Dating Advice from . . . Makeup Artists by Marian Lorraine Q: I found lipstick on my boyfriend's collar. He swears it's his mom's. A: Check the color. His mother and the skanky homewrecker he's cheating on you with don't wear the same shade. /advice/
Despite the "nude" part of this operation, I worried about what to wear for an entire week. I decided to bring a range of outfits, from my favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants to a black-lace concoction that I honestly wasn't sure how to put on. It made me think of an old college friend who once purchased lingerie from Victoria's Secret only to hang it on her bedroom wall, like a piece of art, like it was ludicrous to think of actually wearing it.
But now that I'm here, I'm having trouble going all the way. Vallejo is kind and professional, and does not question why I signed up and yet remain clothed. I raise my arms awkwardly above my head and look flirtily at him, but it doesn't work: only Victoria's Secret models, duct-taped and lubed-up, look good like this. Still, Vallejo's boyish enthusiasm for his work is obvious and, though I thank my lucky stars that there are no full-length mirrors in the room, he doesn't seem to be comparing me to Heidi Klum.
He sketches me in every partially clothed pose possible. Our time's running out, and though I tell myself to just strip already, much like deciding to jump off a cliff, my body doesn't quite catch up with my mind. In a move evoking high-school gym locker rooms everywhere, I end up pulling on my pajama pants before taking off my skirt. Now I feel even more ridiculous. It's time to jump: I unclasp my bra and shrug it off. I feel the heat of my extreme blush flush my face, even as the cool air hits my nipples. As I move back to the center of the room, my emotions and my breasts are taut, and keen, and sensitive to everything.
Down go the pajama pants. I inch my cotton briefs down to my ankles. Like dipping my toes in freezing-cold water, I realize I'm not quite ready for it; I wrap a blanket around my body, hugging it close.
I inch my cotton briefs down to my ankles.
I find a new pose, laying on my stomach with by breasts resting on my arms, the blanket fully covering my nether regions. For the moment, this — knowing that, underneath my blanket, there is nothing else — is all I can manage. Still, there is a part of me that knows that if I don't bare all, I will have failed myself in some crucial way. And so, when my two minutes are up, I roll over onto my back and, quite deliberately, let the blanket slip lower.
I hold my breath.
My vagina is out.
I hold my breath some more. I consider covering it up.
But I came here for an Intimate Portrait — of course my vagina is out. Unlike Paris or Britney, I can't even pretend it's an accident. My legs open slightly. I can feel the warmth from the nearby space heater on my clitoris. Time spins out. There is only quiet, the whir of the space heaters, Vallejo shuffling paper, and me. Two minutes feel like forever but, in the space of those two minutes, I am suddenly aware that this is not the worst thing in the world. There is nothing to be afraid of.
When we eventually kneel on the floor, Vallejo's sketches laid out in front of us, it is a revelation to see the pencil drawings of myself. Lookit that, I think. I am portrait-worthy. For the rest of the day, we work on the final painting. My nakedness is an afterthought.
My husband loves the painting. The first time he saw it, he immediately wanted to drag me into the bedroom and have his way with me. He loves seeing the soft pillow of my breasts, the pink of one peeking-out nipple, and the dark V of my pelvic region rendered in pencils and oil paints. It makes him think of what's hiding underneath my clothes.
I love the painting, too, but not because of the way it makes my husband feel. Rather, I love the painting because of how peaceful I look, and how unconcerned I appear about the fact that my blanket has crept down, revealing the soft curves of my body as I slowly drift off to sleep. I look at the painting, and it seems to me that my body is just right. I haven't felt that way for some time.
I know the effects aren't permanent. The painting presents a new version of myself, and she's not someone I know intimately, yet. Still, I'll always be able to look at it and remember feeling that way: a muse for myself, whenever I am afraid and feel the need to cover up the best parts about me. Wherever they are located. n°
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Steph Auteri is a freelance writer and proofreader who has been published in Time Out New York, New York Press, Playgirl, and other bastions of fine writing. She maintains a professional site, www.stephauteri.com, and also blogs about freelancing over at Freelancedom. You can keep up on her day-to-day by visiting her Twitter page.
