ENTRY FOR THE CURVACEOUS AND BODACIOUS BOMBSHELL FIC CONTEST

Story Name: A Statue of Aphrodite

Penname: BecauseSheCan

Rating: M

Genre: General

Pairing: Bella/Rose

Total Word Count: 3,398

Summary: *Entry to the Curvaceous and Bodacious Contest* When Bella poses for an art class she remembers the one art class that forced her to redefine what beauty is and sent her down the path that taught her to love her body the way it is.

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

It's cold.

Freezing.

Thank god I have my midnight blue blanket. If only I was able to wrap it around myself instead of laying on it.

There is no pillow. I should have remembered that. I was running late this morning. Thank god I dried my hair.

Paper shuffles, footsteps running, breathing, heavy, soft, whispers.

Professor Masen looks around. A hushed silence begins and I disrobe.

The timer beeps.

"Students you have 40 minutes."'

*.~*~.*

The first time I ever saw a nude woman besides myself I was thirteen years old. It was a Monday. Mom had decided the previous Friday that she was meant to be the next Picasso and every second she spent sitting on the couch was a moment wasted. She immediately looked up the closest life drawing class and made plans to go. I was dragged along of course. I was always dragged along. And who knew? Maybe I did have some untapped potential.

When I first walked into the cold, bare, sterile looking class I held my breath. I was expecting to see the apathetic, black clad, beanie wearing seniors that sat at the back of the cafeteria. I expected to see a group of people as vibrant and colorful as my mother Renee, enthusiastic and bright eyed. Instead there were two gentle looking older men, one lady with powder blue hair and a hearing aid and a couple that sat next to but not facing each other I figured this was some sort of last ditch bonding activity before divorce. At the opposite end of the room there were three kids, college aged but thankfully not of the stereotypical hipster variety.

Mom and I found some place in the middle, unpacking our newsprint pads and charcoal sticks. I kept two pencils in front of me and a sharpener by my side just in case. In typical fashion mom made sure everything was in arms reach, resulting in some sort of ordered chaos that only she could understand.

As we unpacked a woman walked into the room, her pearl colored silk robe was loosely knotted, and showed a rather liberal expanse of skin; certainly more than I was used to seeing in a public setting. She walked to the older men with her hips swinging and her large butt jutting out proudly. They talked, her hands making quick motions, reaching out touching them, they moved closer, drawn in like I was to this, well, far, woman's magnetic appeal. She laughed like thunder and soon enough the two men were helping unpack her bags. Within moments the platform was transformed into a stage. Colorful throws were draped and folded, a chair and settee arranged just so, with three lights that they focused. I was in awe, feeling as if I had caught a glimpse of what goes on behind the cameras at film sets.

Soon enough they were done the men went back to the seats and the lady with the blue hair announced herself. "Hello, my name is Kate. We will be doing the normal tonight: ten one minute poses, six five minute poses, two ten minute poses, and three twenty minute poses. We will have one break where I will collect the money in the middle." She stopped and looked at the woman in the robe, who was finger combing her silvery blonder hair that she had just let down. "Irina are you ready?""

Irina nodded and took off her robe. Not in a flashy way, or a sexy way, she simply took off her robe and posed. The click of the timer went off and every stared at her just as I did. After a second or so the room became filled with the sounds of scratches and some older ballad I didn't recognize. Mom was able to split the time between the model and her paper, drawing furiously, no doubt the one minute time limit stuck in her mind.

I didn't draw anything.

I couldn't.

All I could do was stare. Her body was facing me. Her head thrown back, her back bent as if she was suspended mid fall. One arm hung loosely at her side the other was reaching behind her as if to catch herself if she would fall. Her stomach was stretched taut but by no means flat, her legs firmly planted. She was completely different from anything that I had ever considered beautiful. Alice, my best friend was beautiful with her small delicate features, big round eyes and body shaped by years of ballet to be graceful and strong in every way. My mother was beautiful, soft and thin as any model on the runway. And on occasion I was beautiful, or at least my face was when the sun hit me the right way, or some guy smiled at me. My curves were not soft; they did not gently directing the motion of the eye. They were grand and exaggerated, demanding attention making the eye confused and unsure where to look. I had too much of everything, fat especially.

Yet, here in front of me was something I had been led to believe, I am not sure by who, was the farthest possible thing from beauty. She didn't disguise herself at all. Her stomach looked soft and pillowy, her hips were round and full, her thighs looked thick, strong. She wasn't thin by any means, she didn't have zero body hair, she had stretch marks and cellulite and yet there she stood. Proud. Beautiful.

The buzzer went off and Irina changed positions. She folded her arms and stretched her legs and turned away from me thankfully. Mom looked down at my blank page. "Bella, you need to draw. No need to be shy." She said then bent her head to scold me softly, "it's rude to stare."

*.~*~.*

I'm staring now.

She came in late and sat directly in front of me.

Her hair is the color of honey. Her lips, two perfect kissable rubies.

She looks me in the eye. I smile slowly before I hear a grown from another student.

Be a statue I remind myself.

She smirks.

I watch her as she draws me. Her eyes comb over every inch of my body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

I thank god for the cold drafty room that disguises my reaction to her. Cold, clinical, awkward, that is how these sessions are supposed to be.

She keeps her stare constant knowing I can't look away. For a moment I believe I can see her thoughts, images of us, twisted in this blanket. She is the very devil. Never have I been so excited posing before, at home session's; maybe. Now, I must repeat the word statue in my head so my thighs don't clench together. Nothing worse than a squirmy model.

A blush blooms on her face. Her eyes are on my left breast. I can feel them there as if her stare is as physical as a lovers kiss. Her mouth puckers, it is just too much. Quickly I close my eyes for a moment, willing myself to be any place but there.

*.~*~.*

The timer went off and Irina changed position. She was reclined; eyes closed one knee bent, one stretched long.

Unsure of myself I picked up the charcoal. I drew one line after another all light, small hesitant strokes. That resulted in a furry ball in the middle of the page. The timer buzzed and she changed position again. This time I took longer strokes, trying to capture just her silhouette. The timer buzzed again, and again and again. I was diligent in my attempt to draw her, but everything that appeared on the page before me had no resemblance to the woman in front of me. I made her skinny. I made her fat. Too tall. Too short.

After the last five minute pose, there was a ten minute break. Mom went to pay the lady and gave me five dollars to get two drinks from the vending machine out the hall. I walked slowly out the room trying to get a glimpse of the others sketches. I was floored. We all sat in the same room with the same woman and yet we each took her body and transformed it the way we had seen her: sometimes skinner, sometimes thinner, sometimes analytical, and sometimes sexy. It was freeing seeing all the different interpretations of her. I wondered for a second how they would see me. The thought passed quickly and I rushed out to get the drinks before the longer section of the night.

As I was rushing back, two ice cold Pepsis in each hand, not looking where I was going at all I ran into Irina. I fell to my knees, one Pepsi still in my hand the other sliding down the long hallway. "I am so sorry." I apologized quickly, taking the arm she reached out to me. As her hand grasped mine her robe fell open. I looked away quickly; believing nudity was different outside the classroom. I could feel my face burning as I flushed.

"No need to look away darling. How are you going to draw what you can't see?" She drawled. Her voice was low and throaty as if she had been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day since she was born.

Her words struck me. I looked up surprised. "Doesn't it embarrass you?"

She looked at me and pretended to think about it for a moment before she shook her head. "Why should it embarrass me? It's who I am; I could change it, diet, and surgery whatever have you. But until I make those decisions and I don't think I will, this is who I am and I kind of like being me."

I nodded and she walked away. As I ran to grab the other soda I wondered if I would ever have this woman's confidence. I was already comparing myself to every other girl in the gym room. Itemizing every feature and comparing it to me own. I followed her back in and watched as she once again disrobed. The room went silent. The timer beeped and another crooner sung songs about heartbreak while I tried to find a way around my brain so my eyes could directly transmit what I was seeing to my hand without thinking too much.

*.~*~.*

The timer buzzes. Ten minute break the professor states.

I pull on my robe and stretch so that I can feel each and every single vertebra. I walk out glancing at the students depictions of myself. I am not an artist, but I catch a simple mistake here and there. This is the best part of modeling, seeing the art as it happens, watching their talent grown. Then I reach hers. It isn't Picasso, or Rembrandt, but it shouldn't be she has a talent all her own. My breath catches as I soak in every line she has drawn; right there on the page is me and I am beautiful.

My stiff muscles ache as I wait for her to return and I leave for the woman's restroom to take care of more practical matters knowing I will see her soon.

As I finish up the sweet tangy scent of tobacco fills the room. I wonder if I have enough time for a cigarette break. Exiting the stall I wash my hands knowing I only have to look up and be met with blue eyes and ruby red lips.

"Hi". I say and smile conscious of the fact that all I am wearing is my black silk robe Alice presented me with the day I booked my first session. I finger the belt, unsure if I want to cinch it tighter or loosen it completely. Her eyes travel down the exposed skin, from face to neck, to the valley between my breasts down to where my hand fidgets with the knot back up to my face. Her golden hair sways as her head moves and the smell of smoke pulls me closer to her.

"Do you have a spare cigarette?" I ask.

She reaches into her bag and hands me a single cigarette. I'm about to ask for a light but she steps closer; close enough to feel her warmth breath on my face. I resist the urge to close my eyes, to turn my face ever so slightly. Her eyes, as blue as a cloudless summer sky look directly into mine and she tucks the cigarette behind my ear. "We don't have enough time." She says. Her voice is deep and strong with just enough roughness to make my knees shake. "But maybe we have enough time for this."

Her nose traces the curve of my neck and she places the smallest kiss on my collar bone. She looks back up asking permission. I nod. Her lips press against mine. Once. Twice. Testing. Tasting. Soft. Exquisite. I need more. I pull her lower lips between my teeth. Her hand grabs my ass pulling me against her. My robe hikes up and her hands are on my bare skin.

My hands are in her hair.

She tastes like tobacco and coffee, sweet, bitter, strong, hypnotizing.

My robe is open. I don't know when that happened. She looks at me. Just looks, while she stands there fully clothed. I want to squirm, or pull her closer, but she has already seen me. I know the swell of my stomach, the flare of my hips and the curve of my breasts is beautiful to her. She reaches forward touching me with just her fingertips, teasing, slowly. When I can't take it anymore I put her hand on my breast.

"Break times up." A voice calls through the hallway.

"Shit." She pulls away and walks back to the class. I splash water on my face and look in the mirror. My cheeks are flush. Please blood go back where you belong. I see the cigarette above my ear and wish I had time. Tying the robe for some attempt at modesty I walk back, ready for another hour.

*.~*~.*

Mom and I only went back to the class one more time. Irina wasn't there. This time it was a man named Laurent. He was all hard lines and striking features. There was no smoothness, no imperfections, and no flaws. I diligently worked on drawing him but it was no use, everything about him seemed too cold, and too hard. Mom and some of the other ladies might have drooled a bit. I wondered what was wrong with me that I didn't. By all means I should be drooling at the sight of this model, a young man, modeling to supplement the income he made from being a personal trainer. (Mom informed me of all this in the car ride home, she and two ladies had chatted him up during the short break.) Instead I missed the sagging overweight middle aged woman. I missed that part of me that I connected to. I wanted to see her and her acceptance of flaws, not her attempt to erase them.

As hard as I tried for three hours I couldn't get one decent sketch of him. He stood on the platform, cocky, knowing he had nothing to be ashamed of. There was no room left for the artist. There was nothing brave about this. Nothing vulnerable. By the end of the night I hated him. I hated him because this was all wrong. It's not supposed to be like this I thought as I ripped the paper after furiously digging line after line into the paper. Tears formed in my eyes. Seeing Irina there made me feel like it was all okay. Seeing him just seemed to confirm that this is what people wanted. Not me, but that. Perfection. As if that ever existed.

Mom and I never went back after that. She lost interest and I decided I wasn't skilled. Still it never stopped me from searching for confidence that elusive beauty, the mixture of strength and vulnerability I found in Irina. That she showed me I had in myself.

*.~*~.*

There are five minutes left. My gaze has not left her face in all this time. She is fascinating, beautiful, and oh god do I want her between my legs. Her face is an open map of concentration, adoration, embarrassment and arousal. The desire is tangible, can the others in the room see the way I look at her. The way she looks at me? How I shiver every time her gaze travels to my breast, the meeting place between my thighs. Are they annoyed? There is nothing worse than a model who forgets she must be a statue? Everything excites me now. I cannot remember a more sexually charged session in my career. Even the sensation of the texture of the blanket I lay upon is heightened. With every breath I take my chest moves up and down. For a moment she watches and stands there mesmerized at the movement.

Her canvas is larger this time. Her arm draws large arches. I am not concerned that those arches are the rolls of my fat or the exaggerated roundness of my thigh. There are only two minutes left. But she moves as if there is all the time in the world. No rushed movements. She knows she already has captured lightning with her first attempt. Now she can explore. Or maybe she is drawing anything to pass the time. Is her world counting down the seconds until we can leave this classroom the way I am?

Still, I cannot help but be fascinated by her as a model as I watch her creativity flow freely. She has the look of a conductor leading the orchestra during the final climax. From one moment to the next. Her eyes never leave my body. Her hand is everywhere on the page. She completely trusts what she is doing. It has nothing to do with me anymore. It is all about her.

And yet I know she would say the opposite. Every artist, at least the good ones do. They say they merely draw what they see and they don't avert their eyes from the ugly. When drawing a model they draw the whole model. The great ones revel in the humanity of our flaws, from the graceful arch of the foot, to the smallest hair everywhere. This is the secret Irina knew when she stood on the platform.

One minute.

Her eyes on mine.

Her eyes on my lips.

Her pencil drops.

Mr. Masen speaks and students stop working. I wrap the blanket around me twisting my back. I reach for the robe. Her hand is there.

"Rose." Mr. Masen calls and she turns to him. I pack my bag and pull on some jeans under the robe. The classroom is empty except for the teacher and Rose. As discreetly as possible I try and pull the sweatshirt over my head. Her hands tickle my stomach. Pulling the sweatshirt down. I see her and smile. She reaches behind my ear and hands me the forgotten cigarette.

"What did Edward want?" I ask as she takes the bag from my hand.

"Just to let me know that I need to inform him the next time I crash his class. Ready to go home" She asks. I nod and place a kiss on her lips, a promise of what is to come.

We walk out the classroom together, both pretending to be patient as we rush to the elevator wishing we were home already. She takes my hand in hers as we wait. A simple flyer, like so many others crowding around it, catches my eye. It advertises a life drawing group and a need for a model almost identical to the one I answered a few years earlier. I consider taking one of the numbers just for a childish memento to remind me of all I have done, all the good that has come to me because of that small decision.

Rose tugs on my hand pulling me. The elevator is here. I follow her and leave it there, all the numbers in place hoping someone maybe with a few insecurities will have to courage to take one.

Thanks so much to Jaime, for beta-ing this for me