Nude Men

memory: the memory of what my body looked like, just this morning, in the mirror. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Perhaps the mirror fooled me with an unflattering optical illusion. I want to rip off my clothes, stand in front of a shop window, and examine my reflection to see if I made a mistake by agreeing to pose for the painter of nude men. I do not rip off my clothes. All I do, as I walk, is peek out of the corner of my eye to catch my image in a window. All I catch, reflected in a shoe store, is the shine of my spoon traveling stiffly by my side.
    But seriously now, why the hell did this woman come and talk to me? Maybe she’s eccentric, a little extravagant. Maybe she picks up strangers off the streets all the time to do God knows what. A madwoman. Maybe she’s just bold and unashamed to walk up to prospective models and frankly state her interest. No matter what, the fact is that I am now obsessed with my body, its adequacy or lack of it.
    By now you are probably dying to know what I look like. And the moment you find out, you’ll start comparing your physical appearance to mine, to judge if you, also, have a chance of one day being accosted by a creature equal in loveliness to the one who approached me at lunch.
    Let me spare you the trouble, for now, of having to make these degrading comparisons, and simply tell you that yes, you do have a chance, and no, I am not willing to describe my beauty or lack of it right now, other than to tell you that I’m not fat.
    Arriving at my office, I sit at my desk in semidarkness, staring blankly at the fat, round doorknob, and slowly I start puffing out my cheeks, digging my chin into my neck, creating a tiny, puny, double chin, spreading my ten fingers apart, lifting my arms away from my body, opening my thighs, and filling my stomach with air. Oh, and I also lower my eyelids, because the fat around my eyes would prevent me from opening them completely. Now there is good reason for me to be nervous about posing nude.
    I debloat: I suck in my cheeks, stretch out my neck, empty my stomach, lower my arms, open my eyes, and close my thighs and fingers. Now there is not good reason for me to be nervous about posing nude.
    I bloat up again. Now there is.
    I debloat. Now there’s not.
    Amusing.
    Now there is. Now there’s not.
    I am bold this afternoon. I do things I would not normally dare do, like spin my chair around to my computer and type: “I am not fat. If I were fat, there would be a reason for me to be nervous about posing nude. I am not fat. I am nottttttttttt.”
    I stare at my words on the screen without blinking. The lines become blurry. I am in a trance, wallowing in thoughts about Lady Henrietta and about the wonderful fact that I’m not fat. You may be starting to suspect that perhaps I used to be fat. No. The reason I’m so happy I’m not fat is that I’ve got to try to be happy about something, and I don’t have many things to be happy about. I could just as easily be getting excited about the wonderful fact that I am not bald, or that I have two arms.
    I am awakened from my daydream by Annie, the twenty-six-year-old editorial assistant, who’s married. She says to me, “Charlotte’s on the phone.”
    My girlfriend, Charlotte, calls me every day at work. I told her not to call me. Not every day. Not even every week. It’s embarrassing. She does it anyway. Now Annie, and everyone else, knows I have a girlfriend named Charlotte who calls me every day at work.
    I pick up the phone and hear her granular, cottage cheese voice. “I was wondering what you’d like for dinner tonight, darling.”
    “Cottage cheese,” I mumble absentmindedly.
    “What?”
    “Oh! What would I like for dinner? I’ll have to work late this evening. And then there’s some work I have to do at home. I’m simply exhausted. I don’t think I’ll be able to see you tonight. You understand, don’t you?”
    “That’s too bad. I was thinking we could have an especially nice evening.”
    Cottage cheese, cottage cheese.
    She’s talking about sex. She uses it as a bribe, always, when I’m not enthusiastic about seeing her.
    “Oh, now I feel especially sorry that I can’t see you,” I say. “But we’ll do it another night.”
    “You mean tomorrow night, right?”
    “Of course that’s what I mean.”
    “Okay. Goodbye, wooshy mushy.”
    “Goodbye, twinkle face,” I whisper, not wanting Annie to hear me.
    “Have good dreams, I’ll talk to you later, I love you.”