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By the ripe age of 21, every woman should be able to undo their own bra. As young girls fumbling our way through puberty, we are handed down an age-old technique for bra removal. This little behind-the-back gimmick had always served me well. There was nary a locker room or station wagon backseat that I shied away from. With 21 years of practice and backseats under my belt, I was not prepared for this level of performance anxiety. Then again, agreeing to get naked in front of a captive audience isn’t something a person normally prepares to do.

It was balmy that spring day, my junior year. I found myself in a mismatching bra and panty set perched on top of a shaky wooden box. The clock hanging on the whitewashed studio wall had just registered 3pm. The class hadn’t even begun and I was already regretting my decision to forgo the bikini wax I had scheduled earlier that day. Mr. Beloi, the professor for intermediate drawing, was awaiting the undivided attention of his bouncy students. I watched as he stood in exasperated silence, all the while fighting off the waves of nausea that were wracking my exposed body.

Each student was stationed next to a large metal easel, where they busied themselves with pulling out erasers, border tape and charcoal pencils. As each work station was completed, the students began shifting their focus to the girl poised at the center of the room.

“Class this is our new model, Lauren,” Mr. Beloi announced with disinterest. “She is going to be sitting for us today and if all goes well, the rest of the semester. Now let’s begin with 15 minutes of free sketching.”

And without another word, he turned from the classroom, flashing me a feeble thumbs-up before he strode out of the class. In an instant, I felt my nearly exposed chest begin to tighten and my legs go weak. It was as if all the air was being sucked out of the room. I couldn’t breathe.

All 24 pairs of eyes were now gazing at me, filled with a kind of benign interest. It was as if they had already begun the process of mentally undressing me. I took a deep breath, remembering that I had chosen this, and with twisted arms began working the back clasp of my bra. It took every ounce of strength not to sprint to the bathroom and choke down the emergency joint I had stashed in my change purse. But there was no turning back now, nothing left to do but override all of my inhibitions and wonder how the hell I got here.