"I'm available," I said. It just slipped out.
"No you are not!" she barked.
I wanted to argue about that, but I knew better. My mother and I had survived against the odds. We'd been successful because we worked together, but along the way I learned to recognize that voice she sometimes used that announced she would brook no argument.
"To answer your completely unexpected question … I don't know if Phil has a big one or not. I don't make a habit of checking out my friends' dicks," I said.
"Which one was he?" she asked.
"I do not believe you're vetting my friends, to pick out a boy toy for your friend," I said.
"That's not what I'm doing at all," she said. "I'm just gathering information that may be useful some day."
I thought back.
"He's the one who said it was only fitting that, since you got to see me naked way back then, I got to see you naked now. He also said my penis probably isn't much bigger than it was the last time you saw it."
"Ah, yes," said Mom. "I remember. He wasn't quite so far gone as the others."
"Yeah," I said.
"Was he right?"
"About what?"
"About how big your penis is."
I looked at her but she wasn't smiling. Still, it had to be a joke. I wondered how many nineteen-year-old boys in the world had just been asked by their mothers how big their dicks were. It had to be a vanishingly small number.
"I'm not going to answer that," I said, with as much dignity as I could.
"Good for you," she said.
"Why would you ask that?" I asked.
"Because they're your friends, your peers. You hang around with them, right? So they affect you … how you act. They were jerks. I don't want my son to be a jerk, too."
"They were just blowing off steam," I said. "Normally they're good guys."
"I'm sure Rodney thought he was just blowing off steam when he raped me," she said, her voice even.
Now I knew my biological father's name was Rodney.
******
The week went on. I went to classes and it was almost possible to forget that woman, on that love seat, with that come-hither look on her face. It began to seem like a dream.
Then it was Friday morning again and there was my mother, looking beautiful in her baby-blue jacket, getting ready to go sell somebody a house. She finished her bowl of Special K as I came in. I got a cursory kiss on the cheek and she said, "I have to go. See you tonight?"
Now those are very normal words, in a very normal situation. They're words that are said in millions of kitchens every morning, and they are literal in their context and meaning. But for me, they were different. The feelings those simple words created in me were complex. I would see her that night - all of her. That alone produced a reaction akin to what many children feel on the night before Christmas. But the way she said it was what really got to me. It was as if those three words were a foreign language which, when translated into my own, meant, "I want you to see me tonight, when I'm naked, and vulnerable, because while I'm being paid to do this, I'm really only there to pose for you."
I know. Most people would say all she meant was what those other millions of people meant, but I sensed all that other stuff. Maybe it was the way she held my gaze as she said it. Maybe it was the set of her body. I read somewhere that 70% of communication is done through body language, rather than the verbal part.
"You couldn't keep me away with Donald Trump's border fence," I said.
"Good," she said.
I have to admit I had difficulty concentrating on my classes that day.
******
When I got to the lab, everything seemed exactly like it had the week before. Nobody treated me any differently. I don't know what I was expecting, but it was very ordinary. Still, as I stood at my easel, waiting for my mother to come out and get naked, I felt a tiny little secret thrill that I knew the model … lived with the model. I knew she created feelings in the others that were very strong and sexual, but all they could do was look at her. And preserve her image on canvas.
But I'd sleep in the same house as her that night.
Mrs. Gaskill didn't act any different either. She was just as good looking as last time, though tonight, like my mother, she had her hair in a ponytail. She was wearing a loose sweatshirt, but it did nothing to diminish her aura of sensuality. I wondered about the man who had cheated on (and lost) this woman. He had to have been an idiot.
Then my mom was there and she dropped the robe and got into her pose. She looked directly at me, first, but then her eyes drifted away.
As I put lines on paper I thought about how she looked. As I said before, I knew she was thirty-four years old. The quarterback had gotten her pregnant when she was fifteen. She'd had another birthday before I had mine. People don't think about it this way, but your first birthday is actually the day your mother pushes you out into the world, the day you are actually born. It is literally your birth-day. Most people consider the celebration you have a year later to be your first birthday, but it isn't. You don't have more than one actual birth-day. You may celebrate that day for the rest of your life, but you're not actually "having a birthday."
Sorry. I got off on a tangent. Anyway, my mother was not "cougar" material, technically. A cougar is an experienced older woman who enjoys a relationship with a younger man. My mother was neither experienced, in that sense, nor looking for that kind of relationship. Mrs. Gaskill sounded like a cougar, at least according to my mother. But looking at my mom, reclining there in that totally sexual way, displaying herself in what looked like a clear offering of her body, made my mind go wandering. I'd hook up with Mrs. Gaskill in a heartbeat. I wasn't experienced, either, really, but then wasn't that the point? A woman who knows the ropes could teach a guy like me a lot about how to please a woman, and I really wanted to please a woman. My friends just wanted to get their rocks off, but I wanted a woman to look at me like the model on that dais was looking at me. I wanted a woman to crave my attention, to wait impatiently for me to be there, to luxuriate in the feel of my hands on her skin. I wanted a woman to be eager to kiss me when she wasn't drunk. And, of course, I wanted a woman to welcome me into her inner core, to accept my seed as a treasured gift.
Come to think of it, I might not do all that well with Mrs. Gaskill after all. I wanted commitment. I wanted a life-mate. I wanted a woman who wanted to be the mother of my children.
That led me to the difference between being in school and working. I was learning how to put out fires, save lives. Someday I'd actually do that. Mrs. Gaskill could be like college, teaching me how to be the kind of man who would attract the kind of woman I was looking for.
"Okay, that's it for tonight," came the voice of the woman I wanted to teach me everything sexual.
I looked at my watch. Where had the night gone? Then I looked at the paper on my easel.
Wow! When had I done all that?
I felt a presence at my shoulder and turned to find Mrs. Gaskill there. Her eyes were on my drawing, but they moved to fix on my own.
"Nice work," she said. "It's as if you really know the model." She gave me a little crooked grin.
I didn't dawdle this night. I got cleaned up and went to the exit of the building, expecting my mother to be there. She wasn't.
I didn't know what to do. We had come separately, of course, and I could go home the same way. But I wanted to wait for her. I was pacing outside when I heard something and looked at the street. I groaned. The three stooges were coming my way.
Chapter Three
"Dude, where is she?" asked Jerry, when they got close enough.
"Don't you guys have a life?" I harped. They didn't seem drunk tonight.
"Yeah, but it's not as interesting as yours," said Don. He grinned.
"We just wanted to see her," said Phil. "You get to see her whenever you want, right? So share the wealth, man."
"I see her on Friday nights," I caged. "It's not like I h
ang out with her."
"Well, we're going over to Kelsey's," said Don. "We figured if you were finished here, you might want to go."
Kelsey's was a bar that a retired fireman had bought, and which sort of catered to the fire science crowd. They had pictures of fire scenes on the walls, and men fighting fires, and old fire engines, stuff like that. There were helmets and axes on display, and one wall that listed the names and dates when firemen were lost in our state. Lots of other people went there, but we considered it to be "our" bar.
"I don't know," I said.
"Bring her along," said Phil. "Nobody believes us when we tell them how hot she is."
"I don't think so," I said. "That's not her scene."
"He knows what her scene is," sighed Don.
The doors opened and we all turned to look.
Mrs. Gaskill was with my mother.
"No way," said Jerry. "There's two of them!"
"Oh look," said Mrs. Gaskill in a high voice. "We have an escort!"
The four of us just stared at her.
"Well," she said, her voice normal again. "Aren't you going to make introductions, Bob?"
"Wait," said Jerry. "You mean she knows you too?" He stared at me as if I'd grown a third eye.
"Mr. Jenkins is one of my most promising students," said Mrs. Gaskill.
"Man," sighed Don. "I have to take art next year."
"Introductions?" prodded Maureen Gaskill.
I stammered out names. She fixed her eyes on Phil.
"Phil …" she said, her voice lingering.
"Yes ma'am?" he replied, suddenly on his best behavior.
"You're the one with the enormous penis … right?" She smiled gaily.
You know how they say if you want a bully to leave you alone, stand up to him? Well, if you want a braggart to find a little humility, have a truly gorgeous woman ask him about the size of his manhood.
"Maureen," came my mother's warning voice.
"I'm just teasing," said the gallery owner. She looked at each of the three stooges. "Your friend told us all about you."
"What the fuck?" came Phil's not so happy voice.
"Bobby says you brag about it all the time. Is that true? Or is he lying?"
Phil turned on me with anger on his face.
"Well you do," I said.
"You're not supposed to tell them that!" he growled.
"You would, if you were drunk," I argued.
"Well I'm not drunk," he said. "But I will be in about an hour. Thanks for nothing, Jenkins."
"So you're going to go have a drink?" Maureen's voice was still innocent and light.
The three stooges, like most men who are overwhelmed by a devastatingly beautiful woman, didn’t believe they really had a chance with her. Good looking women are great for a fantasy, but most men are too intimidated by them to actually try something with one. Especially when someone has torpedoed you by telling the woman you like to brag about how big your dick is. In this case all three of them thought Maureen was making fun of them. They turned to leave, as one.
"Gee, I guess we'll just have to go find our own drink," said Maureen, sadly.
"Maureen, stop it," said my mother.
"Stop what? A drink sounds good right now. And you must be tense from posing for so long. Bob, do you have any idea where Jennifer and I could find a nice, quiet place to get a drink?"
The three stooges turned around, again as one, and stared at us.
"Don't drag me into this," I said, holding up both hands.
It sounds like I was all cool and collected, but I wasn't. What I was, was curious. I didn't know Maureen Gaskill, other than the couple of times I'd seen her. But I sensed she wasn't some ditzy, empty-headed brunette. She was a smart, sophisticated woman, and the way she was acting made it clear, to me at least, that she was playing at some game. I didn't think she was vindictive, or mean. She wasn't trying to "put my friends in their places." So that meant she might actually want to go out for a drink … right? I remembered my mother saying her friend was looking for a boy toy.
So I thought about how my reply could make her state her real intentions. I thought too long, though.
"I don't need a drink," came my mother's voice. I recognized tension in it.
"A drink will do you good," said Maureen.
"I know a place," ventured Phil. He sounded on edge. "But it's not quiet."
"Is there dancing?" asked Maureen.
"There's music," said Phil. "Country music."
"I know how to two-step," suggested the woman.
I don't know about the size of his dick, but Phil had some balls. He walked up to within ten inches of Maureen Gaskill and just looked at her.
"Are you playing with us?" he asked.
She smiled, not at all uncomfortable at his closeness.
"Trust me, tiger. When I'm playing with you, you'll know."
******
To say that our night at Kelsey's was epic would not be too far from the truth. It certainly went down in the annals of the place.
It started, of course, with the three stooges (and me) bringing two certified hotties into the place. To the non-regulars, the reaction to that must have been puzzling. Four guys and two women walking into a bar doesn't usually result in hooting and hollering and a rush of bodies whose intent is to find out as much about the two hotties as possible. Even some of the girls drifted over to see what the deal was. We have half a dozen women in the program, but after the initial stages, when romance might be investigated, they usually settle into a sisterly kind of relationship with all the guys. And the guys protect them as a brother might, too.
I heard Maureen introduce herself, to include that she owned the 'G' gallery. Then she put her hand on my mother's elbow and I cringed. I was about to be unmasked.
"And this is my friend, Jennifer Hart," she said. "Jennifer is in real estate."
Hart? Where had that come from? I saw my mom dart a look at me, and then she was smiling and shaking hands, being herded off to the bar. It was clear neither she nor Maureen would be buying any drinks that night.
The other change they wrought was the dance floor. Kelsey's had a parquet dance floor, but it was from an earlier incarnation of the bar. It was covered with tables now, and nobody ever danced on it. This was not acceptable to Maureen, however, who intended to demonstrate that she did, in fact, know how to two-step. There was minor chaos as tables and chairs were moved, some ending up being stacked on top of each other. Mickey, the owner, objected at first, but he was overwhelmed. Most of our class was there, and about half of them came from rural parts of the state, and they had two-stepped a-plenty before they went to college. The urge to do it again was irresistible. Within twenty minutes Maureen and four of my classmates were holding an impromptu class in line dancing. Mickey was resigned to the temporary furor and came up with a CD of country music to dance to. He was selling a lot of drinks, so I guess he decided there was a silver lining to this particular chaotic cloud.
My mother had been surrounded, mostly by young men, since she came into the place. She was smiling a lot, but I could tell she was uncomfortable. She'd gotten knocked up at fifteen, was home-schooled until she went to real estate school, and hadn't dated at all. She wasn't used to the crush, and the odors, and the noise. She didn't know what to do, or how to act. She'd been dragged there by a friend who thought it would be good for her. At least that's what I thought.
So to give her a break, I threaded through the crowd and hooked my arm through hers.
"What are you doing, Jenkins?" asked one of my classmates named Todd. "I was talking to her."
"She's my old babysitter," I said. "I just need to talk to her for a minute."
"This is her?" asked Todd, his eyes wide. He'd heard all about "my old babysitter" from the three stooges, but hadn't put two and two together. "Shit, man!" he rasped.
I had to put my arm around her as I led her away. It felt odd, yet normal at the same time, for my hand to be on her waist. I t
ook her toward the patio, which Mickey called "The beer garden." It was chilly outside, but a lot more quiet. She backed up to a trellis and leaned against it.
"I shouldn't be here," she moaned.
"You're doing fine," I said.
"I don't know what to do."
"Just be yourself."
"How can I do that? Maureen re-invented me as Jennifer Hart! I'm living a secret identity!"
"What's that about, anyway?" I asked.
"I told her who you are," she said.
"What?"
"I had to," she said, reaching to touch my elbow. "When I took that job, I had to sign a form that said I wouldn't flirt or exchange personal information with students. It could cause her problems. So I had to explain and see if it was all right."
"So she changed your last name?"
"She said you show so much promise that we can't let this derail you."
"Mom, you basically told her I come there to see you naked!" I hissed.
"I worried about that, but she put me at ease."
"And how did she put you at ease?" I asked.
"She says lots of artists have painted their mothers nude. She made it sound like it's no big deal."
"But she gave you a secret identity."
"She didn't want to cause you problems," she explained.
"Well, I guess I owe her for that," I admitted. "Are you at least having fun?"
"I don't know," she said. "Sort of, I guess. But I don't know how to act."
"Like I said, just be yourself."
Erica, another of my classmates, came outside with a beer. She gripped the front of her shirt and fanned it back and forth.
"Who thought line dancing would work up that kind of sweat!" she said. She saw who else was out there and came over to us.
"So you're the woman he gets to see naked," she said, boldly.
"I suppose I am," said Mom.
"You must be very brave. I could never do that … stand there naked in front of a bunch of strangers."
"It's actually a little boring," said Mom.
"Not for him, I bet," grinned Erica. "And you were really his babysitter?"
"I changed his diaper hundreds of times," said my mom without a pause.
A Model Mother Page 4