"You wanna what??"
"You heard me, I want to paint you."
"I think you got it backwards, babe. You see, I'm the 'not bad looking at best' one while you've got the supermodel looks. You'd be on the wrong side of the canvas."
"You're sweet, but I don't think so, something tells me you paint about as well as you dance."
"That was a low blow."
"So are you game, then?"
"Won't we just be reenacting some goofy Titanic scene?"
"We're not going to hit an iceberg, and besides, you don't look anything like Kate Winslett. But, if you don't want to do it…"
"OK, OK." That whole "if you don't want to" thing always works on me! "Where do I pose?"
"Hold on. Need to go get my stuff. Just wait here."
Who knew? One minute I'm dropping off a DVD to my buddy Lelanni's house and the next minute I'm a subject for her art class.
Hmmm, thought she'd want a good grade.
Lelanni. You know, she has a last name, but most people can't ever remember it. Her name's taken on a kind of Madonna/Bono/Prince/Brazilian soccer player quality. I mean, how many Lelanni's do you know, anyway? Lelanni's pretty popular here on campus, and not just because of her name. She's drop dead gorgeous, you see, and the funny thing, I don't think she really knows it. I was always convinced every woman on the planet knew how pretty (or not) they were, but it's always seemed to me that Lelanni was flat oblivious to how lovely she really was.
Where do I start? Was it the look in her dark, mysterious eyes? Maybe it was the fullness in her thick jet black hair that begged for my fingers to run through (Then again, maybe it was my fingers doing the begging!) Or maybe, it was her silky, dark skin that I longed to press against mine! When I first saw Lelanni at a wedding six months ago it was all those qualities, at first. Took me an hour to work up the nerve to speak with her, but when I finally did, I realized how approachable she was.
"Hi, I'm Steve."
You see, it took me that full hour to come up with that!
"Well, hello there, I'm Lelanni." She returned my greeting with a warm, enthusiastic smile, no doubt caught up in the gaitey of the festivities and NOT from anything clever I had just said.
OK, where to go from here?
"I noticed you out there dancing before, and I just wanted to say how beautiful I thought you were."
Direct approach never hurts, I'd supposed.
"Why, thank you, you're very sweet."
Hmmm, "sweet" wasn't what I was really looking for, you know, with "sweet" being the harbinger to "you're just like a brother to me", but at least she's not blowing me off.
"I don't know you. And I know just about everybody here."
"Well, I was in the same…"
"OH. MY. GOD. Let me guess. You read about the wedding in the paper, right?"
"No, I…"
"You're totally crashing this wedding, aren't you?"
"No, no!, let me…"
"Let me see your invitation!"
Dumbstuck, I reached into my coat pocket, like a total geek I actually did have my invitation with me.
"Put it away, god, I'm just messin' with you. Had you going now, didn't I?" Had me going she did, but I found myself unable to stop looking at her eyes as they twinkled with delight. I felt a goofy grin spread across my face, you know, the kind you get when you instantly hit if off with someone. "Oh, I totally love this song, dance with me, please!" she said to me.
Dance with me. The three most dreaded words six-foot five inch white guys hate to hear. Even when they come out of the mouth of a gorgeous female. My eyes turned to Lelanni's hips as they began to sway to the sassy salsa music. I didn't know the song but Lelanni was already singing to it. The flutter in my stomach and hot rush down to my ankles suggested something between giddy excitement and sheer terror as I felt Lelanni take me by the hand and lead me to the dance floor.
"I don't really know how to dance. Like at ALL!"
"Don't worry. Just follow my lead, you'll be fine. Relax."
Relax. Oh, OK. No prob.
I tried to remind myself not to bite my lower lip like all the other tall white guys out there. Every ounce of Lelanni's body fell into the rhythm of the music as her hips, her arms, her dark hair all absorbed the Latin beat.
I, on the other hand, had to make the conscious decision to begin dancing, not sure quite what to do first. I felt the cold beads of sweat start to run down my back anticipating the humiliation. At least I was out there with the hottest girl in the room.
"Like this," she said, trying to encourage me. Lelanni's body was made to move to this music. Mine wasn't. It was easier said than done to get my body to move "like this". While I tried to be a good pupil and a good sport, Lelanni saw I had all the dance prowess of Young Frankenstein moving to
Puttin' on the Ritz.
My foot crashing down on hers once (
OK, twice
) didn't help matters, either. But it seemed it was just the dancing me she was giving up on. "Let's go get a drink, I'm pretty parched," she said, mercifully ending my brief stay on the dance floor.
While I'm sure Lelanni did know most of the people at the wedding (turns out the bride was a relative of hers), we wound up talking through most of the reception. Thoughts of "scoring" with her went out of my mind rather quickly, you know, no goofy lines like "I'm a much better horizontal dancer than a vertical one!" Even though it was true! Not that I'm that great a lover, just a totally crap dancer!
We seemed to forge a quick friendship after the wedding, me and Lelanni, which was great since we went to the same school. How I'd missed her on campus before was beyond me. We'd spend a great deal of time together. Liked a lot of the same movies, and music, too. But while she was the fine arts major, I continued struggling through proofs and theorems in the math department.
My time with Lelanni was a nice diversion. Found myself learning the fine points of painting—the stuff Lelanni did was just beautiful—I'd never appreciated what went into it before. Heck, I thought people painted naked people just for the thrill. And while dancing was her other passion, I never did get another dance lesson. She knew I was hopeless!
So, what to do with myself as Lelanni goes to get her painting "stuff"? Well, I guess I'd better undress, god this is embarrassing.
Once naked, I found a small white washcloth that had been lying around. Don't know why it was there and wasn't about to ask. I was grateful for the "Me, Tarzan" look my makeshift loincloth was creating.
Though I wasn't quite sure where to sit, or even HOW to sit, this was about as comfortable as the time between when the nurse tells you to disrobe and you're sitting on the cold examining table with nothing but a paper gown, and the time the doctor comes in to do whatever it is he needs to do. After all, how's a guy supposed to look nonchalant when he's naked, sitting in a chair, with nothing but a washcloth-turned-loincloth to conceal his emerging hardon; needless to say, there was something erotic about a beautiful girl wanting to paint you naked.
"Steve, what the HELL are you doing?" Lelanni's exclamation quickly brought me out of my wandering thoughts. I hadn't even heard the door open, but I did hear her reaction to what she saw. That and the sound of the easel falling through her hands and onto the carpet.
"Well, not like this isn't embarrassing or anything, Lelanni. I was just getting myself prepared for..." As I scrambled for more cover, the washcloth dropped to the floor, exposing my, errr, excitement over an impending gonna-get-painted-while-naked-by-a-beautiful-woman experience.
"…for WHAT?!? You're…God, cover yourself up!" Lelanni was protesting but not exactly looking away. "I wanted to paint your face for cryin' out loud."
"But I thought you only did nudes. Mighta helped if you'd told me."
"Well, I didn't think you were just gonna strip on me. You gonna at least put your pants on?"
"Yeah, sure." Somewhat humiliated and red-faced, I wriggled back into my pants, now a bit tight thanks to my erection, which, despite my embarrassment belied some of my latent feelings for Lelanni. She quickly gathered up her easel and watercolors, and we were soon in business.
I couldn't quite figure out the impish smile that spread across Lelanni's lovely face as she made her brushstrokes. Nor could I figure out how to make myself comfortable. Posing. Hardon. Embarrassment.
Like being back in the waiting room. Where was the year-old Newsweek to complete the effect?
"Just sit back in the chair and relax," said the grinning Lelanni. "You're making this a lot harder than it needs to be."
