Under the wrong circumstances it could've been a beastly weekend. August weather dropped in. Unfortunately, it's still June.
Thankfully as a diversion my friend Flaca asked me to pose. She finds my muscle mass "instructive." It hones her sketching or chiaroscuro skills. Between her and the invariably good wine she decants whatever apprehensions I ever had have vanished.
Flaca's critical eye is harsh but accurate.
Her real name isn't Flaca. At first, it was a joke between us because of our physical disparities. Now that her life here in the States is secured why draw undue attention?
I mistook Flaca for an Argentine. That's how we met. Then Argentina rattled around my brain. I thought she had to have been from there.
Hurried introductions, then I asked.
Close, though, no. A Spaniard by way of sneaking in through Mexico. She's only recently been given her documents.
She prefers nervy people. Seeing as how her life has been one knock on the door from being chucked, I understand. Those timid in her estimation cannot live fully.
There is a zest in Flaca. Nothing showy. But if you're uninteresting, she'll treat you like human wallpaper. Having gained her trust I can say is a fine thing. She embellishes stories by flashing her eyes, then emphasizes them all the more with her hands.
Our city has established an artists enclave. It's copied how other cities have made neglected areas inviting to artists, who colonize, make improvements, rendering the formerly marginal vibrant.
Flaca's studio is in a converted high-rise office building. It's on the uppermost floor and faces west. Late afternoons provide the strongest light.
After a brief feeling out period, she asked me to pose. I'd seen her work exhibited. She works mainly in oils and acrylics. This girl has no temperament for watercolors. Boldness suits her.
I've commented on all I'd seen. Most I liked, some I've never figured out.
Once you're able to step outside your body, the sessions' 20 minute intervals are a snap. During a break in one of our first sessions, Flaca asked what allowed me to present myself so freely. We'd known each other well enough to converse. This was our first confidence.
When I was younger and in perfect shape, I refused an artist's offer. The idea of being exposed then interpreted (possibly misinterpreted) made me anxious. Later, say, some 10 years on, I refused another artist's request. Then I had been vain, concerned with embarrassment. Age and experience erased those excuses.
Any critiques now would be of my shell; not who I am.
The robe came before the wine. Initially I wore a simple terry bathrobe. When our familiarity became greater, Flaca presented me a silk garment. At best opaque, against light or tightly across skin, it was nearly diaphanous.
Flaca insisted I wear it. The clump-thump of my heavy robe bothered her. She much rather hear silk slipping off my skin.
She never watched me disrobe. Between covered and naked, she bowed her head during that transition. Flaca relied on sound.
I forgot what prompted the wine. One afternoon it was the usual fruit juices, the next a good vintage. Neither of us needed anything to relax. Admittedly, though, the wine's addition further lightened the atmosphere.
Our trust deepened.
We're both reserved. No, we're each observant.
She maintains a string of lovers. When she told me I laughed, informing her I wasn't ready for exclusive dibs either. We shared a good laugh at our mutual recognition.
Along with the expected furnishings, Flaca's studio also contains a couch and bed. She uses the couch for odalisques, the bed for late work nights.
We've only recently started sleeping together. She always insists on her apartment being the site. This way she can choose whether her partner is worthy of lasting through breakfast.
Frankly Flaca was curious. Her previous and other current partners are younger, slim and narrow-shouldered. All of which I am not. Nor do any of them have gray filings creeping through their scalps like I do.
Flaca is not sublime. She has a square forthright face often set in preoccupation. Hers is the same expression I saw repeated along Buenos Aires' Calle Arenales. But Flaca isn't browsing boutique windows.
Naked, Flaca is pale, slender, short. Her hips are boyish. A womanly chest spoils any bid for androgyny.
In her bedroom she has toys. I think she hoped to shock me with them. That, and the admission she enjoys women, too. Indifferent to her revelations, I simply asked why is every woman's strap-on an extra-large black one.
As I wrote before, her residency was murky. Months ago agents from our crack immigration service made threatening noises about deportation. The harmless aliens they roust but let the hostile ones roam with impunity. Perfect, no?
That explains the jam we're in today, doesn't it?
The pressure affected Flaca. She didn't show it around me, but I sure heard about it.
Mutual acquaintances of ours, hungry boys she'd finally bedded, who knew or guessed our situation, lent me their terrors. The similar stories made me suspect a scam. However, their sincerity was too solid to be a prank.
During a session shortly afterward, I raised the matter. Genuinely surprised, Flaca was astonished to discover I'd never known there were knives in her bedside nightstands. I like to think she never would've needed them against me.
Arsenal exposed, she laughed. Laughter broke her concentration so we cut short that portion of the session. Barely covered, and that from habit rather than decorum, I stepped down from the riser and joined her for an early glass of wine.
Flaca explained. Or tried to. Or tried making sense of her gestures and lovers' reactions.
Apparently to a man they all behaved like skippies. Given her tension, Flaca needed to tamp down her torment through good lovin'. Occasionally by assured men. The knives, what she did with the knives was merely her way of venting.
She wondered if I wanted a demonstration.
Having heard so many survival stories, no. But her demeanor signaled this was one of those pivotal friendship forever moments.
I agreed.
One might've mistaken her glee for a spoiled six-year-old's Christmas morning. Flaca ordered me to bed. While I complied, she stripped. Her nakedness wasn't unusual. Where she disrobed -- her studio -- was. Until that minute it'd strictly been business there. I probably looked at her harder then as she rifled desk drawers than I ever had before.
Finding what she sought, though hiding it behind her back, Flaca eased beside me in bed. I wanted to know what she held but my eyes were locked onto her brown ones.
Her free hand slid open my robe. Loose fingers skimmed along my torso. When we first went with each other she found my unshaven body too natural. I am way behind the plucked hairless curve. If God had desired me to be as smooth as a melon, He wouldn't have planted hair below my eyebrows.
The line won a laugh and her acceptance.
The loose fingers reached and tightened around the base of my ball sac. We both looked down. Her small hand grasped what resembled a big stalk of ugly bulbs. Flaca's other hand came out of hiding.
She held a long paint brush. I mentioned this. I expected a knife. She didn't have any knives in the studio. At least none with serious blades. She'd discounted scissors altogether.
Flaca demonstrated what had unnerved the others. Pretending the thin round handle was an edge, a sharp edge she added, Flaca slid it between her top fingers and my nuts. Since this was a paint brush, my balls flopped over on her fingers. On a knife, doubtlessly a big knife, they would've been two eggs on the griddle.
The others' horror became clear.
Flaca tossed the brush and released me. Nowhere near death, though given one great view of it nonetheless, I asked why she'd put those guys through that pace.
At first she declared a manifestation of her own fears. Then she turned it around. By forcefully addressing their inadequacies Flaca hoped they'd improve. Pronto. If not sooner.
I didn't know what sense could be made from her answer. Though let me say I now realize she probably has a better grasp of English than most of us natives.
Flaca's tenuous residency and the psychosexual response it provoked have been resolved. She has an elementary education degree as well as speaks four languages.
To augment her creativity, she assumed a teaching position at an ecole. The director is a naturalized gentleman from France. I can well imagine how her difficulties aroused his benevolence. He professes enjoying hot dogs and comprehending American sports. Yet at heart he remains French. Using his best Gallic force of reason and providing enough official paperwork to overwhelm, he sped Flaca towards proper status.
If he forgets she's a colleague and not a protege, maybe she can revive that knife trick.
So Flaca's looking over her shoulders days are done. Confirmation arrived Thursday. Standing before her on Friday I considered how we might celebrate. Le Corsaire is in repertory at the ABT.
She's always been stirred by the dancers' athleticism.
Thankfully as a diversion my friend Flaca asked me to pose. She finds my muscle mass "instructive." It hones her sketching or chiaroscuro skills. Between her and the invariably good wine she decants whatever apprehensions I ever had have vanished.
Flaca's critical eye is harsh but accurate.
Her real name isn't Flaca. At first, it was a joke between us because of our physical disparities. Now that her life here in the States is secured why draw undue attention?
I mistook Flaca for an Argentine. That's how we met. Then Argentina rattled around my brain. I thought she had to have been from there.
Hurried introductions, then I asked.
Close, though, no. A Spaniard by way of sneaking in through Mexico. She's only recently been given her documents.
She prefers nervy people. Seeing as how her life has been one knock on the door from being chucked, I understand. Those timid in her estimation cannot live fully.
There is a zest in Flaca. Nothing showy. But if you're uninteresting, she'll treat you like human wallpaper. Having gained her trust I can say is a fine thing. She embellishes stories by flashing her eyes, then emphasizes them all the more with her hands.
Our city has established an artists enclave. It's copied how other cities have made neglected areas inviting to artists, who colonize, make improvements, rendering the formerly marginal vibrant.
Flaca's studio is in a converted high-rise office building. It's on the uppermost floor and faces west. Late afternoons provide the strongest light.
After a brief feeling out period, she asked me to pose. I'd seen her work exhibited. She works mainly in oils and acrylics. This girl has no temperament for watercolors. Boldness suits her.
I've commented on all I'd seen. Most I liked, some I've never figured out.
Once you're able to step outside your body, the sessions' 20 minute intervals are a snap. During a break in one of our first sessions, Flaca asked what allowed me to present myself so freely. We'd known each other well enough to converse. This was our first confidence.
When I was younger and in perfect shape, I refused an artist's offer. The idea of being exposed then interpreted (possibly misinterpreted) made me anxious. Later, say, some 10 years on, I refused another artist's request. Then I had been vain, concerned with embarrassment. Age and experience erased those excuses.
Any critiques now would be of my shell; not who I am.
The robe came before the wine. Initially I wore a simple terry bathrobe. When our familiarity became greater, Flaca presented me a silk garment. At best opaque, against light or tightly across skin, it was nearly diaphanous.
Flaca insisted I wear it. The clump-thump of my heavy robe bothered her. She much rather hear silk slipping off my skin.
She never watched me disrobe. Between covered and naked, she bowed her head during that transition. Flaca relied on sound.
I forgot what prompted the wine. One afternoon it was the usual fruit juices, the next a good vintage. Neither of us needed anything to relax. Admittedly, though, the wine's addition further lightened the atmosphere.
Our trust deepened.
We're both reserved. No, we're each observant.
She maintains a string of lovers. When she told me I laughed, informing her I wasn't ready for exclusive dibs either. We shared a good laugh at our mutual recognition.
Along with the expected furnishings, Flaca's studio also contains a couch and bed. She uses the couch for odalisques, the bed for late work nights.
We've only recently started sleeping together. She always insists on her apartment being the site. This way she can choose whether her partner is worthy of lasting through breakfast.
Frankly Flaca was curious. Her previous and other current partners are younger, slim and narrow-shouldered. All of which I am not. Nor do any of them have gray filings creeping through their scalps like I do.
Flaca is not sublime. She has a square forthright face often set in preoccupation. Hers is the same expression I saw repeated along Buenos Aires' Calle Arenales. But Flaca isn't browsing boutique windows.
Naked, Flaca is pale, slender, short. Her hips are boyish. A womanly chest spoils any bid for androgyny.
In her bedroom she has toys. I think she hoped to shock me with them. That, and the admission she enjoys women, too. Indifferent to her revelations, I simply asked why is every woman's strap-on an extra-large black one.
As I wrote before, her residency was murky. Months ago agents from our crack immigration service made threatening noises about deportation. The harmless aliens they roust but let the hostile ones roam with impunity. Perfect, no?
That explains the jam we're in today, doesn't it?
The pressure affected Flaca. She didn't show it around me, but I sure heard about it.
Mutual acquaintances of ours, hungry boys she'd finally bedded, who knew or guessed our situation, lent me their terrors. The similar stories made me suspect a scam. However, their sincerity was too solid to be a prank.
During a session shortly afterward, I raised the matter. Genuinely surprised, Flaca was astonished to discover I'd never known there were knives in her bedside nightstands. I like to think she never would've needed them against me.
Arsenal exposed, she laughed. Laughter broke her concentration so we cut short that portion of the session. Barely covered, and that from habit rather than decorum, I stepped down from the riser and joined her for an early glass of wine.
Flaca explained. Or tried to. Or tried making sense of her gestures and lovers' reactions.
Apparently to a man they all behaved like skippies. Given her tension, Flaca needed to tamp down her torment through good lovin'. Occasionally by assured men. The knives, what she did with the knives was merely her way of venting.
She wondered if I wanted a demonstration.
Having heard so many survival stories, no. But her demeanor signaled this was one of those pivotal friendship forever moments.
I agreed.
One might've mistaken her glee for a spoiled six-year-old's Christmas morning. Flaca ordered me to bed. While I complied, she stripped. Her nakedness wasn't unusual. Where she disrobed -- her studio -- was. Until that minute it'd strictly been business there. I probably looked at her harder then as she rifled desk drawers than I ever had before.
Finding what she sought, though hiding it behind her back, Flaca eased beside me in bed. I wanted to know what she held but my eyes were locked onto her brown ones.
Her free hand slid open my robe. Loose fingers skimmed along my torso. When we first went with each other she found my unshaven body too natural. I am way behind the plucked hairless curve. If God had desired me to be as smooth as a melon, He wouldn't have planted hair below my eyebrows.
The line won a laugh and her acceptance.
The loose fingers reached and tightened around the base of my ball sac. We both looked down. Her small hand grasped what resembled a big stalk of ugly bulbs. Flaca's other hand came out of hiding.
She held a long paint brush. I mentioned this. I expected a knife. She didn't have any knives in the studio. At least none with serious blades. She'd discounted scissors altogether.
Flaca demonstrated what had unnerved the others. Pretending the thin round handle was an edge, a sharp edge she added, Flaca slid it between her top fingers and my nuts. Since this was a paint brush, my balls flopped over on her fingers. On a knife, doubtlessly a big knife, they would've been two eggs on the griddle.
The others' horror became clear.
Flaca tossed the brush and released me. Nowhere near death, though given one great view of it nonetheless, I asked why she'd put those guys through that pace.
At first she declared a manifestation of her own fears. Then she turned it around. By forcefully addressing their inadequacies Flaca hoped they'd improve. Pronto. If not sooner.
I didn't know what sense could be made from her answer. Though let me say I now realize she probably has a better grasp of English than most of us natives.
Flaca's tenuous residency and the psychosexual response it provoked have been resolved. She has an elementary education degree as well as speaks four languages.
To augment her creativity, she assumed a teaching position at an ecole. The director is a naturalized gentleman from France. I can well imagine how her difficulties aroused his benevolence. He professes enjoying hot dogs and comprehending American sports. Yet at heart he remains French. Using his best Gallic force of reason and providing enough official paperwork to overwhelm, he sped Flaca towards proper status.
If he forgets she's a colleague and not a protege, maybe she can revive that knife trick.
So Flaca's looking over her shoulders days are done. Confirmation arrived Thursday. Standing before her on Friday I considered how we might celebrate. Le Corsaire is in repertory at the ABT.
She's always been stirred by the dancers' athleticism.