I'm Not in Love

“Our model came to us by means of a lofty recommendation from my colleague, Professor Lois Wilkinson-Ryan, at Garner Valley School of Design on the south side of the city. I believe we’ve engaged an exceptional model that you’ll all find inspiring. I most certainly do.” He snickers smugly, as if bursting with a secret, and paces the vacant center of the floor. “We’ll be using natural light today to draw… Tristan Wilder.”

Upon his introduction, my handsome Adonis—AKA nude model Tristan Wilder—emerges from behind the screen, clad in nothing but a chalk-white, terry-cloth robe and those flimsy moccasins. As embarrassing as it may be, I allow the unthinkable: my jaw drops. Then I hear myself sigh—it’s appallingly drawn out and wistful—as my mouth swings wide enough to catch flies, or so Grandmother would say. Chin high, the model makes eye contact with no one as he strides to the center of the room and gazes over our heads at the pockmarked ceiling.

I’m sweating freely as Tristan opens the tie of his robe and allows the thick cloth to fall, though not nearly far enough to satisfy my urgent interest. The graceful shoulders he exposes with admirable nonchalance are defined but lean—they couldn’t possibly have been better shaped if sculpted by Michelangelo himself from a willing lump of clay. When he twists to remove the garment, his action is simple and resolute, lacking in flourish. He drops the robe onto the floor to a chorus of muted gasps and then kicks it off to the side. There isn’t so much as a hint of suggestiveness to his motion. This is not a striptease.

And there he stands—all of him for all of us to see.

Although I’m partial to fucking beautiful people, the best subjects for art are often those who society labels as flawed in terms of traditional beauty. Gangly or hairy, scarred or wrinkled, excessive body fat or not nearly enough of it—all of these are eye candy for artists. I’m supposed to see Tristan’s body as the abstract subject of my art. And remote as a white marble statue of Apollo in the garden of Versailles, he plays his part well. He stands motionlessly—as if already posing—and stares vacantly—as if blind to the hawk-eyed crowd marking him.

Get a grip, Remi.I pull in a stuttered breath. Despite my grandparents’ high hopes otherwise, painting is my intended life’s work—any passion I’m experiencing should be limited to the artistic potential of this model.

Oddly restricted by my shirt’s collar, I tug open several more buttons and focus on breathing. Once the unexpected sensation of near strangulation passes, I analyze our subject’s attributes: a svelte but defined chest, sculpted biceps, narrow hips, and a leanly rippled abdomen. At this vulnerable moment, I refuse to analyze what hangs, somehow quite subtly, from between his toned thighs.

When Tristan kicks off his moccasins to expose princely feet—the entirety of him finally bare to me… rather, to us—I snap my lips shut, desperate to cut short my gasp. The gasp I blame on stunned reverence for the sight before me. Okay, okay… before us.

I’m not alone in my shock and awe.

“Oh, God.” A murmur, breathy, yet high-pitched.

“Like, wow.” Wholehearted agreement, less than eloquently emitted in a deep bass.

“Call me, maybe.” I am thankfully not the one responsible for this inappropriate request.

Apparently expecting more professionalism from his seniors—even while in the undraped presence of a veritable human god—Professor Santini eyes the class darkly; he is the only one in the room allowed to leer at nude models. Clearing his throat, he turns to Tristan.

“Welcome to Drawing the Undraped Human Form. We are very much looking forward to working with you. Students, a reminder that cell phones must be turned off and stored away until our model leaves the studio at the end of class.” He glances very briefly at Tristan’s nether region before looking up and flashing him a toothy smile. “Shall we begin?”

* * *

Tristan

I’m usedto being stared at. I mean, I’m a nude model—it comes with the territory. But that dark-haired dude planted on the drawing chair to my left looks like he wants to do more than sketch me. I’m not too new to this game to know what’s up. The student artist in the preppy button-down shirt would like nothing better than to ingest me dry, without a dab of dipping sauce.

I shudder—hopefully imperceptibly—and immediately regret it. I’m supposed to reflect total ease with my “undraped” body. If I want to continue to score modeling gigs in Garner City’s many art colleges, I need to come off as unflappable. I refuse to sweat or stumble beneath some twisted dude’s hungry stare. Wanting to consume me whole is his problem, not mine.

It’s all about professionalism, Tris, I remind myself. Being here—as naked as the day I came into this world—is by my choice, and for this choice, I get paid. Not enough by a longshot, still I receive regular paychecks—or sometimes fistfuls of small bills, collected in a rusty coffee can passed around by a dozen starving artists in a community house basement.

I share this money with my twin sister Tara, who spends it on Jared, Tommy, and Wendy’s food and clothes… and soon their Halloween costumes. Seeing the excitement on the faces of my niece and nephews as they tear apart the costume department at the local discount store makes my sacrifice feel like… less of a sacrifice. And more of a gift.

So why do I feel more naked than usual?

“I brought my own timer,” I inform Professor Santini dully, although we already went over all the details by email. I set the clock for one minute and place it on top of the folded blanket at the foot of the chaise lounge. It’s time to strike the first pose of many.

I turn my back to the class and stand with my legs apart and my knees loose. I lift my arms, so they’re taut—thrust high above my head with my fingers curled into claws—and tilt my torso sideways. For one minute, until I hear the timer’s soft chime, I hold this position. My only movement, the rise and fall of my chest.

Ding.I set the timer again.

For my next pose, I turn to face the class, fold in half, and rotate a foot, so it’s practically sideways on the floor. I grasp the side of my head with one hand and extend the other midair in a pleading gesture. The art students can interpret this bit of dramatics as they see fit. I feel their intense gazes upon me—every inch of me.

Ding.I reset the timer and drop to the floor without resting my butt on it, bend a knee, and tuck the leg beneath me, extending the other and pointing my toe. I support my weight on widespread arms, making sure that my traps, delts, and pecs are flexed. Some artists prefer “less perfect” individuals as models. Since I can’t provide them with much in the way of imperfection, I offer the hard-earned definition of my muscles—I’m something of a gym rat. Life drawing artists are all about anatomy.