Kenosha Writers’ Group

This month’s spotlight is on S’zanne M’Chel

POSSIBILITIES
By S’zanne M’Chel

She could swear her vagina was sweating. She could feel the rivulets of moisture cascading between her legs, and was sure the seat beneath her would be damp once she stood. It wasn’t a sexual feeling. In fact, she was sure that if she touched a finger to it, it wouldn’t come away feeling silky and glycerin-like. If tasted, it would be salty like the beads on her brow, and those sliding down her hairline. Yes, it was most assuredly sweat. Since her body was covered in it, she shouldn’t have been surprised that there was a wellspring between her thighs too.

She wasn’t exactly sure what the hell she had been thinking when she signed up for this class, but finding herself sitting on a grey metal stool, dressed only in her tattered old, mauve colored robe, she suspected she hadn’t been thinking at all. Why, as her friends had pointed out, if she was going to have a mid-life episode, hadn’t she just taken a lover?

She was quite happy with her marriage, and an affair was the farthest thing from her mind. Besides, there weren’t a wealth of prospects. Should she attempt to seduce her geriatric neighbors, or the moon-eyed teen-aged sons of her friends? Perhaps some nice divorced men her own age? They all seemed to come with baggage. Maybe a married man? They had so much baggage it resembled the luggage carousels at O’Hare airport. Not much in the way of choices. But, this wasn’t about sex at all.

None of the few friends that she had confided in understood this. They all thought she was suffering from The Change. They thought she should go shopping, get a tattoo or something pierced, or maybe see her physician for some happy pills. But it wasn’t about menopause or depression either.

She had attended an opening at an obscure little gallery, and in the back of the exhibit catalogue, she had noticed a small advertisement for models.

ARTIST MODELS NEEDED.
All ages (over 18) and body styles welcome.

When she inquired at the reception desk about the modeling position, she was handed a 3×5 index card and instructed to fill it out by a disinterested volunteer patron of the arts.

Without batting an eyelash, she dug around in her handbag until she found a pen, filled in the brief form which merely asked for name and telephone number, and dropped it into the box as instructed. The corner of the form still sticking up caught her eye, prompting her to remove it and add at the bottom in small, precise print “no prior experience” before returning it to the slot in the box and tapping it down completely.

Her heart beat wildly for days afterwards every time the phone would ring. Then days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. She had put it completely out of her mind; assuming that even artists had standards they expected their models to meet, one of them being “experienced”.

She had been in the middle of some mundane household chore when the call came. She never heard the phone. But checking the messages later, she found one that simply state that the gallery was scheduling their autumn classes and if she was still interested in modeling to please call back. She sat down in the middle of the floor and with a shaking hand, dialed the number.

The gallery owner answered.
-Yes- she was still interested.
-Yes- she was available this Saturday. (So soon!)
-No, I’ve never done this sort of thing before.-

Pause on the other end of the phone. She held her breath waiting to be told they couldn’t use her as a model after all. Waiting to be told that they preferred their models to have at least “some”, as opposed to “no” experience.

Instead, the owner assured her that was fine. Suggested that she check out a few books from the local library and just practice sitting in one pose for 15 to 20 minutes at a time.
-Oh, and, bring a robe and slippers when you come.- Click.

That was how she found herself sitting in her old robe, on a grey metal stool in the middle of a life drawing class sweating, as the term went, like a pig. She played with the ends of her sash and realized that she would need to mend it before the next session.
Would there be another session? Would she survive this one? Would the instructor hate her so much, that he would ask her not to complete this session?

And the side seam too, below the pocket, where far too much of her hip was exposed to the cool air circulating the room. Which would seem a very moot point in a few minutes, she thought, as more than just her hip would be exposed.

The instructor hadn’t been overly friendly when she had arrived and introduced herself as the model. He merely gestured to the corner of the room where a makeshift changing area had been erected behind wall flats, and told her to “get ready”. She had excused herself and found a restroom first, making sure afterwards that no stray tissue stuck to her nether regions. If having tissue stuck to her shoe would be embarrassing, imagine it stuck to her derri’re? That was probably when she started to get nervous. Or at least, more so than she had been all week.

She returned to the corner and slowly removed her clothing. First her jeans, which she folded side seam to side seam, then in thirds down the leg. Placing them on the single wooden chair in the corner. Next came her sweater, folding it with the same deliberate motions as she had the jeans.

She stood before the mirror and paused as she removed her bra. She liked her breasts, although gravity, child bearing and breast feeding had softened them and she found them much less perky than when she was a teen. She hefted first one then the other in the palm of her hand and felt comfort in their weight and familiarity. Immediately she noticed her nipples beginning to harden into peaks. The bra joined the neat pile of clothes with a quick flick of her wrist as she tossed it in the general direction of the chair and grabbed the robe from her satchel. Pushing her arms into it quickly before returning to the task of removing the rest of her clothes.

The last articles were her panties and socks. She averted her eyes as sensible, white cotton drawers slid down her legs, thumbs hooked into the waist band as first her left foot then her right foot stepped out of them. Standing straight, she tucked them quickly into the pocket of her jeans. The action prompted by modesty or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure which.

She couldn’t avoid her naked form any longer. There she was with her bread dough belly staring back at her. As much as she liked her breasts, she equally disliked her stomach. Two C-sections and an emergency appendectomy had all but destroyed her abdominal muscles. Add to that the peasant lineage of her family tree, and there was no avoiding the soft, rounded belly and hips that she had developed after her last child’s birth.

Her husband had never criticized the thickening of her middle. If his passions were any indication, she thought he preferred her softened frame to the angular one of their early years together. She often found him watching her in the mirror as she dressed or undressed with a smile on his face. The watching invariably turned into touching, and caressing. No, it was she that didn’t like her stomach. Well, the ad had said “all body types” didn’t it?

Just as she drew the edges of the robe closed and tightly cinched the sash, she caught a glimpse of the curls below her belly and realized she hadn’t been as adept with her razor in the shower that morning as she had thought. Lifting up the edge of the robe she peered into the mirror again. She laughed out loud. It was obvious that she was no better at trimming the triangle of hair between her legs than she was her bangs on her forehead; both came out uneven.

“Oh lord! Talk about a bad hair day.” she mumbled to herself, dropping her robe back into place. As she left the corner and crossed to the stool, she silently thought to herself, “That’s gonna take a while to grow out decently”.

Settling onto the stool, she listened to the instructor drone on about this master and that prodigy, tossing out names she didn’t recognize at all. He moved on to discuss the different mediums he planned to teach in this class and discussed the importance of shadow and light. She realized despite the years of scouring galleries and museums, she really didn’t know a damn thing about art. As he admonished his students to have “empathy for the model”, she realized that was her cue. It was now or never.

She stood and draped the robe over the stool and walked as gracefully as she could to the platform. There was an awkward moment, as her eyes panned the dozen or so students seated around the room. She thought how a few of them were young enough to be her own children; one even resembled her fair-haired son. She noticed a few more “mature” students, and realized that the class was an even mix of both genders.

She didn’t know what to do, and the silence dragged on as the students waited expectantly for her to strike a pose. Her arms feel limply to her sides and her heart began to beat wildly in her chest.

“I’ve never done this before.” She admitted in a low voice. “I don’t really know what you want me to do.”

With difficulty, she looked the instructor in the eye and waited for him to dismiss her. Instead, he merely suggested that she might try a traditional ballet pose. She fleetingly wondered how he knew she had been a dancer, as she automatically found her balance in a modified third position. After a few quiet seconds passed, he asked her to try placing her left hand on her hip. Satisfied with her pose, he returned to his own easel and instructed the students to begin.

As the scratching of graphite against textured paper filled the room, she began to relax. It was almost like meditation-breathing in and releasing slowly. She might not know art, but this she could do. The tension in her shoulders subsided as she gave herself up to all the possibilities that Life still held in store of her.