I Posed Nude for an Artist on our First Date

“Draw me like one of your French girls”

I’ve had a couple of less-than-usual first-dates; my most thrilling one involved getting my panties stuffed into my mouth before getting blindfolded and spanked.

Then, there was the less sexy first date, when I went on a 7k run with a marathon runner from Tindr. I still don’t have a clue how I managed to keep up, and talk the whole way through—and why he still wanted to go for a beer with me after; running tends to turn my face a deep shade of burgundy, but I guess I earned an A for effort…

Needless to say, I’m quite open to adventure, so when I flipped through OkCupid and ran into this inquiry, I stopped:

—I’m looking to get back into live-drawing. Would you like to be my model?

—Oh yes, I’d love to model, screamed my inner exhibitionist.

—Let’s make it a first-date, my audacious-self chimed in.

The exhibitionist in me agreed wholeheartedly.

—Let’s just make sure he’s not an ax-murderer first, my cautious self hesitated.

—Chill, we’re not idiots!

An art school graduate, I recognize the sensitive, hyper self-aware and equally self-absorbed artist-type from miles away. He was one; the nonchalant Nietche-reading hipster with a distinct knack for beauty—hard on the outside, soft like a baby’s bum on the inside.

I’d consciously stayed away from his type since leaving my ex, but we matched, and this one used words that spoke to me, so I spoke back:

—I might take you up on your drawing proposal.

I’ve always had a thing for the artist-muse relationship. Especially the ones where both mutually adore and inspire — reciprocally fuelling each other’s work.

After some light chatting, to reassure me that he was, in fact, no ax murderer (all though, he was a black metal vocalist) our first date was set.

I’ve always had a thing for the artist-muse relationship. Especially the ones where both mutually adore and inspire—reciprocally fuelling each other’s work. Ever since I watched the documentary Beautiful Losers in 2008, I dreamed of having a relationship like Ed and Deanna Templeton, making photos and paintings of each other and exhibiting them in galleries. I can think of few things more romantic. Sigh!

Dating a narcissistic artist for a decade only strengthened this fantasy. I was nowhere near his muse; not only did he hardly take a picture of me in general, and never one that made me feel noticed or recognized—he didn’t even flinch, of lift his gaze off his laptop screen when I performed a striptease and literally stuck my ass right in his face to get his attention.

I felt so damn invisible, and, my god, did I long to be seen. I wanted to be desired—badly!

I’d had lovers and a few photographers take my picture, but to be drawn nude sounded even more intimate than being photographed; beyond looking through a lens and clicking the release, the artist has to carefully study their model’s every line and curve, process the visual information and translate it onto paper: That’s next-level observation.

I’ll also admit, as a wee teen and dire DiCaprio fan when Titanic came out, that nude drawing scene was probably the hottest thing I’d seen at that point. I always wanted to quote Kate Winslet as Rose:

Draw me like one of your French girls!

It may not have been Jack Dawson who knocked on my door; but when my musician-photographer-cartoonist rolled up on his single-speed, wearing folded up skinny jeans and carrying a bottle of Merlot and a Moleskin sketchbook, I was more than pleased!

I let him into my candle-lit woman-cave and placed him among the too many pillows on my couch and poured the wine. We shared some stories and a few obscure literary references to further confirm our connection before I nodded towards the bedroom door.

—You ready?

The best thing about dating creative-types is that they always have plenty of ideas: They naturally know how to paint scenarios.

We’d already set rules: I was supposed to lay naked on my bed—staying as still as possible while touching myself, only to change positions if told to. I could look in his general direction but never make eye contact. At some point, he’d start to undress, but I could still not look at him. If I signaled him to, with a nod, he’d come closer to where we could touch each other.

The best thing about dating creative-types is that they always have plenty of ideas: They naturally know how to paint scenarios. I loved his detailed outline and followed gleefully.

Nude, I placed myself at the center of my bed, facing the door. I arched my back, cocked my head to the side and lowered my gaze to avoid his.

He didn’t speak, but let out a small gasp when he walked in, making me blush blithely. Finding a small stool, he sat down and pulled out his drawing tools. My right hand found my already dripping wetness and I did what I’d been told.

I continued to touch myself, and he continued to draw — and as I moved closer to climax, he moved closer to the bed.

Without touching me, I felt him caressing my whole body. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him trace me; eyes and hands working concertedly to record what he was seeing. In complete silence, I listened to the whisper of his pencil marking the paper. I heard my own heart beating. I heard him swallow heavily, working to stay calm.

I continued to touch myself, and he continued to draw—and as I moved closer to climax, he moved closer to the bed. By the time he started undressing, one layer at the time, I was yearning for his hands on me and nodded for him to join.

The drawn-out anticipation and build-up had us both in a frenzy: Ignited upon contact, we combusted in our joint flame and emerged panting and sweaty on the other end.

It’s rare that fantasy plays out as nicely in real life as it does in my head, but this one did. After a last glass of wine, my artist jumped back on his bike, leaving me this souvenir:

Circumstances only allowed us one more drawing date at the time, but I’ll always cherish this memory. And who knows, perhaps art-class will resume someday…