Robert Lubrican - A Model Mother

That tsunami I mentioned?

It was blood rushing into my penis, which created an incredible, rock-hard erection.

For my own mother.

"Let’s be professional, now," chided Mrs. Gaskill, as though she knew exactly what was going through my traitorous mind.

"Yeah, right," said one of the only two other males in the room.

"I’d kill to look like that," I heard one girl say.

The model - I just couldn’t think of her as my mother - lay there still as stone, unruffled by the susurration of soft comments. It was as if she knew she was a goddess, and didn’t expect anything else.

"I know this is a provocative pose," Mrs. Gaskill went on, "but your work, this semester, should you choose to, may be submitted to an exhibition of erotic art scheduled at a major gallery in Phoenix, in April. They’re going to reserve space for amateur works, and there will be prizes awarded. The grand prize is an invitation to display future works, which may lead to sales. Need I say more?"

There were murmurs of interest.

"Now, the erotic part should be easy," said Mrs. Gaskill. "Our model will be most helpful with that. I chose her for exactly that quality. It’s counter-intuitive, but what you need to concentrate on, initially, is her face. I picked this model because she has the look we want - on her face, I mean - and it’s critical that you capture that look. You can put any body on her that you wish, but don’t pass up her face.”

"Like I’d change that body," whispered a guy standing next to me.

"Yeah," I replied automatically. There was no way I was going to say, "Dude! That’s my mom!" even though that’s what I was thinking. I remembered from my childhood some movie with that name, but I’d never seen it.

"Don’t fight any passion the model creates in you," said Mrs. Gaskill. "Use it to inform your work. It’s all right to be a little horny. Jennifer understands. I think she’d be offended if she didn’t create those feelings in you. That is her purpose, after all, to imbue passion in the artwork you’re going to create."

I blinked. Mrs. Gaskill was basically saying that Jennifer … my mother … was intending to be sexy … trying to get us all horny - even the women! - and that if she failed in that intent, she’d be disappointed!?

"No problem there," came a soft, feminine voice from off to my left. I looked, but couldn’t identify who’d said it.

This was not my mother. Obviously, my mom had a doppelganger, right here in Flagstaff, who we’d never known about. She had to be a doppelganger, because there was no way in the world that my mother would do this.

It was then that the model’s eyes drifted onto mine. They widened, and she blinked three times. Then she swallowed and opened her lips.

She looked away, though, and didn’t say anything.

In those eyes, though, was the crystal clear message that she recognized me.

Dude! That was my mom!

"What just happened?" Mrs. Gaskill asked. I glanced at her and she was looking at … the model. "You’re blushing like a newlywed. I thought you were ready for this."

"Sorry," said the contralto voice of my mother. "I was just thinking of something. I’ll settle down and try not to do that again."

"To the contrary, it made you look amazing. It was the frosting on the perfect cake. Whatever it was, think of it as much as you can."

"I can’t think about that for three hours," groaned Mom.

"I understand," said Mrs. Gaskill. She turned away and looked at us. "Let’s get to work. Posing is difficult and tiring. Let’s not make things hard on our model." she barked.

"I’ve got something hard for her," said the guy standing next to me.

"Don’t be a dick," said a girl next to him. "She’s probably somebody’s mother. She might be almost old enough to be your mother."

The guy, who I would later find out was named Greg, didn’t say anything else. He went to an easel and started going through the supplies on a little stand next to it. I did the same, going on autopilot, but I had no idea what I was going to do. That girl (whose name was Susan) was right. The model was somebody’s mother - mine!

I honestly don’t know how I got through those first three hours. I guess I could have left. I probably should have left. But part of me was no different than everybody else in the room. None of them would voluntarily walk away from getting to see that vision of loveliness. Part of it was that the only movement she made was the slight turning of her head, so that at intervals of maybe two or three minutes, she was facing each artist. When she did that, she looked at the artist, as if he or she was the only other person in the room. The connection was palpable.

She didn’t flinch away from looking at me. I’m quite sure it would have taken an expert in body language to see any difference in the way she looked at me and the others. That actually helped me though, when she was looking at me, I found it difficult to stare back into her eyes. I tried to work on her facial features when it was my turn to be under the gun of her blatantly sexual gaze. You’d think I knew my own mother’s face like I knew the back of my hand, but that wasn’t true. I saw things I hadn’t paid attention to before. She had high, pronounced cheekbones, for example, that were a complete surprise to me.

If Mrs. Gaskill hadn’t been there, I’m not sure I’d have gotten started at all. I was just standing there, pencil in hand, staring at … the model … when she came up beside me.

"Start with the head," she said. "Put it about a third of the way left of the edge of the page and get the basic shape and size you want down. Then the torso. Save the limbs for last. Don’t worry about the couch until you like her body. You should already know this."

"Right," I said. We had discussed this in class, with my regular teacher. She probably knew that. I suspected she knew why I was just staring at the naked woman on the dais. I had an instant little fantasy wherein Maureen Gaskill reached to find and grip my iron-hard boner, and then said, "I thought so. You already like her body, don’t you, you naughty boy." That’s as far as it went, though. She’d shocked me into action, so I reached to put pencil to paper. She wandered on.

Mrs. Gaskill served another purpose, then. As I made the circles, ovals, squares, and so on that blocked out the couch, and body on it, I concentrated on thinking about my guest art teacher. It didn’t feel odd, because she could also have posed for Playboy with no problem. I mean I hadn’t seen her nude, but s woman who took the time to look like she did probably had a great body, too, right? And I’d thought erotic things about a dozen Playboy playmates. Not only was she a beautiful woman, she was comfortably used to invading people’s personal spaces as she taught. She’d gotten close enough to me on several occasions that I could both smell her flowery scent, and worry a bit about what she smelled coming from me. She wore a wedding ring, hence my knowledge that some man had already claimed her. That didn’t stop me from coming up with this or that fantasy about how circumstances put us together in intimate ways. They were stupid little fantasies. Like, for instance, I’d had one where I imagined her husband was a Navy SEAL (he couldn’t possibly be less manly than that) who was gone all the time. She loved him, but she had needs, and I reminded her of him. In another I was a UPS guy and I delivered a bunch of art supplies to her house. She answered the door in a loose robe and insisted I stay there while she inventoried the box. Somehow a wardrobe malfunction developed and she saw the naked (pun intended) interest in my eyes and couldn’t resist me.