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Some years ago, I took an adult-education course in figure drawing at NYU. The class met in a large artist’s studio in Greenwich Village, just off Washington Square Park. There were about a dozen students, ranging in age from mid-20s to mid-50s. Each of us sat on an uncomfortable stool before an easel, on which was mounted an oversized newsprint pad, tilted at an angle comfortable for drawing with a pencil.

The teacher was an ancient, bejowled creature with moist basset hound eyes and wiry gray hair that spoked out wildly, like Einstein’s. She wore a loose cotton Indian tied-dyed dress that you can pick up at any New York street fair for ten bucks.

The students, mostly businesspeople, I suspected, were much better dressed. A quick scan of the women’s arms, legs, and faces revealed nothing of interest, but then the model for the session, who had been standing off in a corner in a blue terry bathrobe, mounted the platform bearing the bench on which she would sit as she posed for us in the nude.

Even in the robe I could see that she had a boyish build, with small breasts, narrow hips, and a hard little ass. She was short, about five-three, and wore her straight, light-brown hair short, swept back over her ears and tapering to a point at the base of her neck. It made her look vaguely butch.

Her face had a skull-like aspect. Her eyes were sunken and dark-ringed, her cheekbones protruded beneath tightly stretched skin, and her cheeks were hollow. High on her right cheek was a swollen red sore that might have been an emerging pimple were it not the size of a silver dollar. I wondered if someone had slapped her around recently.

Her face, aside from thick eyebrows, was hairless, nor were any traces of hair visible in the V the lapels of her robe formed across her chest. But the sleeves of the robe only extended to the crooks of her arms, revealing hairy forearms the likes of which I have yet to see again. The fine brown hair began at her wrists, where it was about a half-inch long, and then continued growing longer and longer as it spread upward. At the swell of her forearms, it had to be eight or nine inches long.

The hair was neatly swept back over her forearms as if brushed, with the longest hairs extending well beyond her elbows—not up her arms but out into the air! I could thread my fingers through those long silken tendrils as easily as the hair on her head. I could feel her arm hair without actually coming near her arms.

The robe extended to her mid-thigh, exposing the lushest display of female leg hair I have ever seen in the flesh. It was the same light brown as the hair on her arms, and while it wasn’t spectacularly long, it was spectacularly dense. The thicket of soft curls began abruptly at her ankles and spread up her legs in an ever-more-flagrant carpet. And her coverage was superbly even: The backs of her legs were as hairy as the fronts, even her knees were dusted with beckoning curls, and her exquisite forest proceeded straight up her thighs without letup as far as the hem of the robe would reveal.

When the teacher directed her to disrobe, nobody batted an eyelash, but my eyes were as wide and burning as Dracula’s at the sight of blood. Loose curls hung from her inner thighs, leading up to a crotch that was engulfed in long thick curly hair. Viewed from the side, her bush jutted out from her pubic mound in an awesome star burst, with the longest, thickest hair–that surrounding her hole–forming a tail of hair between her legs a good eight inches long.

Her hirsute profusion totally covered her ass cheeks and sprouted out of her ass crack like fine fountain spray. And yet, while the hair flowed down over the backs of her thighs in long looping curls, it didn’t spread up onto the small of her back. Nor did she have a treasure trail. It was as if a genetic line had been drawn around her waist. Below, she was as furry as a cave woman; above, she was hairless, except for the nipples on her pear-sized breasts, which were encircled by long, corkscrewing hairs; her armpits, each of which sported a full thatch; and her thickly haired arms .

The teacher instructed her how to pose. She was to sit back on the bench, using one of her arms for support. She was to put one foot on the bench so that her leg extended out at an angle. Her other leg was simply to dangle loosely in a position that exposed her hairy cunt. But from where I sat, I couldn’t see it. I picked up my pad and pencil and found a free easel that afforded a better view of that feral forest, as the teacher gave me an opprobrious eye. Normally timid in this sort of situation, I was propelled by lust.

“Start drawing,” the teacher announced.

A true artist strives for economy of line. I have seen sketched portraits by Picasso and Matisse that brilliantly captured the subject’s psychological essence, yet consisted of little more than a single perfectly drawn line. I drew my lines in small, hesitant segments–the mark of an amateur. Nevertheless, I have a talent for reproducing shapes fairly accurately, if not particularly pleasingly, Muğla Escort and after an hour, a reasonable likeness of the posed model began to emerge on my pad.

At this point, I found myself in a creative quandary: Precisely how much detail should I include? I had drawn the woman’s face and figure well enough with my mincing, unconfident strokes, but her most salient feature–her extraordinary hairiness–had yet to be sketched in. I glanced at the work of the students–both women–on either side of me. Their portraits contained no trace of body hair. I faked a stretch and yawn, got up, and wandered around the room. Nobody was drawing the model’s hair. Simply acknowledging her hairiness seemed to violate a social taboo.

I returned to my easel. At that point in my life, while I had spurted countless gallons of semen jerking off to fantasies of hairy women, I had never revealed my predilection to a soul. “Ah, fuck it,” I thought. I began to sketch in her hair, using fine interlayered lines to capture a sense of its lushness, particularly along the length of her legs and around her crotch, where I felt I did justice to her extraordinary tail of hair.

The crone who taught the class was moving from easel to easel, making quiet comments. When she approached my easel, she bent toward my sketch. Squinting, she scowled, as if to say, “Oh, you filthy beast!” She then continued on without a word.

At the end of the session, the model enrobed and wandered among us, checking out our work. “Boy, you really got how hairy I am down pat,” she said to me as naturally as if she were complimenting me on how I’d drawn the line of her nose.

“I was inspired,” I replied. “You’re the hairiest woman I’ve ever seen. I’d love to photograph you. Are you available as a photographic model as well?”

She gave me a mysterious smirk, then without another word, she went to the far corner of the studio where her clothes hung from a peg in the wall. She tugged on a long-sleeved sweater and wide-leg black slacks. Had I not seen her in the raw, I would have never guessed how hairy she was from how she dressed. What little of her that was showing was hairless. It made me wonder how many other women who cover their arms and legs are secretly hairy underneath.

Boldly, I went up to her. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee,” I said. “We’ll discuss your rates.”

I followed her out the studio door. We went to the first Greek diner we came to. You’re never more than a few yards from one in New York. This one was decorated like a vineyard. Plastic bunches of grapes hung from a trellis mounted on the ceiling. We slid into a booth. The waiter, who looked like Quasimodo in a tux, took our order: two coffees, black.

“So, do you want to photograph me or fuck me?” she said forthrightly.

“Well, both,” I admitted. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated for a long moment. “Camille,” she said finally.

“Are you gay?” I asked, since we were being direct. I thought there was a good chance she was.

“Most of the time,” she replied coyly.

“How did you get that bruise on your cheek?”

“Ah, my pimp knocked me around–that fucken cunt!”

“Your pimp is a woman?”

“Yeah. I told you, I’m a lezzie.”

“So your–er, johns–are women, too?”

Camille nodded. “We call them janes.”


The waiter set our coffees down with a clatter, slopping liquid into the saucers, then lumbered off.

“Do you ever fuck guys?” I asked.

“Not since high school,” she said. She looked in her late twenties.

“Then what did you mean when I asked if you were gay and you answered, ‘Most of the time?'”

“I don’t know. I was just thinking.” She shrugged.

“Thinking what?” I pressed.

“Thinking that I might like to try it again.”

“With a guy.”

She nodded and took a sip of her coffee.

I sipped mine, too, and smiled at her. She wore a pouty expression. She gave me a fake smile in return.

“How about me?” I ventured. “Could I be a candidate?”

She shrugged noncommittally. At least it wasn’t an outright no. The thought of fucking a hairy lesbian was so exciting my cock felt like it was going to snap in my pants.

“What about posing for pictures?” I asked.

“But no sex?”

“Is sex an option?

Again the smirk. “Fifty.”


“I charge $50 an hour to pose.”

“Get out. Painters’ models only get $20.”

“That’s not one on one.”

She was clever, I had to give her that.


“Up front.”

I fished out my wallet, withdrew two twenties and a ten, and gave them to her. “I don’t know how many hours I’ll need,” I said. “This is for the first hour. Let’s go.”

I lived in Greenwich Village myself at the time, on Bleecker Street between Charles and Tenth. My building was fairly modern by West Village standards. It was a large gray-brick box, six stories tall, and latticed with ugly black fire escapes all around. But it had doorman, an elevator, and a roof garden, and it was on Muğla Escort Bayan a pretty stretch of Bleecker Street that actually looked like the visions people imagine when they think of The Village: French antique shops, quaint cafes, clothiers catering to denizens of the gay bar scene, leafy trees, historical ghosts.

My apartment was a small one-bedroom. Actually, I had converted the bedroom into a home office–I was a freelance copywriter–put my queen-size bed at the window end of the living room, walled it off with sliding Japanese Shogi screens, and had a love seat, a tub chair, and two large floor pillows in the small space that was left.

“Sit down.”

I beckoned Camille to the love seat. She took the tub chair.

“You want some wine?”

“What kind?”


“Is that red or white?”

“White. Cold.”


I poured us each a glass, handed Camille hers, put mine on the round glass-top coffee table, and went get my camera gear.

“Smoke a joint first?” Camille asked. She reached into her pants pocket and produced a big doobie, slightly bent.

I got an ashtray, took a seat on the love seat, and patted the cushion beside me.

She hesitated, as if considering the implications, then out of what seemed more practicality than anything else, she got up and sat down beside me.

“Spark it,” I said.

She produced a Bic lighter, lit the joint, took a deep hit, and passed it to me. I did likewise and passed it back. It was good stuff. By the third toke I was wasted. I took a swallow of wine to rid my mouth of the dryness. Then I kissed her. I did it quickly, without warning, because I knew that if I gave her the slightest advance notice, she would rebuff me out of habit. I pressed my lips hard against hers. She grabbed my shirt at the shoulders tightly, but I couldn’t tell whether she was resisting or not. I kept working my lips against hers. Then she uttered a soft moan and I could feel her jaw relax. I thrust my tongue into her mouth. She started breathing hard and hot. She clutched my hair as she tongued-kissed me back. I thrust a hand between her legs and rubbed her crotch. Hard. Her legs fell open and she humped against my open palm. Her breath quickened.

Abruptly, she pulled my hand from between her legs.

“I thought you were going to take pictures.”


I already had a good buzz, but I sparked up the joint, took another hit, and passed it to Camille. After I blew out the smoke, I said, “Well, get undressed.”

She rose, and in three quick movements, she stood before me naked. In the studio, I had admired her from a distance. But now, viewing her extreme hairiness up close for the first time, my previous awe was renewed. The hair on her arms and legs bristled out enticingly. Even though her pubic hair was matted from being enclosed in her panties, the pressed hair was so thick it swelled up from her crotch in an incredible hairy mound. I had made her wet when I fondled her, and several clumps of hair around her hole were encrusted with her dried juice.

My TV was by the bed. I asked Camille hold her arm near the screen. Even though she was a foot away, the static electricity created by the screen made all her arm hair, from wrist to tricep, stand straight out; it nearly covered the distance.

“Your arms are unbelievably hairy,” I murmured.

“Does that turn you on?” she said coyly.


She clasped her hands behind her head.

“And do you like my hairy armpits?”

“They’re incredible. You’re as hairy as a man.”

She seemed to take pleasure in his observation.

“Fluff up the hair in your left armpit,” I instructed.

She tugged at the hair. “Like this?”

“No, that’s not quite right,” I lied. “May I?”

She nodded.

I began to separate her armpit hairs individually, feeling their delicious length as I pretended to arrange them artistically. Her hair was slightly dewy and gave off a rich musky scent.

“It’s taking you an awful long time,” she said.


I snapped off two shots.

“Now lick your armpit.”

She did as she was told, her long tongue snaking into her thick aromatic thatch.

“Did you like that?” Camille asked when I had my shots.

“You know I did, you little tease,” I replied. “Say, do you mind if I get undressed? I think better creatively without clothes.”

She considered it. “How do I know you won’t just take me and hold me down and fuck my brains out?” she said.

“Is that what you want me to do?”

She didn’t answer. She rubbed the hair on her arms, threading her fingers through the long silken forest. “Okay, you can take your clothes off,” she said.

I stripped them off. My cock was rock-hard and twitching. Camille looked at it. “You’re pretty hairy yourself,” she said. “And big.”

“Do you like that?” I asked. Two could play this game.

When she didn’t reply, I asked, “Would you like to touch it?”

When she made no move to do so, I took Escort Muğla her hairy wrist and drew her hand to my cock. I could feel the thicket of curls on her wrist tickling my palm. “Go ahead, take it,” I said. “It’s not going to bite you.”

She grasped my penis in her hand. She felt my hairy balls and ran her fingers through my pubic hair. She started jerking me off. Then suddenly she stopped, letting go of my cock as it throbbed for more. “Don’t you have more pictures to take?” she asked.

My boner was twitching in swollen agony, but I reached for the camera. “On the bed,” I instructed. “On your back. No, don’t lay down. Sit up, but at an angle, propped up on your elbows. Now spread your legs. Wider. Wider. Come on, show me your whole hairy crotch. Now, take your right hand and with your fingers spread your cunt lips apart so I can see your clit.”

Her clit was enormous: two inches long and thick as pencil. It hung limply above her hair-engulfed cunt lips.

“Wow, that’s a big one!” I marveled.

“Do you like it?” she teased.

“Does that thing get hard like a cock, or is it always sort of drooping like that?

“Oh, it gets quite hard,” she said.

“Then make it hard,” I instructed.

She began to stroke her long clit. I could see that she was getting wet again. I could smell it. And then, there it was, hard and twitching, a glistening pink nub tapering to a dark-tipped point, jutting straight out of her forest of pubic hair.

“That’s great. Hold that,” I said. But by the time I got her erect clit in focus, it had wilted. She jerked herself off again but couldn’t get it back up.

“Mind if I try?” I asked.

“Do you know how to eat a woman?”

I grasped her legs by the ankles and ran my hands through her leg hair, feeling it prickle at the swell of her calves, feeling the thick curls carpeting her inner thighs, thrusting my greedy fingers into that glorious bush. I spread her cunt lips to expose her clit. The scent of her cunt was intense. I took her clit gently between my lips and began to suck it like a little cock. It grew rock-hard against my tongue. It was so long in its tumescent state that my head was actually bobbing up and down while I sucked it. I bit it gently, raking its full length with my teeth, my nose buried in Camille’s cunt hair, and she began bucking hard against my face.

So violently was she humping that I had to clutch her hairy ass cheeks to keep her from throwing me off. While I was at it, I spread them wide, totally exposing her hairy asshole, and plunged a finger inside.

She went crazy as I sucked her throbbing clit and finger-fucked her shithole with abandon. “Oh shit, oh shit!” she moaned. “Oh, suck my big clit, baby. Suck my monster.”

When she came, she grabbed my hair, mashed my face into her hairy crotch, and began to hump in an extensive series of short quick thrusts. I could feel her hairy thighs locked against the sides of my head as she ground her cunt hair into me. “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!” she cried as she shot her load.

I climbed on top of her, thrust my cock into her mouth, and fucked her face vigorously. Her hollow cheeks pulsated as she sucked my hairy dick. “Let’s sixty-nine,” I said. “You get on top.” Camille did as she was told, squatting over my face. I grabbed her tail of hair with my teeth and gave it a playful tug.

“Oh!” she cried, and shoved her hairy crotch into my face.

A moment later, my cock was engulfed in the wetness of her mouth. I ran my fingers through the lush curls on the backs of her thighs while I tongued out her hole, sucked that stupendous clit, and licked all the hair on and around her pussy.

I lifted my head and ran my tongue through the thick hair sprouting out of her ass crack. She responded by licking my hairy balls, taking one of them gently in her mouth, and plunging a finger into my asshole. I spread her ass cheeks wide, opening her hair-fringed asshole wide enough to afford a glimpse of its dark recesses, and plugged the gap hotly with my tongue.

Camille responded in kind, and we licked each other’s hairy assholes for several exquisite minutes. The punky taste of her shitter excited me even more.

The time had come to fuck her. Earlier, she had fretted that I might take her against her will. I wondered if that’s what she really wanted me to do. There was only one way to find out.

“I’m going to take you now,” I announced.

A quick reversal, and I was on top of her. “You are so hairy,” I said. “You know you want me to fuck you.”

She tried to resist, locking her hairy legs. I grasped her ankles, taking a moment once again to run my fingers through the coarse hair covering her calves, and pried her legs apart. Her hole was wide open, ready for me to enter her. Her fully erect clit twitched like a pink wand. The long hair surrounding her hole was fragrant with her juices.

She tried to push me away. I grasped her hairy arms by the wrists and pinned them over her head on the bed as I rammed my cock into her to the hilt. “Oh baby, you are so big,” she gasped as I entered her. I could feel her moist forest of hair grinding up against mine. The bristly hair of her thighs rubbed against mine as well. I was pumping into her hard, with piston-like thrusts, and she was humping up to meet me each time.

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