LIFE MODEL

I’d taken a few life-drawing classes in college and was curious what it felt like to be the model. I’d never acted on it. Never even really given it much thought. It’d been well over a decade since I’d been a student enrolled in an art class. I’d since done my graduate work, married, and become an Associate Professor of Comparative Literature.

The job market in Academia is impossibly tight, so when I was offered a one-year Visiting Professorship at a small, but well-known Liberal Arts college, I immediately accepted. My husband, of course, could not just quite his job, and to buy a new house and sell ours and pick up and move half-way across the country for a one-year position just didn’t make sense. So he stayed, and I went back on semester breaks.

The separation from my husband was easier than I thought and harder. Work at school kept me plenty busy. Being surrounded by the young undergrads while being so separated from my husband made me realize how long it had been since I was a student, and how long ago I’d felt the adventure and life of being young. I felt like maybe fate had brought me to this new campus for a reason, although I had no idea it would involve me getting naked in front of a dozen undergrads.

One day I was walking across campus and ran into Professor Tuffel. Prof Tuffel (Helen) is one of those sweet ex-hippie studio art professors. She has straight grey hair in a page-boy cut and always wears baggy clothes and comfortable shoes. She’s like a favorite aunt, and has a way of making everyone around her feel relaxed. Except when I ran into her, she was not her usual relaxed self—in fact, she was a bit flustered. She explained that she was running off to her Art Fundamental class and that this week was supposed to be “life drawing,” but unfortunately the model she’d reserved had cancelled at the very last minute. Normally, a flaky student wouldn’t have stressed her out, but life drawing was a required part of the course’s curriculum, and she simple couldn’t have them just skip that part.

I sympathized with her as she explained and walked across the quad.
“Why don’t we ask one of these students,” I suggested, trying to be helpful. The quad was filled with students.

She sighed and explained that art models were actually work-study positions, handled through the administration, and that for reasons of red tape and legal risk, a professor could not approach an enrolled student and ask them to pose naked in front of other students. Helen shook her head. “Lawsuits,” she muttered. “Hell, in the 70s, I used to pose for my classes,” she said.

“Really?” I asked. I was intrigued. I tried to imagine Helen 30 years younger, posing for her art classes.

“Why don’t you now,” I suggested, trying my hardest to help solve the problem.

“Oh, dear, I wouldn’t mind so much, but they have ‘policy’ on that, too.”

“So it can’t be a student and it can’t be the instructor—can it be another professor from a different department?”

“Oh sure, of course,” she said. As long as it’s a third-party, so to speak, that has no connection to the class, then we’re in the clear.”

“Well, that’s perfect, then,” I said, enthusiastically. There were plenty of professors on campus.

“So you’ll do it?” she asked.

I stopped. I had been trying so hard to find a solution for Helen, it never occurred to me to be the volunteer.

For the past 16 years, I had only been naked in front of my husband. It seemed so sudden. Helen stood patiently as my mind raced. She had a look on her face that was gentle and kind. I knew it’d really help her out. I knew it would feel awkward, but I knew the students would be drawing so hastily that they wouldn’t have the time to go into detailed features, just the suggestion of the face. I also always had the clear understanding that I was only a visitor and would be gone. I figured: I am 36 years old, this will likely be the first and LAST time I am asked to model for anything. Maybe this is exactly what I needed.

“Ok,” I said, forcing my confidence.

Helen smiled. We walked quickly to the art building where her students were already starting to gather. Helen handed me a robe and pointed to the curtained off area where I could change.

There were already a half dozen students sitting around. They had their backpacks and pads. I had a bathrobe. Suddenly I felt like a complete outsider, and vulnerable. They would keep their clothes on, while I would be totally naked. When I agreed, I was only thinking of my own naked state. I hadn’t really connected my nakedness within the context of other people’s state of being dressed.

It was too late to back out. I marched straight to the changing area, robe in hand. As I undressed, I began to feel more and more self-conscious. What had I gotten myself into? I never had liked my breasts much. They were small compared to my hips. As I had aged, they seemed less perky, and my stomach and hips thicker and blockier. Also, I’d given up any pretense of shaving in the last months. It had seemed totally pointless to keep up just for myself. Now that I was standing naked and about to pose in front of a group of college students, I suddenly felt even more old-fashioned. I slipped on the robe.

Once I took my position in the center of the room, I let my robe drop. I looked only at my feet and not at the students. Instantly I heard the scribble of pencils on paper. Helen called out to change the pose every 30 seconds as the students warmed up.

The air was a little chilly in the studio, and I was conscious of my pinched nipples. Once you’re naked, you can’t really recover any modesty. So I let the students have an unobstructed view. Besides, having my nipples taunt made my breast more attractive, I think. It actually felt a little sexy to be standing in the center of the room, totally exposed, all eyes on me.

The quick poses helped me relax. No one was making a big deal out of anything—no laughing, snickering, or pointing. I realized probably none of the students had any clue I was a professor on campus and not simply a model. Context is everything. They hadn’t been introduced to me as a teacher, but only as the form in front of them. I knew that the artists saw me not as a person, but as a series of shapes, values of shadow, mass, and tone.

But still, the fact of being buck naked in front of a dozen or so college students was becoming arousing. I wanted to think the intensity of their stares as they looked up form their pads was to study each and every fold and line of my body, as if their eyes were hands caressing and exploring every inch of skin.

I moved around to offer different poses. Any form I put myself into could have been art to one set of eyes and porn to the other. When you’re circled by artists, one person sees the line of your arced back; the other gets a full frontal view.

We were going into a 20 minute pose, and I needed to find a position I could hold. So I got on my hands and knees, then stretched my hands out in front of me until my face was resting on the blanket. The students in front of me saw a teardrop shape. I knew it’d make a nice pose. For the students to the side, they had a view of my body like a triangle. And the students behind me got a view of my backside, my upturned buttock and legs, spread just a bit wider than needed.

It's funny, but I really like my backside. Doggy style is my favorite position. Having my buttock thrust into the air was like turning on a switch. It was like I was ready for sex, and my body, in a Pavlovian response, started getting wet.

I felt so sexy and so naughty. Most of the students were seeing me as an object of art. Whoever was behind me had a front seat view of my hairy vulva, gleaming with my own juices. I cold feel the eyes burning between my legs. I felt just the opposite of “Fine Art;” I felt so lewd. So exposed. Like being taken in an artistic orgy.

After the session was done, I slipped my robe back on and wandered around, looking at what the students had done. It was amazing to see my body transformed through their vision. I could recognize my own body—my breasts, my hips, my hair pulled back with my red tie. But on paper, I was made beautiful.

It felt very humbling and inspiring, and made me see my body as an object of genuine beauty in a way I never had before. I told Helen this and thanked the students. She said it was I who should be thanked for saving the students and then shared with the students that I had been a last-minute sub. Rather than it being awkward as I had feared, the art students were incredibly appreciative, and thanked me. They complimented me on my poses. Several even gave me some of their sketches.

I gratefully accepted a few. Several were lovely, the kind one might see in a gallery or museum. One, from the last pose, was downright lewd. It was drawn from the backside, showing my thatch of curls, and the outline of my vulva. Ironically, this image was drawn by a female student, but it was the most sexual drawing I had ever seen. She gave it to me and said that I was very brave, and a role model. She thanked me and left.

I knew I had to tell my husband eventually, so I figured the best way was to be upfront. I sent him the art. He was not upset at all—surprised, yes—but also turned on. He loved the idea that his wife had been brave enough to be an art model.

I didn't tell many people. My parents and my husband’s parents do not and never will know! But my close friends know. And it's still not something I broadcast, but I do talk about it occasionally.

We had the drawings matted and framed. The explicit one now hangs over the dresser in my bedroom. My husband likes to look at it for “inspiration,” he says. I, too, enjoy looking at it and remembering the experience.

Someday, I may give my niece one of the artistic nudes and say "way back when, your Aunt was young and crazy enough that she could model nude for an art class.”

Her mom might not understand, but I do now. Modeling nude is not only erotic, it’s like having a little secret that makes you feel more alluring, and self-confident. I think every young woman deserves that. I wish I had discovered that inner-power sooner. But now I have. I knew fate had something in store for me that year. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.