The Floater


It was time.  We had dated six months.  What else would we be doing?  There we were in a well-lit studio, my future husband bent over, naked.   Me?  I was busy shaving his butt hair.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the two of us.  There was my professor and another printmaking student in the studio with us.

I was an art major in college.  This does not mean I was a wild child.  I’ve never been too wild.  People would much sooner mistake me for a hayseed than a tattoo artist.  Still.  Even a hayseed can love art.

My problem was that I had run out of money to buy art supplies.  I was a part-time nanny, but that only paid $6 an hour.  I needed my litho plates to finish my final project in order to get my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree.  Lucky for me, my professor needed a couple of “models” for his latest project.  He offered to pay me in art supplies.  yay! What could possibly be wrong with that?

My future husband agreed to model, as well. He was offered $100, wisely calculating how much beer he could buy with that.  We hopped in the car, one weekend, and drove and drove to my art profs house.  My boyfriend/future husband drank mini bottles of whisky in the passenger seat as we neared the suspiciously innocent seeming suburban neighborhood.  It was 8:30 in the morning.

We arrived at the site of our impending nudity.  We sat in the car, looking at each other.  We started laughing.  Who does this?  The prof, who was a heavy smoker and looked like he’d survived the 60’s, but just barely, led us out back to his studio.  It was beautiful.  He had remodeled his garage into an art space. A very well heated art space.  Aw crap.  Well, I could still run, I suppose.  My future husband was first.

“You might want to do something with your hair,” the prof said.  My husband was bald, so we both knew what hair he was talking about.  The prof was going to be making plaster casts of our entire bodies.


“The plaster I’ll use around the genitals is very fine, and can pull out the hair.”  yummie.  That sounds fun.

So, we greased up my future husbands “man hair” with Vaseline (an ointment only used for gross anatomical needs) and then he turned around.  The prof suggested just shaving his bum.  “It’s a lot easier that way.”  He handed me the trimmers.

Well.  My future husband looked at me, with eyebrows that said ‘Will You Love Me Forever?  Butt Hair And All?’  Aw.  How could I resist.  He bent over and I shaved.  Good fun.  The other student in the studio began chatting with us while she did her art work.  I’m not sure what possessed her.  Had it been me, I would have plugged in my headphones and pretended nothing out of the ordinary was happening.  I would not have acknowledged the fact that there was a girl from my art class in the same studio, shaving her nekkid boyfriend’s butt hair.  While I’m facing the cheeks, she was facing my future husband’s face and while they talked,  they realized they knew some of the same people from high school.  Bet there’s some good stories about him floating around at the reunions.  What the hell is going on here?  Who chats at times like these?  So, I continued my pruning.  I asked myself if other girlfriends did this sort of thing.

He was ready.

The prof started with his legs and feet.  No problem at all.  My future husband laid there, semi intoxicated, with plaster on his lower body, and a slight grin on his face.  Then the prof moved on to his upper body.  Still no problem.  THEN it was time for the middle.  This was a special technique.  He used a circular structure, like a bowl with the bottom cut out of it, and set it around the “area.”  Then he poured the extra fine plaster into the bowl.

My future husband complained that it was very cold.  His slight grin had disappeared.  We turned the heat up more.  I think what he was really saying was “SHRINKAGE!” He was worried that his junk would be immortalized at a smaller size than it was at a warm beach.

And then something bobbed in the plaster.

The prof was still holding the bowl structure on to my boyfriend’s body (fortunately, so his hand were full).  He shouted at me,

“Hold it down!  It’s floating!”

Yes.  I had dated this boy for six months and here I was, pushing his penis down further into cold plaster, because that particular part of his anatomy had the nerve to float!  I was too absorbed in my task to notice the other student working on her art at this point, but let me just say how thankful I am that cell phone cameras were not yet in existence!

So, my future husband’s plaster eventually dried.  There was his junk.  Immortalized in a rather floaty and supposedly smaller plaster cast.  Mission accomplished.

And now it was my turn.  I was offered alcohol.  I accepted.  I was offered some more.  I accepted again.  I stripped down.  I was prepped, as well, but since it’s me I’m talking about, I’ll skip that part.  We poured the plaster.  I laid back in the heat and imagined I was at a spa.  I was covered from my collar bones to my hips.  The prof was chatting with my future husband. The student was chatting with both of them.  Everyone was chatting.  I was silently realizing that I’d had too much to drink.  My bladder was about to explode.

“If I pee on the plaster, will it ruin it?”

The prof looked annoyed.  My future husband laughed.  Probably because he knew I would do it.

“Can you just hold it 20 more minutes?”

TWENTY??!?!? “Sure,”  I said.  Oh jeeze.  Think about hot deserts.  Think about sunshine.  Think about paper towels.  Think about paper towels mopping up a spill.  Of pee.

“No.  I can’t hold it.”

So, the prof begrudgingly removed the top of the somewhat solidified plaster cast and I escaped my spa treatment.  I walked, because if I had run I would have bounced my bladder that was fuller than a water balloon.  It  was at least eight times its normal size.  I gently waddled to the toilet and took the world’s longest pee.


Peeing sure feels good sometimes.

I returned, a bit chilly, to the studio, ready to have the plaster put back on me.  It was semi-dry, so the prof just laid it back over me me.  As I relaxed, I realized I had just streaked nude, slowly – with a definite waddle – past three people (two men) just to get to a toilet.

I should have peed on the plaster.

Yes, my parts would be up for public viewing somewhere, at sometime, but I was getting all of my art supplies for free.  That made me happy. What didn’t make me happy was the fact that the plaster over my bladder was about two inches higher than my actual body, now that I had peed.  Man.  I was going to look like a bloated nudie.  Bummer.

Two years later, I received a call from the University.  They were investigating my old prof on suspicion of sexual harassment with a student.  Weird.  He seemed to have such good boundaries with his students.  Can’t imagine someone misinterpreting his intentions.

In my bubble we had a business transaction.  It never felt sordid or inappropriate.  I guess it depends on the bubble.  And how much shaved butt hair is floating around, protecting you, yet impeding your vision.


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