommodation when the vessel had outlived its usefulness as a method of conveying cargo in and around the coastal waters of the Thames estuary. When Mum's friend bought it, she had converted two of its three bedrooms that occupied half of its commodious hold into a single large studio space. The remaining space in the former cargo hold was ample enough to allow a single person or a couple to live in reasonable comfort. At the stern was a bedroom in what had once been the captain's quarters, and next to that was an en-suite bathroom. Situated amidships, in the old cargo hold, was a large open plan living/kitchen/dining area. There were no windows, not even any portholes, but the room was flooded with natural light from two large skylights above.

"Carrie! Thank you for coming!" Natalie said as she welcomed Mum aboard.

They hugged each other briefly in that way women are wont to do, before she turned her attention to me.

"And Edward - I remember you!" she said with a welcoming smile as she took my hand and helped me down onto the deck of the barge.

"Hi, Mrs. Fitzworthy" I replied politely but a little nervously. "Er, call me Teddy - everybody else does."

"Teddy," Natalie said with a smile. "I like that - it's cute, it really suits you. Oh, and call me Natalie - I'm not your teacher anymore."

She invited us down below into the main living area and sat us down in one of two comfortable leather settees that sat opposite each other separated by a glass topped coffee table. She stepped over to the kitchen area, and a couple of minutes later she returned with a tray, upon which were three cups and a cafetière of freshly brewed coffee.

"So, Teddy, your mum tells me you're interested in modelling for me," Natalie said as she pressed the plunger down and then poured a cup of coffee which she then proffered to me.

"Er, yes, Mrs... er, I mean, yes, Natalie," I replied, not used to addressing my former geography teacher so informally. "I'm saving up to get a motorbike."

"Boys and their toys!" Mum said with a light chuckle as she took the cup of coffee Natalie handed her.

"I see," Natalie said as she poured a cup for herself.

"I need it to get to and from university in Colchester," I said after taking a sip of coffee.

"Oh yeah? What are you studying?" Natalie asked.

"Architecture and mathematics," I responded to her query. "I'd like to become an architect."

"Well, that's a worthwhile career for a young man like you," Natalie said warmly. "I always thought you'd go down that road, judging by all the doodles of buildings in your exercise books!"

"I was that obvious, was I?" I responded.

"A good teacher notices such things!" Natalie chuckled. "So, anyway, to the reason you're here - have you ever modelled before?"

"Er, no," I replied. "To be honest I've never actually thought about it until Mum mentioned you were after someone to model for you. But I'm keen to give it a go."

"Well, enthusiasm - that's a good sign!" Natalie smiled. "How would you feel? Being a part of an artistic process?"

"Hmm," I pondered briefly over my response. "I guess it would be enjoyable, and possibly a little daunting at the same time."

"Daunting? How?" Natalie asked.

"Well, I guess daunting in that I would be getting to see how someone else sees me," I replied.

"Well, I can definitely assure you that you'll be seeing yourself as I see you!" Natalie responded. "But I try to depict the subject as objectively and honestly as I can. Is there anything you'd like to ask me?"

"Er, yes, what kind of work do you normally do?" I asked her.

"Portraits mainly," she responded after taking a sip of coffee. "Oil on canvas is my preferred medium, so it's a little labour intensive. The portrait work pays the bills, but I've recently been branching out into more original works, which is where you would come in. Ultimately, I'd like to put together a collection of works for a gallery exhibition. I have a friend down in London who runs a small gallery, and she's keen to host some of my work. If you agree to pose for me we'll start off with just a single painting to begin with, but if it goes well I'd like to take it further and create a collection of at least five paintings of you."

"Well, that all sounds, er, interesting," I said. "How much would I be paid, and how long would it take?"

"He doesn't waste time getting to the money question, does he?" Natalie chuckled at my mother. "Well, to answer your question, I would be willing to pay you ten pounds per hour for the first painting, and if it goes well I shall pay you fifteen pounds an hour for any further works. I anticipate that each painting would take at least five sittings of about two hours, so as they say in America, you do the math."

I did, and the sum of a hundred pounds popped into my head. Now, back in 1994 when all this took place, a hundred quid was a not inconsiderable sum for just ten hours work which basically consisted, in my mind at least, of little more than sitting still for a bit. Compared to the rather paltry two pounds an hour I was getting at my supermarket job for what was much more physical work. I pretty much decided there and then to take up any offer Natalie made me.

"So, I guess we'd better get you into the studio and take a look at what we have to work with," Natalie said as she drank the last of her coffee.

She stood and beckoned me to follow her. Mum stayed where she was as Natalie took me by the hand and guided me towards the door situated to one side of the barge's mast, that led into the bow section where the studio was located. Just like the living area there were no windows, but the room was lit from above by several skylights. Peering up one of them, the craft's main mast towered above us. The room was filled with canvases of varying sizes, and sketches and works in progress littered the room in a rather haphazard manner. Dominating the room was a large easel, beside which was a work table covered in tubes of paint in a wide spectrum of colours, along with what looked like hundreds of brushes, charcoals and many other sundry art supplies. Roughly opposite it stood a low dais, upon which a chaise longue sat, covered in a number of vibrantly coloured throws.

"Welcome to my creative inner sanctum," Natalie said as she closed the door behind us.

"It's er, very nice," I remarked politely as I looked around.

"Well, it may look a little chaotic," she said as she tidied away some half finished paintings that were causing an obstruction beside the easel. "But it's organised chaos, I can assure you!"

"That's okay, er, Natalie," I replied as I looked around. "I think it's quite charming."

"Thank you," she responded to my compliment. "Now then, if you'd just like to get undressed and pop your clothes on the stool there, we'll take a good look at you."

"Righty-ho," I said brightly. "Er, hang on a second, did you just say you wanted me to take my clothes off?"

"Yep, that's right," Natalie said as if it was the most normal thing in the world for a woman in her mid forties to ask a young eighteen year old man to do. "Did your mother not tell you? That I require a model for nude posing?"

"No, she bloody well didn't!" I responded gruffly.

"Oh, well in that case I'm sorry," Natalie said, clearly disheartened. "We'd best forget about it then."

Suddenly, my conversation with my mother the previous evening echoed in my head.

"You said you'd do anything - so prove it."

"Okay, I did say I'd do anything, and you raised me to be a man of my words."

I sighed deeply - I said I'd do anything, and here I was in just that kind of situation. I wasn't about to allow Mum an opportunity to say "I knew you'd wimp out of it!" however embarrassing it might be.

Natalie clearly saw that I was struggling, so she made a suggestion.

"You can keep your underwear on if that would help," she said to me. "At least for this occasion."

I spent a moment weighing it up in my mind - my former geography teacher was asking me to take off my clothes and let her see my (almost) naked body. It certainly was an odd situation to find myself in - in hindsight, I should have worked it out that modelling for an artist might involve me having to pose nude, but at the time I'd been blinded by the possibility of earning easy money to go towards my motorbike. I felt like a bit of an idiot for not working it out before entering the studio.

"I can keep my pants on?" I asked her for confirmation.

"On this occasion, yes," she replied, sounding a little hopeful that I would agree. "I mean, if you agree to pose for me, which I hope you will, you'll have to be totally nude, but all I need to see right now is your overall build and musculature."

I paused for a moment before coming to a final decision.

"Alright," I said with a sigh. "I'll do it."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Natalie said, with barely concealed excitement.

I took my jacket off and draped it over the stool by the wall. I then took off my sweater, closely followed by my t-shirt. I sat for a moment to take my shoes and socks off, before standing once more to take my jeans off. It only took less than a minute, but there I was, stood before my former geography teacher with nothing more than my underpants to conceal my modesty.

You know when mothers lecture you about always wearing clean underwear in case you're involved in an accident or some other unexpected turn of events that might cause someone to see you in your underwear? Well, my mum was one such example of maternal concern for the cleanliness of her offspring's undergarments, and like the good son that I was I always heeded her words. That morning, as with every morning, I'd dutifully pulled on a clean pair of pants from my underwear drawer. However, if I'd have known I'd be getting undressed in the company of another person, I would most definitely have chosen a different pair that day.

They were white briefs, nothing unusual about that I can hear you say, but it was what was on them that was a little embarrassing. Right on the front, on the part that is cut and shaped to accommodate and provide support to the male appendages that are concealed within, was a picture of a famous grey furred cartoon rabbit munching on a carrot and leaning against large red letters that spelled out his famous catchphrase.

"Ooh! I love your pants!" Natalie sniggered as she caught sight of them.

"Heh! Er, yeah they er, ahem, my mum bought them," I replied, feeling the colour rise in my cheeks.

It was a total lie - I'd bought them for myself the previous summer. Why would a grown man buy underwear emblazoned with cartoon characters, I hear you ask? Well, I guess it was because part of me at that age still wanted to cling on to my childhood. And if you ask my partner today, she'll tell you I'm still a big kid at heart (I still have several pairs of cartoon character underpants!)

"Well I think they look really nice!" Natalie went on. "Now, come over and stand on the platform for me."

I did as she requested and mounted the low dais opposite the easel. I stood there in my underwear as she appraised my physical form - I could clearly see her making mental notes about me and my body.

"Turn through ninety degrees for me, please," she instructed.

Once again I complied with her request and turned so that she could have a side on view of me.

"Hmm, very nice. And again, please," she instructed once more.

I turned so that I was facing away from her, giving her a full view of my back.

"And once more, please," she instructed for a final time.

I turned through ninety degrees for a third time, allowing her to see my other flank. The whole thing had only taken a minute or so, but it felt a lot longer.

"Okay, that's fine - you can go and put your clothes back on now," she announced.

Even though I hadn't been completely naked, I felt a huge sense of relief to be getting dressed. But at the same time I felt something truly odd - disappointment that it had been over so quickly. Quite where that had come from I had no idea - to this day I still can't explain it. It was as though one half of me had felt mortally ashamed, for reasons that will become apparent later, whilst the other half had revelled in it. One thing I was sure of though, was that the dichotomy of emotions felt truly intoxicating, and I wanted to feel it again.