I met the artist in a gallery where she was sketching based on some works on display. She was tall, with dark hair that reached her shoulders and was dressed in black, with a short skirt, a turtleneck, tights, and boots.
Her work intrigued me, and I stopped for a moment to watch her draw. She did not seem distracted by my presence. By chance, we went out at the same time, and that previous, implied familiarity prompted me to invite her for coffee. I don't usually do this kind of thing, but in that case, I felt compelled to know more about her. I am always attracted to artists and creativity. Smiling, she said yes. "But I only have ten minutes," she added. I understood that she was setting a limit, but I had no problem accepting it.
In the end, she stayed longer than ten minutes. We talked about the exhibition, about her work. She was attending an art school in the city center. Half joking and half curious, I asked her if they also did nude studies. She answered yes, they used both women and men as models. It was her turn to joke, and she asked if I was interested in that kind of work.
The conversation was taking an unexpected turn. I replied that perhaps I could have been a model many years ago but was too old now. She replied that in drawing the human body an artist does not look for perfection, but for imperfections and variations. I told her that I wasn't sure I understood what she meant, that art was about beauty for me, but that if she wanted, I was ready to pose for her. I said it as if I wanted to continue the joke, but she looked at me with a serious and concentrated expression. For a moment I felt under scrutiny; then she smiled and said she had to go, we said goodbye, and I asked her to WhatsApp me in case she had any good exhibitions to suggest or to let me know when she would do one of her own.
Two weeks passed. Her message came one Wednesday evening, completely unexpected, when I had already completely forgotten about her.
She asked me if I would be willing to pose for her the following Saturday afternoon. The fee would be fifty euros.
"Should I pose nude?"
"Sure."
"I'm old and have a bit of a belly."
"That's the guy I'm looking for. "
Her proposal made me curious and excited me at the same time. It was something new, something I had never done before. I was a retired executive now working occasionally as a business consultant, certainly not a model. It was hard for me to imagine myself posing nude in an artist's studio, especially a young woman like her.
"Have you decided?" she insisted, after a few minutes in which I had not replied.
"Fine," I replied, " but you don't need to pay me."
"It's a job and I will pay you. Also to make sure you take it seriously."
Of course, for her this was no longer a joke, but part of her studies.
She sent me the address of her flat and I promised to be there the following Saturday at two in the afternoon.
The day arrived and I began to feel slightly nervous about undressing under the eyes of a young woman I had only met once.
I took a shower and looked at myself naked in the mirror. I thought I should exercise more, lose some fat, and have a more presentable body, but it was too late. I am not very hairy, but some of my body hair seemed a bit haphazardly distributed. I wondered if I should shave, maybe shave my pubis. In the end, I decided that this was not what she wanted.
I realized that choosing clothes to wear was even more delicate than when I went on a date. I opted for a style that was simple and classic at the same time: white underwear, a white shirt, and blue jeans, over a blazer. Easy to remove, I thought, smiling.
Her flat was in an aging building on the outskirts of town, not unlike other similar apartment blocks.
She let me in quickly and greeted me in her work suit, blue, paint-stained mechanic's overalls. When she saw me, she smiled.
"You came."
"It was a commitment, and the pay is good," I replied, trying to hide my anxiety.
The front door opened directly onto a rather large living room that she had converted into her studio. There were canvases, easels, pictures against the wall, and a long wooden table to the left. A door near the entrance opened onto the kitchen, and another on the opposite side probably led to the bathroom and bedroom. Natural light flooded the room through large windows.
A stool was already positioned in the middle of the room, with an easel right in front of it. I took a few steps into the room and looked around.
She suddenly became serious.
"Get undressed and sit on the stool. You can lay your clothes on the sofa." Only then I noticed a worn burgundy sofa pushed against one of the walls.
Suddenly I wished I could undress elsewhere, but I dared not ask. Feeling her eyes on me, I took off my clothes and, without daring to look at her, walked over to the stool and sat down.
"Aren't you a little old to be shy?"
"I...," I looked up at her but didn't know what to say.
"You don't need to talk. Just do as I say."
"Yes," I replied.
I could see she was looking at me slowly, assessing my body. I felt a strong desire for her to like me, and for her to acknowledge it, but she didn't say anything.
By putting myself in a position slightly inclined to her, and holding my thighs a little high, I managed to hide my penis from her view. She did not object.
She began to draw some sketches, without saying anything. After a while, she stood up and put her hand on my belly.
"You have a strange shape as if you were wearing a life jacket."
I blushed. "Is that a problem?"
"No, I'm just noticing," she commented, releasing her grip and returning to the easel.
I could see the sheets of paper piling up at her feet. She would sketch a part of my body, then remove the paper and drop it, then move on to the next. Sometimes she was immediately dissatisfied, other times she spent more time sketching.
From time to time she would give short orders, asking me to make certain movements with my hands, or with my head and legs. If, after a while, I felt the need to move on my own, she would get impatient and ask me to hold the position.
After about forty minutes she stood up, walked over to me, and spread my legs.
"You have a beautiful penis," she said professionally.
I felt obliged to thank her.
"It's neither too big nor too small. Your foreskin is a bit strange, though. It's so... abundant as if you were a grown child."
"When I was younger, I thought about circumcising myself, but I never did it."
"And why would you have wanted to do it?"
"I don't know, it was slightly painful to retract the skin".
The conversation ended there, and she continued drawing.
About fifteen minutes later, without looking up from the canvas, she turned to me again.
"I must see your erect penis."
"I should... mastur... bar...te?" I asked, uncertain and shocked.
"I didn't ask you to masturbate, only to have your penis erect," she replied, in a flat, emotionless tone.
