“You don’t know what I’m about to do to you.”
“You can do whatever you want to me.”
“I’m going to touch you,” I said. “Is that okay?”
“I think so?”
“What I mean is, I just read an article about an artist who does self-portraits by touch, with her eyes closed. So she’s painting what she’s feeling more than what she’s seeing. And I’d like to do that to you.”
Joe shrugged. “Fine.”
Was it bravado? Or did he really not think me putting my hands all over him would be a big deal? Or maybe he wasn’t yet fully aware of how very much I was about to put my hands all over him.
I had to warn him. “Remember when I swore there would be no nakedness?”
“Yeah?”
“I might have to ask you for a smidge of nakedness.”
I could feel the grin that took over his face at that. “Are we going full Burt Reynolds?”
“No,” I said firmly—like that was the full answer. Then I amended, my face crinkled with apology, “But I do need you to take off your shirt.”
Joe shrugged. “Fine.”
No wonder Mr. Kim called him Helpful. I couldn’t get a no out of this guy.
All to say: Ready or not, we were doing this.
I led him toward my easel, where I’d placed a stool for him right up close. Everything had to be within arm’s reach—the stool, the canvas, the paints. By the time I had us set up, his knees were on either side of my thigh—close enough that we kept brushing and bumping against each other, over and over …
In a way that I worked very hard to experience as nonsensual.
Joe waited for instructions.
But I suddenly felt shy to give them. “So now … if you wouldn’t mind … I need you to take off your jacket … and your shirt, if that’s okay. Because … I don’t know if you know this about yourself, but your torso is really … compelling. And I just feel like it would be a tragic missed opportunity to leave it out.”
“You think my torso is compelling?” Joe asked, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over my sofa. I could feel him smiling.
“Yes,” I said, trying to clarify through tone of voice that my intentions were so honorable they were almost scientific. “Artistically. Visually. Mathematically, even. It’s compelling. To look at. By all objective standards. And so if I can capture that in the portrait, then the portrait will be compelling, too.”
Joe peeled off his T-shirt, and my eyes took in the sight without asking permission.
“You sure you’re good with this?” I asked.
“You’re much more nervous than I am.”
“I just want to make sure I have your consent.”
“I am one hundred percent consent.”
I’d painted many models over the years, and it was never nerve-racking like this. But this was different. Usually the models were across the room, not right up next to me. And I never touched them—just looked. And they were not people I had kissed. Or yelled at. Or eaten linguine with. Or ridden Vespas with. Or told about my mother. Or cried in front of.
They were always strangers.
That’s when I realized that Joe wasn’t a stranger.
I didn’t know exactly what he was to me, but he wasn’t a stranger.
All the touching I was about to do to him … it couldn’t be just an art project. It couldn’t be just about shapes and textures and tones. There were emotions involved.
I didn’t know how to get rid of them.
And I didn’t want to get rid of them.
And I suspected, honestly, that they’d make the painting better. If I could keep it together.
I lifted my hands up for Joe to see. “So,” I said, trying to make it all sound rational, “I’m going to touch everything that’s going to be in the portrait with these.” I shook my hands at him.
Joe nodded, like Cool.
“First I’m going to just kind of map you with my hands. And then once I’ve got a really 3-D mental picture, I’ll start sketching.”
Joe nodded again, like Let’s go.
But I was still hesitating. “I’m going to frame the portrait kind of from the waistband up. So I’m really going to have to touch you everywhere.”
“Got it,” Joe said.
“And I want you to know,” I went on, “what I’m about to do to you, I’ve also done to myself.”
That came out unexpectedly suggestive.
I was trying so hard to pretend like this was just another day at the office. Like I did this kind of thing all the time—no big deal. But my hands were weirdly cold. And I was strangely aware of my blood traveling through my body. And then, as I reached out to touch him, just before I made contact, my hand faltered.