I was listening to a Brigitte
Bardot CD in my car the other day, and was endlessly amused by the 60s chestnut
“Nue dans le soleil” (“Naked under the sun”); it evokes a wonder-world of naked
free expression, a childlike state of Edenic purity. Nudity has never seemed so
pure to me. Instead of the radical stainlessness of
childhood, I connect it with the (non) sartorial state required for healthy romping. What’s wrong with that?
Lots of people pose nude, some
in the name of art, others in the name of arousal. It is a synaptic jungle:
Sometimes art arouses as much as unalloyed eroticism. Perhaps
it’s the peculiarity of the individual mind. Some get off on the Venus of
Praxiteles, some get off the Venus of Willendorf.
The question remains fraught,
which I why I thought I’d give it a try; maybe I could get to the core (or at
least contribute to) the torrent of erotic images that overwhelm our culture
and bran-pains. In 2007, I noticed an ad for a local art class seeking nude
models for a drawing class. Of course, I love being naked, having sex naked,
writing about sex naked, and looking at unclothed figures, both male and
female, so I thought I might as well put some skin in the game, so to speak.
My figure is trim. It is
smaller than many expect; which gives me certain acrobatic advantages. In this
case, it allowed me to survive the physical rigors of posing. When I arrived
for the class, I learned that I was to crouch with my derriere facing the class
for 20 minutes, then stand against a wall for another 20. These are classic poses, the first
introspectively languid, the second evoking the curved torso of Greek statuary.
Seven men and four women, all bearing looks of profound concentration and
drawing with charcoal and pencil, surrounded me.
My nipples were as hard as
acorns during the session, not due to some carnal thrill, but the cold of the
room. Yet there is an undeniable sub-textual thrill, a frisson in the act of uncovering, a subversive feeling that reminds me of the ecstasy of a first-time f**k
with a new partner. Of course, the sensation inevitably fades but is delicious
in its brief passing. In this case, the excitement evaporated quickly. Ennui descended like fog.
The rest was pure
professionalism. I could see images of my ass and frontal glory materializing
on paper. The level of verisimilitude varied, but there were some mad skillz in
evidence. It all proceeded with order and discipline. In the end, I ran into
the dressing room and pulled on my jeans with record speed and hurtled into the
street, humming Brigitte Bardot to evoke the nude idylls I’d imagined but
somehow narrowly avoided.
My payment? $50 and a scan of
the most competent rendition of my ass. Feast your eyes on the results!
XO
Syl
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