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Summary
She could control this.
The shape of the clay, the form that was in her mind’s eye, with reference of course. Skinny waist, thin hips and thighs, square, set shoulders. There was a plausible deniability, if she was ever grilled. That it wasn’t really gay, that it had nothing to do with the woman she kept stealing surreptitious, inquisitive peeks of. She wouldn’t ever do the legs, the forearms and hands, the head. No. There were liberties to be taken, control was – she had to exert control. Over what people thought of the piece, over how much she could get away with, without giving any of it out. It didn’t feel like freedom, the more she was throwing the clay into a shape to sculpt. It felt like she was rattling around the bars of a cage that was getting smaller, more suffocating. But it was her cage, she made every single bar, she hammered in every insignificant piece of iron.