4.

Posing buck naked in front of women requires fortitude and bourbon – but it’s nothing compared to the art class after-parties.

What happens at these sordid affairs is Carly slops faux champagne into plastic flutes, pumps up 80s music, and forces me to chat to the female clients who now get to see me with my clothes on.

This is where Carly really rakes in the cash: although she makes dosh from the class itself, it’s the after-party she charges like a stuck boar for.

The problem is I never know what to say to the women, or even what we might have in common – and I don’t appreciate the glances they sneak at my crotch as if they have a claim to it because they saw it without denim.

Actually, the word “sneak” is far too subtle for these vultures – “openly leer” is more accurate. Then, as the hours wear on (and Carly won’t pay me unless I stay till the end) – it’s been known for some of these women to press up against me, especially in the narrow corridor leading to the loo.

They’ll look me in the eyes with a sense of spumante-fuelled abandon before explaining (their hands on my shoulders, their breath like cabanossi) how rewarding the session was, how … invigorating they found it.

I must confess, in the lonely and weaker hours of some nights, it’s occurred to me that maybe I should make the most of the opportunity. Lying in bed, breathing in mould spores, it’s hard not to wonder what it would be like to breathe in a woman instead.

One after-party I even got close – I’d guzzled a shitload of fake champagne and one of the harpies lured me out the back. But then, as we were making out and I was trying to ignore her breath, I looked up and saw all these women pressed against the window staring and laughing and …

The memory makes me shudder.

So when Dave asks me for the 50 millionth time why I don’t make it with one of the women, all I can do is tell him sex isn’t the be all and end all of life.

“It can’t be,” I say. “Not with those cabanossi eaters, anyway.”

“I guess,” Dave says, obviously unconvinced.

It’s almost 10pm and The Iron Castle’s filled with the usual degenerates. Forget the bums in Billy Joel’s Piano Man – this bunch look like something out of a prison-break film. I need another beer but the counter is empty while the owner attaches a “DO NOT HIT” sign to the jukebox’s cracked glass. I then think about the sign taped to the bar’s front window, advertising for a barman.

Dave finishes his beer.

“Want another?” I ask.

Dave puts his chin on his hand, like that famous statue about the thinker, and makes a show of pretending to ponder the question. It was funny the first time he did it a few months back, but now …

I shake my head and walk to the counter. Sitting a few stools away is Chewbacca, a hairy beast of a man who breeds pigs and stinks like a backed-up thunderbox. Considering that pigs are actually clean animals, I can only guess Chewbacca is trying to make up for them. I nod my head but Chewbacca stares at me glassily before going back to his amber swill.

Metallica’s Enter Sandman starts on the jukebox (“Fucken a!” a pool player screams before sinking a shot behind me) as the owner returns behind the bar.

He raises his eyebrow at me and I order two beers. As he pours, I tell him I want the job.

“What job?” he asks belligerently.

“I saw the sign outside,” I say. “For the barman.”

He looks me up and down dismissively.

“Na mate. I need someone who can handle these guys …” he flicks his thumb at the locals, “when they get out of control. You couldn’t handle a fucken possum.”

Possums can actually get surprisingly violent – I once had a face off with a family of them during a school holiday when they infested Grandad’s roof and he sent me up to deal with them – but instead of informing the owner of this, I keep my mouth shut and pay for the drinks.

“What was all that about?” Dave asks when I return.

“Just looking for a job. I told Carly today I can only pose for her one more time.”

“Jesus, you don’t want to work here,” Dave says.

“He said no anyway, so …”

I shrug.

Dave sips his beer thoughtfully.

“If you ask me,” he says slowly, “you might as well continue posing. It’s easy money and everyone in town already knows what you do, so the harm’s already done.”

Easy money my arse – let’s see Dave keep the same pose for 30 minutes for a horde of ravenous women while his muscles scream and beg him to shift position – but yet again I bite my tongue.

“There’s always more harm to be done,” I simply say instead, before sipping my beer.

Next Chapter: A cougar, a vamp and pink pants