Nude Men

would have known right away what was wrong.”
    I am moved by the sadness and truth of that statement. I want to wrap my arms around Henrietta, I want us to cry into each other’s necks, the poor mother. But I don’t dare leave my carefully frozen position, for fear of displeasing her.
    She gets up to fix my stance again. She walks behind me, and I wait with curiosity to see what adjustment she will think of this time. For a moment I hear nothing. Then I feel two warm, soft bumps of flesh against my back. I could swear there’s no kimono cloth between my back and those fleshy bumps, but maybe I’m wrong, though I doubt it, but maybe I am, but no, but maybe.
    Henrietta could not possibly be trying to seduce me. One does not stand behind someone, with one’s breasts pressed against their back, when one is trying to seduce them. She must be doing something else.
    “What are you doing?” I ask casually. My voice is not betraying my eyes, which are open wide in surprise.
    “Changing your position,” she answers.
    That’s what I thought she must be doing. I am reassured and relieved. But the next instant I feel her whole naked body against my back. Definitely no kimono cloth in between.
    “You’re changing my position?” I ask, just to make sure I’m not misinterpreting what I’m feeling.
    “In a sense,” I hear her say softly.
    “Would you care to elaborate?”
    She kisses the back of my neck and then my shoulders. Her hands slink around my waist and move up toward my chest, not wanting to be too daring at first, I suppose. She slides her fingers through my hair, grabs a handful, pulls my head back and to the side, and kisses my lips. She can do that because she’s tall.
    “I meant verbally,” I say, my voice sounding peculiar, because my head is cocked back so far and twisted so unnaturally. I am looking into her eyes at a strange angle.
    “No words,” she says, and kisses me again.
    “I don’t know if we should do this,” I say, certain that I must look like a chicken with its neck broken.
    “You have no choice,” she says.
    “Really?” And because of movies, I instinctively look down to see if she’s holding a gun. I am puzzled that she’s not.
    “Then why do I have no choice?” I ask.
    “ ‘Then’? Why do you say ‘then’?”
    “I mean ‘then’ as in, ‘Since you’re not pointing a gun at me, then why do I have no choice?’ ”
    “That’s not quite grammatical, I don’t think.”
    “Neither is that.”
    “I know,” she says.
    “Well, mine made sense with my train of thought.”
    She kisses me.
    I tell her, “I don’t know if we should do this. As I was saying.” She does not repeat that I have no choice. She demonstrates it.
     
    I t was because I was not prepared. I was caught off guard and wanted to help a friend. Twice, it doesn’t mean anything; it’s not a pattern, not a mistress. Three times, it would mean something; it would be a pattern and a mistress. The question is, what am I going to do with this one? Am I going to ted it or not? Would it be overdoing it to tell it?
     
    Y es. I’ve thought about it, and I think it would be overdoing it. I mean, what’s the point? Laura said it was okay. She didn’t specify “twice,” but it was probably included.
     
    I change my mind. I decide that it was probably not included.
    “It’s good, but maybe you shouldn’t do it a third time,” says Laura, after I tell her about the second time.
    “That’s what I was thinking,” I say.
     
    T o my great surprise, Lady Henrietta cads me again a few days later. She wants me to pose for her again. This is a joke, I think to myself. She could at least be honest with me. At first I object, but she assures me she just wants to paint me and nothing else. I yield, because I still want to help her.
    I go to her apartment. She paints me for about half an hour and tries to seduce me once more. Well, I don’t give in this time, because three times, it’s a mistress. I leave her apartment.
    I don’t hear from her until a few days later, when she calls me again, asking me to pose for her. I cannot believe my ears. “No,” I say, “no.”
    “I swear to God I won’t try anything,” she says. “I just want to finish the painting. I just need you to pose once more. If I try anything, you can just leave. I mean, I can’t rape you.” I’m not so sure. I heard that women can, somehow, rape men. But I agree. I go and pose for her. She does not try anything. She