Nude Men

change my mind. I feel very handicapped and awkward, not being able to see the top half of my body, so I lie down on the floor, on my side, to see myself full length one last time before revealing myself to Lady Henrietta.
    “Are you okay in there?” she asks.
    I did not realize my foot was sticking out from under the curtain. There is a space between the bottom of the curtain and the floor, and she is looking at me under the curtain, and I am looking at her, and she can see me lying down.
    “Why are you on the floor?” she asks, very nicely. “Are you feeling okay?”
    “I’m feeling fine,” I say, still lapping up the blood and wishing she’d stop watching me. “I was looking at myself in your strange half mirror. Is there any reason why it is so low?”
    “I’m sorry if it bothers you. I feel it relaxes men not to look at their top half. The top half is where they can see their anxiety. And it’s not just in their face, it’s in the position of their shoulders, the way their arms hang. It’s bad for the nerves to see your own anxiety.”
    Well, maybe I’m strange and different from every other man, but personally, I believe it’s my bottom half that makes me most nervous.
    I decide I have no choice. I can’t back out, no matter what.
    I’m just about to emerge, when Lady Henrietta says, “Would it make you feel better if another model came and posed next to you?”
    “No,” I answer, and pull back the curtain.
    I don’t take my eyes off her as I step out, so I can see her reaction to my naked body. Will she look down? That is the question. Or will she keep her eyes on mine? She does look down, but so casually and rapidly that it makes me feel even less uncomfortable than if she had not looked down at all, which would have suggested she was using all her willpower to resist the temptation of looking at my thingy, which would have brought more attention to it. She acts perfectly normal, makes no strange expression, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, which surprises me a little but is great.
    She leads me to the couch behind the easel and asks me to lie down in the most comfortable position I can find. I must say, she looks and acts very professional.
    She starts painting, and she makes me talk about my life, and she talks about her life. I am amazed at how comfortable she is able to make me feel. I like her more and more because of it. Next to her is a tray of small marzipan pigs and rabbits, which she nibbles on while she paints. After an hour or so, she puts a big sheet over the canvas and says she is finished for today.
    “Can I see it?” I ask.
    “No,” she answers. “Never until it is completely done and dry.”
    She tells me that I am a very good model and asks if I would mind coming over and posing again. I eagerly agree. We set a date.
    “By the way,” I say, “how should I call you? Lady Henrietta, or Henrietta, or Lady?”
    “Henrietta is fine. Do you know why I call myself Lady Henrietta?”
    “No.”
    “Have you ever read The Picture of Dorian Gray?”
    “No.”
    “Well, you should. It’s my bible. There is a character in there, Lord Henry, who is in a certain sense my god. I admire his philosophies of life. I decided to take the liberty of making myself the female version of his character. He is Lord Henry. I am Lady Henrietta.”
    I leave, on great terms with her and very happy and in love. The next appointment is in five days. The moment I step out of her building I run to the nearest bookstore and buy The Picture of Dorian Gray. I read it that evening, and I am puzzled. Lord Henry is not a particularly admirable character. Some might even call him mildly evil: a meek devil. His chief sin is manipulation for the sake of manipulation. I must admit that his ideas about life are amusing in their extreme cynicism, but I don’t understand. I did not detect any similarities between Lord Henry and Lady Henrietta. Perhaps similarities will soon surface, in which case I will not be overly disappointed, because the evil in question is rather more like spice than like, let’s say, poison or acid.
     
    I suppose my elephant wish did not come true. I suppose I’m not the most beautiful man Henrietta has ever seen. Though maybe I am. She did nothing to indicate that I definitely was not. As for her falling in love with me, there’s no way to tell if that part of my wish came true. It probably didn’t. I must stay pessimistic, for my own good. Some people might even call it