There is something seductively intimidating about a nearly empty room and a single, solitary stool - a space that I'd come to occupy, baring not just skin, but soul. My world was one of peculiar random treasures: the clean, meandering lines of my body captured on canvas, the penetrating gaze of watching eyes, the subtle energy swirling between me, the artist, and the hungry, waiting silence. A dance, sometimes slow and steady, other times wildly erratic, but always an unfortunate mirror of intimacy.
They were my audience, but I was their servant. Renders of my flesh to be interpreted and scrutinized, a living, breathing testimony to the human form. The task was a mysterious one, a blend of passive submission and an offer of raw authenticity. I had traded in my modesty for a role that spoke to my core. A part of me reveled in this exposure, the delicacy of the tension it created. Yet, each moment standing bare for these artists was like stepping into the icy Dnipro river in the heart of winter - brisk, unforgiving, yet inexplicably invigorating. The thrill of this role play, the delicate boundary of control and surrender, the unending mystery of what each new session would reveal - a testament to my unusual life. This was my world, my narrative, a life too rich, too unconventional, too full of inherent contradiction to be contained within ordinary structures. The stories my body told were more than just lines and curves on a sheet of paper; they were an exploration of the human spirit, uninhibited and free.