DRAWN

I like to fantasize about hot guys. But sometimes, the guilt gets to me so that I tell myself it’s a necessity. I love to draw, I’m fairly good at it, yet when it comes to scenes where my characters feel a desperate urge to bang each other my fingers refuse to move until I’m properly turned on.

          In my fantasies, it’s always just the hot guy and me. Everything’s sizzling and steamy, with all the groaning and writhing naked bodies you’d expect from a smutty romantic Japanese comic book. It’s called a
shoujo manga
, actually, and it’s the kind I’m hoping I can draw one day.

          “I’m done.”

My ears perk up at the sound of Yuki Alexei Himura’s voice. It’s soft and melodic, something rare when you compare it to the alternating grizzly and whiny tones of most other boys in school. It probably has to do with the fact that he’s spent most of his life in Japan. They say you have to really strain your ears there when listening to locals talk.

          Yuki saunters toward the table, and the minute his back is turned I immediately look up from my questionnaire, enjoying the sight of how his black school pants stretch tight across his hips.

          Of all the beautiful guys in the Immaculate Heart Academy – and there are a lot – Yuki has been my favorite since he transferred barely a year ago. Yuki is tall, buffed, and gorgeous: all essential elements that have made him material-worthy for my fantasies.

          Even if he wasn’t half-Japanese, I’m pretty sure he’d still be my favorite. There’s just something about him that reminds me of the beautifully drawn guys in
shoujo manga,
the kind who makes your heart go ba-thump because they were just too cool for words.

          Whenever I see Yuki, half of me itches to recreate him on paper while the other half of me just wants to shag him.

          I twist in my seat, hoping to see more of Yuki, and I’m rewarded when I catch a glimpse of a self-conscious smile briefly appearing on Yuki’s face.

“I hope I got most of it right,” he tells the teacher as he hands over his questionnaire and answer sheet. It’s rare not to see Yuki smiling, but I’ve always thought his thin lips have this unusual cruel twist to them, like a wild wolf pretending to be nice and tame. Then again, I’ve never heard anyone say a bad thing about Yuki so it’s probably my
mangaka
mind going on overdrive.

          Mr. Saunders beams. “I’m sure you will.”

          Yuki rakes one hand through his ebony black hair, which is cut short at the back and the sides but is longish in front, with bangs that sort of bounce every time he moves his head.

Yuki still has his back to me, giving me the chance to ogle his bum - tight, muscled, and zero fat percentage. The sight of it makes me want to fan my face. He’s so hot it always kills me
not
to touch him and see if everything is really as hard as it looks. The rest of his amazing body, I equally adore. If I have to compare his body to food, it would have been like Wagyu steak – juicy beyond belief, sinfully delicious, and addictive.

          “Aiming for the perfect GPA again, Mr. Himura?” Mr. Saunders asks.

          “Hoping for it at least,” Yuki replies, still smiling. Mr. Saunders teaches Advanced Chemistry, and it’s one of the only two classes I share with Yuki, who’s a year younger than I am. I make sure never to miss any of the classes we have together since it’s the only time I can observe Yuki at my leisure. I even pretended I have hyperopia just to get the seat with the perfect vantage point for watching Yuki without him knowing it.

          Mr. Saunders is browsing through Yuki’s answers. “Seems good so far.”

          Yuki nods, and as he moves to pick up his bag – Japanese guys aren’t into backpacks - from the floor, I admire how the sleeves of his school blazer tighten around his biceps.           

Another reason I love having Yuki star in my fantasies is because I don’t have to be extra creative with what he’s wearing. He never acts like he’s trying to be fashionable, but he is. He wears the academy’s uniform like it’s designed by Gucci. And on him, it does look like Gucci. I especially love the way he moves, like a young god who takes his time walking because he wants mere mortals like me to bask in his perfection.

          In fact, the only time I see him moving faster than a ninety-year-old is when he has gym class and he’s playing one sport or another. It’s also the only time I see him sweating, and the sight of Yuki’s golden and glistening skin never fails to make me fantasize about the lovely aftermath following hours of hot, drugging---

          “Ms. Chariot?”

          “Y-yes, Mr. Saunders?” I’m a little flustered as I feel Yuki’s quizzical gaze land on me.

          “You’re the only one who’s left.”

          Actually, I had finished the test twenty minutes earlier, but then I saw Yuki, head still bent on his paper – well, it was a no-brainer after that. I have to stay behind. When else can I enjoy an exclusive and all-out visual parade of Yuki Himura’s ultimate hotness?

          Outside this classroom, it’s impossible not to see Yuki surrounded by people – girls, boys, faculty members.
Everyone
loves Yuki. Even the crotchety cafeteria staff gives him extra helpings – when he’s not even in line.

Inside the classroom, we’ve barely exchanged ten words with each other, never mind if it’s been three months since school started. It doesn’t bother me, though. In my fantasies, he doesn’t really need to talk much. All I need him for is to get me in the mood so I can draw. Other times, I just use him for my secret, guilty pleasure.

I love to picture him with his eyes closed, an exquisite blend of pain and pleasure on his face as he grits out my name, his breath hitching, his fingers digging deep into the tender skin of my hips, urging me to move faster so he can go deeper and harder, making me moan his name---

          “Ms. Chariot?” Mr. Saunders drags me out of my fantasies.

          My eyes fly open. I snap my legs closed, silently aghast at how I actually lost myself in my fantasies. In public!

          “Did you say anything?”

          Did I say anything?

          I did not say anything.

          My eyes involuntarily find its way to Yuki, and I’m confused when I see him staring at me in open-mouthed shock.

          It’s not as if---

          I feel close to passing out just as Yuki’s lips compress in a thin, inscrutable line.

          I think…

          I think I had moaned his name out loud.

          MOANED.

          Like he just did something to me that doesn’t involve having clothes on.

Stumbling to my feet, I stammer out a barely coherent answer for Mr. Saunders. Keeping my eyes trained on the ground, I struggle to walk at a sedate pace even though every instinct I have is clamoring for me to run.

My mind is a feverish jumble of thoughts. So I’ve inadvertently said his name. That’s not a crime, right? And if he insists that I did more than say his name, I can always lie and tell Yuki I’ve been crushing on him. Everybody has a crush on him, anyway. It shouldn’t be a big deal.

After taking my papers, Mr. Saunders pushes his seat back. “You can go now. See you two next week.”

          I turn around to leave, but a six-foot-two god is suddenly blocking my way.

          Oh, shite.

          I force myself to look at him, mentally rehearsing what I have to say, but the words die in my throat when I see Yuki’s face. He’s smiling his usual sweet smile, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that tells me he’s not the perfect gentleman everyone thinks he is.

          And then he smirks, and the sight of it makes me think of things a nice girl like me shouldn’t even
know
about.

          Bloody hell.

          This is so good.

I mean, bad.

This is so bad.

For the rest of the day, I mentally curse my older brother Scott without actually cursing. It’s entirely his fault I get carried away by my fantasies.

My dad Jason teaches theology to college and post-grad students, and although he’s not the preachy type, having him around my entire life sort of makes certain vices impossible for me. Every time I try to swear, for instance, my tongue would twist itself in so many knots that everything comes out garbled.
American
cuss words are beyond me, but swear words and sex terms in British English roll off my tongue so easily it’s as if I was born in a London bedsit instead of a nice, ordinary, suburban home in West Palm Beach.

          Of course, just because I can’t swear doesn’t mean I’ve got reserved tickets to heaven. My dad also often says that every person is born with one great temptation he’s destined to battle with all his life.

          In my case, that would be sex.

          Once upon a time, I woke up from an afternoon nap because of unearthly moans coming out from my brother’s bedroom. I was twelve then. Scott was fifteen. I hurried to his room, my heart thudding, and the wireless phone in one hand just in case I needed to call 911. My overactive imagination was scaring me with thoughts of Scott bleeding to death from a gunshot wound, Scott with his insides torn out by a masked madman, or Scott bitten by a rabid vampire.

          Scott and I had the house to ourselves that night. Our eldest brother Drew was out with his then-secret girlfriend while our parents had been in Utah, taking part in a council for evangelical reunification. My dad is a half-glass-full kind of person, and he likes to conduct seminars about how Buddha, Allah, and all the other gods from different religions are just one supreme being.

          The nonstop moans from Scott’s room made me start crying. I was terrified my brother was dying, and I convinced myself that I had what it took to give him CPR. When a woman from Scott’s room released a blood-curling scream, I ran the rest of the way and threw his door open.

          And that was when I got my first and only glimpse of Maria Ozawa, one of Japan’s most popular AV idols. We call them porn stars here, I think. Or maybe the politically correct term’s adult film actress. I’m not really sure.

          It took Scott about five seconds before he had recovered enough to slam his laptop shut and kick me out of his room.

We never talk about it. I’m grateful. I don’t want Scott to know how those five seconds have changed me completely.

“KC, wait up!”

I turn around just in time to see my best friend Lace nonchalantly tossing a basketball over everyone’s heads to the school’s basketball team captain Alvin Schuman.

He catches it deftly with a grin. “Thanks, Coach!”

“Anytime, asshole,” Lace yells back, her curly blond ponytail swishing as she twists halfway to give him a wave. Lace’s school jacket flaps behind her as she makes her way toward me. She has her uniforms made two times larger supposedly so she can move around more easily, but I know it’s just because she wants to hide her Marilyn-Monroe-ish figure.