The Fountain of Youth

@copyright 2020/Mike Consol

Gretchen remembered with crystal clarity the day men stopped noticing her. She was standing in the checkout line at the local Target behind three college-age men. Like most men in their early twenties they were monumentally distracted by everything around them, commenting on everything except the woman standing behind them. Gretchen thought she look pretty good that day, and yet she had become invisible. 

Her fiftieth birthday would come later that year. The husband had left Gretchen 17 years earlier. The whole thing was such a cliché, hiring a dumb and sultry secretary. He fell for it. Within a few years he realized what an amateur mistake he had made and found himself locked in a series of venomous divorce proceedings. Big surprise. 

She considered herself blessed to be living during an era when so many young men had a thing for older women. They even had an acronym for women like her: MILF. Gretchen had even participated in the trend. First there was Trent, whose original sin was to climax before she had a chance. He was a kind but aimless person who talked about doing big things and never took any concrete steps toward making them happen. She ended it without pain or consequence. 

The second time hurt. He was a young professional named Martin, darkly handsome, intelligent and probably on his way to an all-star career working for one of the larger management consulting firms in the country. He was generous in bed, though only for a few months, then he had “met someone.” Gretchen figured he was just getting bored. His phone calls and text messages went from a stream to a trickle, and his lovemaking lost its urgency. Gretchen understood this was part of the deal — a short hot-rod series of dates and rendezvouses before the young man would move on to someone more age appropriate. While it lasted Gretchen did her best to make herself unforgettable, someone he might remember many years later and with fondness. 

That was the last time she would take that kind of dead-end side street, though she never stopped appreciating a young man’s attention. And now there are these three guys standing in front of her, bristling with energy and absolutely disinterested in the woman next in line, holding the shopping basket containing facial cleanser, skin toner and a box of Tampax. She stared directly at them and smiled, trying to will them into some eye contact. It didn’t work. There was a glancing thought about spreading her blouse open. 

Gretchen had decided years ago that some men are “boob men,” others “legs and ass men,” but there were also “hair men,” and those were the guys most attracted to her, and Gretchen’s hair looked especially prolific on this day. It was pinned up and rambunctious strands had broken loose and were falling free. She could tell when men wanted to touch it, tousle it, hold handfuls to their nostrils and inhale to find out if her shampoo was scented by gardenias or papayas. Gretchen always looked for hormonal responses from men, especially the younger ones, and she had become expert at detecting even their subtlest expressions, though she almost never had the desire to exploit men’s weakness by capitalizing on the opportunities. All she wanted was to dazzle, beyond which Gretchen knew it didn’t get any better for either party. 

 

 

 

A few months elapsed. Gretchen obsessed. Weeping violins played. That day at Target was a wound to the lower abdomen. 

Then she found an oddly positioned advertisement on a local social media site. It said: 

 

Get paid to get naked 

Live models wanted to pose for Institute of Art students 

All body types acceptable 

Pays $20 per hour for two-hour sessions 

 

 

It went on to tell interested persons to reply by email with an explanation of why they wanted to model, and to include some snapshots in form-fitting clothing. 

Gretchen never would have considered such a thing until now, when she was wanting that kind of attention in the worst way. She applied and was surprised to get a response the next day requesting a conversation. The woman on the other end of the phone said, “Yours was one of the few serious replies we got. There’s a lot of cranks out there.” 

It wasn’t a resounding nod of confidence, but good enough. She had made it through the initial screening and the next day was on the phone again, this time with an art professor named Kilmer. 

“You have good look for this kind of modeling,” he told Gretchen. 

“Meaning?” 

“Round in the right places. Our students need something to draw. Flesh on bone.” 

“Sounds like the extra ten pounds are good for something,” she said. 

Professor Kilmer laughed. “Yes,” he said, followed by an uncomfortable interval of silence. “Not exactly Rubenesque but that’s probably not what you’re going for.” 

Later that day Gretchen called her daughter, wanting to tell her what she was about to do and ended up in her voicemail. 

“Hi, just calling to chat. It’s your mother.” 

Gretchen was never happy with her daughter’s response time, it was always an I’ll get back her when I get back to her sort of thing. 

 

 

 

 

Gretchen took extra care with the hair and makeup for that first modeling session. She went to the vanity and observed. A little puffy in the face, another hazard of aging, and she looked a little washed-out by the lightness of the peach lipstick. She painted her lips with something darker. 

By the time she arrive at the classroom and used the ladies’ room to slip off her clothes (she wore no bra or panties because she didn’t want any lines) and slip on a light robe, the terror was pulsing within. She was surprised how closely the students were seated to the riser. A dozen students cluster right next to her. All eyes set upon her. She certainly wasn’t feeling invisible anymore. Gretchen sat on the wood stool and let the robe fall, giving the students a side view, while she turned her head to gaze over the shoulder facing the students. She narrowed her eyes to intentionally blur her vision, turning the students into a gauzy, formless mass and ensuring she wouldn’t see any expressions of disapproval. The sound of graphite and charcoal working against the sketching paper was loud, as was the middle-aged instructor, Professor Kilmer, pacing and muttering critiques at his pupils. 

When she finally brought them into focus, Gretchen could see they are all working too intently to be judgmental — at least visibly so. 

There were four poses, each twenty-five minutes in length, followed by short breaks. When the two-hour session was complete Gretchen got dressed and professor Kilmer invited her to review the students’ drawings. 

Do I really look that tense, she wondered? 

But that was only the first time. By the second session she was surprised by how comfortable she felt with open nudity. The grip of anxiety had lessened. Gretchen dreamed that night the student-artists set down their implements and rose to give her a standing ovation at the end of the session. 

 

 

 

 

Gretchen finally got the return call she had been awaiting from Miranda. She explained to her daughter how she was thoroughly ignored by the young men at Target, the distress it caused, the nude modeling advertisement she came across, how she had already sat for two sessions as a bare-naked lady with the art students. 

There was stone silence on the other end of the connection.  

“My god, mother, you’re in crisis and don’t even realize. I cannot believe you are doing this.” 

“Look, I knew this would be a shock to you, Miranda, that’s why I’ve been trying to get you on the phone.” 

“Maybe you’re depressed. It could even be a chemical imbalance; those things can happen over time. There’s no shame in being unhappy. I want to make a therapy appointment for you. Maybe an anti-depressant will take some of the pressure off.” 

“Just stop right there,” Gretchen said. “There are hundreds of people who do modeling and they’re not in crisis or chemically imbalanced, so just cool it. You’re at this age when you’re second-guessing everything I say and do. This isn’t the first time you’ve thought I’m going soft in the head.” 

“Of course I’m going to second-guess something like this. It’s all based on one non-encounter during a shopping trip to Target.” 

“No, not really. After that ‘non-encounter,’ as you call it, I realized this has been happening for months, maybe for the last couple of years. This time was just so blatant that it hurt. It doesn’t feel good to be invisible.” 

“I was just telling a friend the other day how gracefully you were aging. Now this.” 

“You will understand one day. You’re still too young. It will catch up with you, I’m sorry to say, and it will be much sooner than you think.” 

“What next? Cosmetic surgery?” 

“As if that’s a big deal these days. For such a young woman you’re sure old-fashioned.” 

“My mother going naked in front of a bunch of youngsters is never going to be in style for me. I can’t imagine any daughter feeling comfortable with a parent going naked.” 

Gretchen sighed. “You’ll see some day. You don’t feel like a woman when men show no interest. I understand that’s inevitable, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with trying to keep myself in the game. I would like to marry again someday.” 

“To somebody your own age. Shouldn’t you be looking for a more permanent situation with a man who’s a match for you? Are you still on that dating site?” 

“I’ll get there when I get there, Miranda. Right now I’m too young for life to come to a standstill.” 

“This is just … it’s just such a shock to me, mother. Please tell me this is just a phase you’re going through.” 

“When is life not a phase? Life is one phase after another. Let me be who I am, even if it’s just a passing phase. You owe that to me after all the phases I’ve been through with you.” 

“Oh, mother, what is it going to take to make you feel visible again?” 

“You could start by returning my calls in less than ninety-six hours.” Gretchen could hear her daughter’s face curdle with guilt. 

“I can do better. I will do better.” She paused expecting something back from Gretchen. It wasn’t forthcoming. “Mother, are you drinking?” 

“I’m sipping a glass of Chardonnay. Have I violated some precept? The thing is, I’ve discovered that I like being naked. There’s freedom in it. I think we’re entitled to our bodies. We spend our whole lives shrouding it from one another and for what? The students aren’t ogling me, they’re practicing their craft.” 

“My god, you’re not making this any easier for me.” 

“Look, I understand that I’ve surprised you with this — I’ve even surprised myself. I didn’t plan on this happening, but it did and it feels good. It feels good to do something bold and surprising. You can’t possibly believe you’re going to live your whole life without occasionally doing something that surprises yourself. Would you even want to be the kind of woman who never surprises herself? I don’t think so.” 

“There are a million-and-one ways to surprise yourself, mother, that don’t involve disrobing yourself in front of a bunch of strangers. You can’t be a sexy cat forever. There are better ways to deal with this without going Red Light District.” 

Acid came to Gretchen’s voice. “Young lady, you had better choose your words more wisely or we can end this conversation right now.” 

“I’m sorry I said it that way. My point is you have more value than that. You’re a complete human being with a lot to offer. Any man who cannot see that is the one who’s lacking, not you.” 

“You’ve always been so open-minded, I thought you might understand. It wasn’t easy to share this with you, and now I know why. I think you’re reading too much into this. It’s not as though I’ve joined a nudist colony or plan to spend the rest of my life modeling.” 

“Mother, perhaps you’re reading too much into things. What would you tell me if I was feeling less of a person because some guy had not noticed me?” 

“You don’t realize how young 49 is until you get there. It’s not like I won’t be letting go at 60 or 70, but I still feel like I have the assets, and there will be plenty of time to be old when I get there. I know I’m your mother but even your mother doesn’t stop feeling sexual just because she’s put on a few pounds and gets a few age spots.”  

“Men notice you, mother, I see them noticing you.” 

“Yeah, I know, men of a certain age.” 

“Men of your age, your contemporaries. Those are the men who make sense.” 

“Stop selling me down the river. I’m not some banged up old skiff. At the least you need to allow me a transitional period. I don’t think anybody embraces change overnight, especially aging.” 

“Most men are not very observant anyway — especially young men.” 

“Well, they sure used to be. At least around me. And what you said about men isn’t true when it comes to the opposite sex. Women are the one thing they always notice. Until they see me.” 

“I don’t want to see you date a man half your age and get hurt again, mother.” 

Gretchen let that one go. 

“You have nothing left to prove,” Miranda said. 

 

 

 

 

Then came modeling session number three. Gretchen stepped to the fore and struck a new pose, hand on hip, face turned over a shoulder. The surface sounds of graphite and charcoal on paper again took to the air, along with occasional sighs of disappointment and exasperation. Professor Kilmer was doing his usual wandering and mumbling. 

Gretchen felt at peace, naked and at ease with herself, in command of the room. It didn’t take long. The relaxation she felt gave Gretchen time to think about how she wanted to revisit that contentious conversation with her daughter sometime soon. 

For the second pose, she sat herself on the stool, directly facing the students, her legs parted and a swatch of the paisley robe covering her crotch, breasts exposed. A face of innocence. 

When time expired Gretchen pulled her robe back on and observed the students’ efforts. She lingered at one of the easels. It belonged to a young man whose drawing turned Gretchen’s breasts into shadowy foothills at dusk and increased the volume of her already extravagant hair into volcanic plumes, and he even removed the swatch of robe that had not been placed across her vagina, drawing what he imagined to be there, a flower garden between her legs, petals lilting in all directions. Her eyes, big and brown, were pure Bambi. 

Gretchen leaned in. So many lines and so much detail in such a short period of time. One didn’t need to be an artist to recognize that everything on the sketching paper was exaggerated for effect, accentuating the female form. There was finesse. In less nuanced hands it would’ve been a caricature. 

The young man looked up in search of a reaction. She smiled into his face. His hair was black and wavy, and his wicked goatee put them in league with Lucifer. 

Twenty minutes later Gretchen ran into him in street clothes on the avenue. 

“Oh,” she said, “it’s … you.” 

His name was Sougata and Gretchen would eventually learned he was part Indian, part Turk and had been raised in Minneapolis. He was visibly excited to see her and insisted they sit at a coffeehouse across the street. Gretchen looked up and down the avenue before agreeing. 

“Do you know what a muse is?” he asked. Gretchen didn’t finish her first sip of coffee before Sougata answered his own question. “When an artist finds his muse he finds his source of inspiration. He paints better than ever. I think you might be my muse. I’ve never drawn so well. Professor Kilmer looked at my sketches of you and said there had been a breakthrough, that my work had moved to a higher level. I don’t want this to stop. I don’t want it to be over when the semester ends. I have a hot hand with you as my model and I want to concentrate on producing as much work as possible with you as my inspiration. Not just sketches but finished oil paintings.” 

It was then he requested that Gretchen do some private modeling for him. It was something artists sometimes do when they find the right person, he said. 

She blushed. 

“We can do these sessions at my place, or your place, or at one of the studios at the school,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve never drawn like when you’re modeling.” 

Gretchen folded her hands over her heart in appreciation. 

“Come with me to my place,” Sougata said, “I want to show you some things.” 

Gretchen agreed but first did what she had always taught Miranda to do, visiting the bathroom and texting a friend his name and address, then activated an app that allowed her friend to track her movements and locations. A girl could never be certain, she always told Miranda. 

Next thing Gretchen knew she was climbing a staircase to the young man’s third-floor apartment, stairs creaking all the way. Gretchen hated creaking stairs because they made her self-conscious about her weight, modest though it was. 

When they entered Sougata’s apartment, Gretchen sat in a cushioned chair and took inventory of the menial furnishings of male youth. A lot of possessions were out of place and sketches were scattered everywhere. She watched as Sougata moved around this litter box with the quickness and agility of a cat. He turned on a music player and Neil Young’s voice streamed out of a pair of speakers. 

 

Hello cowgirl in the sand 

Is this place at your command? 
 

 

The only thing immaculately cared for in the room was a twenty-gallon fish tank standing in the center of the room with a half-dozen neon tetra cutting smoothly through the water. Sougata sprinkled some flakes from a fish-food container onto the water’s surface and watched as the neon tetras raced to the top. He looked at Gretchen and smiled. “Every morning and night I sit right where you are and stare at these guys. It’s incredibly soothing — as good as meditation. Keeps me from wigging out.” 

“School’s a lot of pressure, isn’t it?” 

“It’s not school, it’s the obsession with greatness. I want to become great, one of those artists on permanent display at the best museums. I want to be hanging there and remembered long after I’m gone. It keeps me up at night if I don’t do this,” he said pointing at the tank. “I can’t help it. The desire is maddening.” 

“You’re obsessed,” Gretchen said. 

Sougata nodded. “Don’t we all obsess about something?” 
Gretchen paused. “I suppose so.” 

He offered tea and excused himself, disappearing into another room. 

Gretchen kept sitting and wondering if this young man planned to make a move. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted him to. If he did, she would go with it, but no more than a make-out session — hugging and kissing and petting through the clothes. That soft space between her legs was off-limits. No bare skin, no sex, just the promise of what might come. But that was a very big “might.” She knew that would frustrate a charged-up young man like Sougata. That wouldn’t be a bad thing. Nothing so attractive to a man than a woman withholding something of value. 

Gretchen wasn’t even sure she had the antibodies to resist full sex with this handsome and exotic young man. Forbearance was overrated, she decided. Gretchen wanted to live her life loosely and adventurously. 

Maybe she should take more joy and pride in simply revving-up men up and leaving them in overdrive. Maybe that was a better exercise of a woman’s sexual power. All she really wanted to know is that she could still tantalize. Hadn’t she already been demonstrated that? Otherwise, he might give her one shot and then lose interest. Why even get started with guy if that was the case? And what if he became more than that? Do you really want to go back on the intravenous drip of a man? 

She felt slightly cornered. Gretchen had already decided she wouldn’t tell Miranda anything about this encounter. 

Neil Young’s voice came back to say… 

 

Old enough now to change your name 

When so many love you, is it the same? 

It’s the woman in you 

That makes you want to play this game 

@copyright 2020/Mike Consol