Not wanting to lose my nerve, I shifted from my own discomfort to watching him. Luke was meticulous. He had his easel set up and he was pulling my kitchen table next to it so that he could surround himself with his supplies. He had pencils, charcoal, and pastels. He also had erasers and those white pointy things that artists use to blend stuff. He laid them all out neatly on the table.
He was wearing jeans and a gray t-shirt. He had recently hung his hat by the door. A couple of weeks ago, I put a hook there, so he had a place for his hat that Mr. Wiggles couldn’t access. Prior to the hook, Wigs had taken to cuddling with Luke’s hat and leaving a furry gray trail in his wake. There is a certain sex appeal to a man in a hat, but I liked Luke without his. His hair was thick and straight, highlighted naturally by the sun. It was the kind of blond hair that women dream about and spend their whole lives trying to attain, only when it was framing this rugged masculine face, it lost all its femininity and became something wholly male. Like usual, he had it pulled back into a quick loose bun at the nape of his neck. This man was such a magical collision of things. A cowboy who couldn’t eat cows. A rugged man with so many soft edges. A brother who was keeping his creative heart from his family but couldn’t seem to be anything but honest in his daily interactions. He felt so authentic to me—so raw and true.
I watched him until he checked and double-checked his materials. Once he was certain they were as he wished, he crossed to a kitchen chair, sat down, and took off his boots and socks.
“Whenever I’m in class, I wish I was barefoot.” The way he said the words made them feel like a secret. “I always draw barefoot at home.”
He actually had really sexy feet. Like the rest of him, they looked strong, like they were rooting him to the earth.
I smiled at the private detail, “Mi casa es su casa,” I offered.
He stood, “Well, I guess I’m all set.”
I tried to sound jovial and free-spirited when I said, “Okay, boss, how do you want me?” But it came out clunky and uncomfortable.
Maybe trying to quiet my nerves, he said, “Why don’t we just start by taking off your top, leave everything else on and lean back a little and we can slowly progress to a more,” he paused, searching for the right word, “classic pose.” A.K.A naked, or as artists like to say, nude.
I crossed my arms in front of me and pulled my t-shirt over my head, tossing it next to me on the couch. Being shirtless before him didn’t feel shocking or soul-bearing. It felt normal, but the thought of removing the other items of clothing still had me rattled. I leaned back a little, pushing my breasts out and lifting my heart. I used my hands to balance, shaking my hair out so that it fell away from my shoulders.
“Like this?” I asked, confirming I was as he wanted me.
He bit his lower lip. “Yes... turn your chin slightly to the right. Good, I want to study your face. I am always at an angle in class. Are you comfortable?” he asked.
I adjusted a touch. It was a thing I had learned to do after my first few times modeling, check in with my body to make sure I could comfortably hold my position for a while. I decided I could, and then, I slowed my breaths and stilled.
He took a charcoal pencil and put it to the paper, but then he put it down again.
“The light isn’t right,” he muttered, crossing the room to adjust the curtains and then moving a novelty lamp that was sitting on one on the couch’s side tables. The lamp was akin to the lamp in A Christmas Story, a giant fish-netted gamb, wearing a red heel and topped off with a lampshade. What can I say? I liked kitsch. Luke pulled the shade off the leg, exposing the raw lightbulb. I imagined that with a brighter light off to my right, he’d created more shadows, but to be honest, I didn’t know much about lighting. He returned to his position behind his easel, and looked at me again.
“That’s better,” he said the words to himself, and then he immediately began to sketch. He worked feverishly, using multiple pencils, holding them in his teeth and tucking them behind his ears. From my seated position, I was looking up at him. He’d glance at me. Sometimes his eyes would meet mine, other times, he’d just briefly focus on whatever aspect he was working on and then his eyes would return to the drawing before him. In general, he was quiet, an occasional instruction here or there, but overall focused on his work.
It was warm in the room. It rarely got really hot in Montana, but today was unseasonably warm and with all the lights, there was a sheen of sweat on his skin and mine.
After a bit, he slowed. He removed the sketch he’d been working on from the easel, placing it down on the table. I couldn’t see it. I didn’t try. I respected his need to show me on his own schedule.
“A break?” I questioned.
“Anytime you want,” he replied.
I stood, stretched for a minute.
“You look beautiful,” he said. He told me often. I gave him a little half-smile. Then I went to pee. When I came back, he had removed his t-shirt and was situating the pillows. Luke shirtless is a gift from all the gods. If Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Yahweh, and Vishnu ever had a powwow, it was to create Luke’s torso. Broad shoulders, tight pecs, washboard abs, he was like sculpted marble.
“Is it naked time now?” I tried to tease but it came out quiet and introspective.
He nodded, curtly, like he was trying not to make a big deal out of the whole thing.
I slipped my jeans off first, dropping them next to my discarded t-shirt. He was still standing close, waiting for me to lay on the couch so he could position me. I heard his deep intake of breath. He reached for me, running his hand over the cup of my bra, gently kneading my breast beneath the fabric. My nipples puckered instantly. I dropped my head back and a little guttural sound escaped. As if my noise alerted him to his own behavior, he dropped his hand back to his side, huffed air out his nose, and swallowed. I took a deep breath. Unsnapped my bra and let it fall to the floor. Then, I pulled down my panties and stood again.
My blue hair cascaded over my shoulders, covering my breasts. I thought of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. He took a step back, taking me in. He didn’t know it, but he was giving me something. Something bigger than modeling in front of a class of strangers. Luke made me his muse and there was this giant bravery required to embody that role and it felt sexy and brazen and bold. My body was his to peruse—it was his to pose, his to have and devour. But it was mine. I was accepting my body as a thing worthy of his worship and granting him access.
“Lie down,” he commanded, his voice rough with desire.
I did, but my heart was anything but relaxed. It raced in my chest like I was preparing to parachute out of an open plane door.
“Shift to your side, just a bit. Yes, like that.” He crossed to me, again, gently placing another pillow behind me. “Do you know Manet’s Olympia?” he asked.
I nodded.
“I was thinking you could position yourself like that.”
Shamelessly breathless, I said, “Show me what you want.”
Again, he curtly nodded, maintaining some semblance of professionalism, but he was standing and I was lying on the couch, so from my vantage, I was well aware of how my nakedness was affecting him. He bent over me, running his hands up my sides until he got to my shoulders. He shifted the left one forward and the right one back. Then, he propped my right elbow up on the pillow in such a way as to push forward my breast bone just a bit and reveal the fullness of my bust. Unlike Manet’s Olympia, he draped my blue tresses so that they framed my breasts. As he worked, I became more and more aware that his breathing was as labored as mine.