Not To Scale
I don’t know why I agreed. Okay, yes I do. Two reasons: I needed the money, and there would be women there. I don’t know about you, but when you’re 23 (as I was at the time), money, sex and food (not necessarily in that order) are prime motivators. I’m sure they still are 20 years later, though for different reasons.
“We need a model,” Ronald (not Ron) said.
I was thinking sport jackets and weekend casual slacks, but he meant nude -- as in standing in the middle of the room while artists painted or sketched away. I thought about for maybe ten seconds, but only after he said it paid $10 an hour. That was more than I made at my day job, though it would only be for the hour.
Despite the fact that getting paid for standing naked in front of people veered slightly toward the seedy side, Ronald assured me that it was strictly on the up-and-up. It was, after all, a community college. What could be more boring?
I showed up 15 minutes early and, being in my early 20’s, had failed to think much past the obvious. For example: I show up, take off my clothes, and stand there while “artists” draw me. (Considering they were enrolled in Community College Night School, I give them their title lightly.) Ronald, however, who had lined up more than his share of male and female models in his time, simply asked “Did you bring a robe?”
No, I said, and was about to ask why I would need a robe, when I realized its importance. Was I to stand in the middle of the room while everyone watched me remove my clothing one piece at a time like an amateur stripper? Or should I disrobe in the men’s room and then make the trek to the classroom in the altogether?
Fortunately, Ronald offered an alternative, pointing at a side-door that led to the next classroom that was empty for the night. So, I entered, turned on the lights, and began to get nekkid. The second thing I realized too late was that when I took off my shoes and socks, the floor was freezing. Then I made the mistake of sitting in a chair while removing my jeans and underwear. The feeling of cold, stark plastic on a warm, stark bum will quickly remove any excitement that may been creeping its way into the blood.
What was I thinking? I’m not a male model in the sense of male models you may know and love. I don’t have sculpted abs or taut muscles. I’m not flabby either, but I know for a fact that if I worked at Chippendales, there would be few, if any, dollar bills coming my way. And here I was standing naked in a chilly classroom, getting ready to be paid ten dollars so a small group of complete strangers could make a rendering of my wiener. (Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the main reason either they or I was there, but at that moment, it’s what it boiled down to.)
The thought that there would be women in that circle of “artists” was both the reason I was there and one hell of a scary thought.
And so I stood there, buck nekkid, waiting for my cue.
After what seemed to be an eternity, Ronald stuck his head through the door and said “We’re ready.”
I strolled out and made my way to the platform in the middle of a circle of nine people -- seven female, two male. Of the females, only one was anywhere near my age, while the rest were more mom-like. I didn’t know whether to find this comforting or disturbing. One male was maybe 50, while the other was 18 or 19. Everyone looked at my wiener. None had any discernible reaction. I didn’t know whether to find this comforting or disturbing.
Then Ronald was suddenly behind me, his hand on my shoulder. “Kneel down on one knee,” he said, pushing gently. He was positioning me. He moved one hand to rest on my raised thigh, the other on my hip. I was in that position for about 20 minutes when Ronald called for a break.
This was the other moment when a robe would have come in handy. Ronald invited me to take a look at the work in progress, and my clothes were in the other room. So, out of a sense of misplaced politeness, I walked nude around the room taking in the “artists” impressions of my body. To my surprise, it was better than I thought, it was worse than I thought. Five of the “artists” didn’t even attempt to sketch my wiener -- two of them rendered that section as a vague lump, the others turned me into a Ken doll -- while three of the others created a facsimile that was neither detailed nor accurate.
The ninth person -- a middle-aged woman with large glasses (“The better to see you with, my dear!”) -- had done an explicit and enlarged pencil drawing of my privates that was both detailed and accurate. Still, it should have had a caption that read “Not To Scale.”
Ronald had asked me to not comment on any of the drawings, so I didn’t, though I’m sure on that last one, my eyes nearly bugged out of my head.
Then the students turned their pads to a fresh sheet of paper, and Ronald asked me back to the platform where he positioned me in a cross-legged sitting position, my shoulders and head stretched back At least a comprehensive rendering of my noogies would be impossible.
--
I was invited back two weeks later, and Ronald mentioned in passing that there would be another model there as well. This didn’t sink in until I hung up, at which point I wondered if the other body would be male or female. There were positives and negatives to this, particularly if Ronald positioned our bodies.
This time I brought a robe, though I felt pretty silly carrying it around campus. I could visualize someone asking me what the robe was for, and I would answer “I’m a nude model” and then wait for the laughter. It’s a little like people who wear “I’m a porn star” t-shirt . . . you know they’re not, but they want you to think they are, which is a little creepy.
Fortunately, no one asked me why I was carrying a bathrobe around, though thinking back, I’m sure they were afraid to.
When I got to the classroom, I discovered my nude modeling partner was a young lady about my age, and somewhat attractive. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but cute and perky. We were introduced (her name was Sara), and Ronald pointed us in the direction of the classroom next door.
Okay. Another unforeseen circumstance. Getting professionally naked with a member of the opposite gender. Hhmm. I wondered how I would react to that, if you know what I mean.
Sara, apparently, had no inhibitions about her body whatsoever, which would have been fantastic if we were on a date. She chatted away (I could not tell you about what) while removing her clothes, while I spent too much time folding and unfolding my robe and unlacing my shoes. This created a situation where she was totally nude, chatting away, and watching me as I slowly peeled off my clothes. Finally, there I was, and I tried to coolly put on my robe. Unfortunately, my right arm couldn’t find the sleeve, and I stood there for perhaps a full minute, struggling to cover up while the parts I wanted covered up were very much exposed. Finally, I got the thing on and fastened the sash while realizing (again too late) that Uninhibited Sara had no robe.
This created a whole new dilemma: Should I walk out there covered up while Sara was au natural? Or should I join her in uninhibitedness?
I did the next best thing.
“Would you like to borrow my robe?” I asked.
“No, that’s okay.” And then she continued chatting, which became soothing. It distracted me from the situation, though I still couldn’t tell you what she talked about.
Then Ronald stuck his head in and invited us out. At the last second, I dropped the robe.
--
“We need a model,” Ronald (not Ron) said.
I was thinking sport jackets and weekend casual slacks, but he meant nude -- as in standing in the middle of the room while artists painted or sketched away. I thought about for maybe ten seconds, but only after he said it paid $10 an hour. That was more than I made at my day job, though it would only be for the hour.
Despite the fact that getting paid for standing naked in front of people veered slightly toward the seedy side, Ronald assured me that it was strictly on the up-and-up. It was, after all, a community college. What could be more boring?
I showed up 15 minutes early and, being in my early 20’s, had failed to think much past the obvious. For example: I show up, take off my clothes, and stand there while “artists” draw me. (Considering they were enrolled in Community College Night School, I give them their title lightly.) Ronald, however, who had lined up more than his share of male and female models in his time, simply asked “Did you bring a robe?”
No, I said, and was about to ask why I would need a robe, when I realized its importance. Was I to stand in the middle of the room while everyone watched me remove my clothing one piece at a time like an amateur stripper? Or should I disrobe in the men’s room and then make the trek to the classroom in the altogether?
Fortunately, Ronald offered an alternative, pointing at a side-door that led to the next classroom that was empty for the night. So, I entered, turned on the lights, and began to get nekkid. The second thing I realized too late was that when I took off my shoes and socks, the floor was freezing. Then I made the mistake of sitting in a chair while removing my jeans and underwear. The feeling of cold, stark plastic on a warm, stark bum will quickly remove any excitement that may been creeping its way into the blood.
What was I thinking? I’m not a male model in the sense of male models you may know and love. I don’t have sculpted abs or taut muscles. I’m not flabby either, but I know for a fact that if I worked at Chippendales, there would be few, if any, dollar bills coming my way. And here I was standing naked in a chilly classroom, getting ready to be paid ten dollars so a small group of complete strangers could make a rendering of my wiener. (Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the main reason either they or I was there, but at that moment, it’s what it boiled down to.)
The thought that there would be women in that circle of “artists” was both the reason I was there and one hell of a scary thought.
And so I stood there, buck nekkid, waiting for my cue.
After what seemed to be an eternity, Ronald stuck his head through the door and said “We’re ready.”
I strolled out and made my way to the platform in the middle of a circle of nine people -- seven female, two male. Of the females, only one was anywhere near my age, while the rest were more mom-like. I didn’t know whether to find this comforting or disturbing. One male was maybe 50, while the other was 18 or 19. Everyone looked at my wiener. None had any discernible reaction. I didn’t know whether to find this comforting or disturbing.
Then Ronald was suddenly behind me, his hand on my shoulder. “Kneel down on one knee,” he said, pushing gently. He was positioning me. He moved one hand to rest on my raised thigh, the other on my hip. I was in that position for about 20 minutes when Ronald called for a break.
This was the other moment when a robe would have come in handy. Ronald invited me to take a look at the work in progress, and my clothes were in the other room. So, out of a sense of misplaced politeness, I walked nude around the room taking in the “artists” impressions of my body. To my surprise, it was better than I thought, it was worse than I thought. Five of the “artists” didn’t even attempt to sketch my wiener -- two of them rendered that section as a vague lump, the others turned me into a Ken doll -- while three of the others created a facsimile that was neither detailed nor accurate.
The ninth person -- a middle-aged woman with large glasses (“The better to see you with, my dear!”) -- had done an explicit and enlarged pencil drawing of my privates that was both detailed and accurate. Still, it should have had a caption that read “Not To Scale.”
Ronald had asked me to not comment on any of the drawings, so I didn’t, though I’m sure on that last one, my eyes nearly bugged out of my head.
Then the students turned their pads to a fresh sheet of paper, and Ronald asked me back to the platform where he positioned me in a cross-legged sitting position, my shoulders and head stretched back At least a comprehensive rendering of my noogies would be impossible.
--
I was invited back two weeks later, and Ronald mentioned in passing that there would be another model there as well. This didn’t sink in until I hung up, at which point I wondered if the other body would be male or female. There were positives and negatives to this, particularly if Ronald positioned our bodies.
This time I brought a robe, though I felt pretty silly carrying it around campus. I could visualize someone asking me what the robe was for, and I would answer “I’m a nude model” and then wait for the laughter. It’s a little like people who wear “I’m a porn star” t-shirt . . . you know they’re not, but they want you to think they are, which is a little creepy.
Fortunately, no one asked me why I was carrying a bathrobe around, though thinking back, I’m sure they were afraid to.
When I got to the classroom, I discovered my nude modeling partner was a young lady about my age, and somewhat attractive. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but cute and perky. We were introduced (her name was Sara), and Ronald pointed us in the direction of the classroom next door.
Okay. Another unforeseen circumstance. Getting professionally naked with a member of the opposite gender. Hhmm. I wondered how I would react to that, if you know what I mean.
Sara, apparently, had no inhibitions about her body whatsoever, which would have been fantastic if we were on a date. She chatted away (I could not tell you about what) while removing her clothes, while I spent too much time folding and unfolding my robe and unlacing my shoes. This created a situation where she was totally nude, chatting away, and watching me as I slowly peeled off my clothes. Finally, there I was, and I tried to coolly put on my robe. Unfortunately, my right arm couldn’t find the sleeve, and I stood there for perhaps a full minute, struggling to cover up while the parts I wanted covered up were very much exposed. Finally, I got the thing on and fastened the sash while realizing (again too late) that Uninhibited Sara had no robe.
This created a whole new dilemma: Should I walk out there covered up while Sara was au natural? Or should I join her in uninhibitedness?
I did the next best thing.
“Would you like to borrow my robe?” I asked.
“No, that’s okay.” And then she continued chatting, which became soothing. It distracted me from the situation, though I still couldn’t tell you what she talked about.
Then Ronald stuck his head in and invited us out. At the last second, I dropped the robe.
--
posted by Eric at 9:33 AM
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