Ellen Trainor put on her reading spectacles and allowed her eyes to zero in on the phallus, displayed in all its sausage-like glory before her. Yes, thoroughly delightful. Not to mention large. More kransky than cocktail frank. Spectacles completely unnecessary.
She took them off and her hand began to move.
After a few seconds, she stopped. It was no good. Her fingers were virginally tentative. The strokes meek and uninspired.
You’re mature and fabulous, she chanted silently. Own it.
Pushing back her chunky turquoise bangle, she tried again. The following stroke was far bolder and more decisive than her limp, first attempt.
‘That’s more like it,’ she murmured as the object of her focus started to spring to life beneath her hands. Her fingers moved at a faster pace. Yes, this was it. She’d found her rhythm. It was, as they say, like riding a bike. Her hands flitted and danced. Skittered and brushed. Almost frenzied. Yes, yes, yes, pumped the beat of Ellen’s heart. It was glorious and liberating. She was young again. It was, dare she say it, better than sex. Or, at least, better than sex with Kenneth.
Two minutes later the job was done. Ellen let out a sigh of satisfaction and rolled her right shoulder to relieve the pinch. This was one of her best efforts, even if she did say so herself. Her gaze swung between the sketchpad on her knees and the gorgeous nude model standing six feet away looking soulfully through the window at the lilac blooms of the just-flowering jacaranda. Blades of late afternoon November sunlight shone through the lead-light windows of the art studio and fell like soft fingers on his finely sculpted torso. The model was new and thanks to her side-on view, she’d captured both his penis and left buttock perfectly.
Where was Suzie, their usual model for Monday afternoon life drawing?
Snorting hormones, hopefully. The woman was moody as a stormy sky and her droopy facial expressions about as inspiring as a tea bag. Too often, when Raphael the drawing teacher had surveyed Suzie’s pose and said, ‘I think there’s something missing …’ Ellen had been tempted to shout, ‘HRT!’ Life drawing was supposed to be an escape, not a reminder of the decrepitude of ageing. Women of certain years (and men, for that matter) had no business being nude in public. Ellen herself took a Victorian-era approach to dressing: the display of a delicate wrist or an ankle was acceptable, but nothing else. Occasionally, she had the misfortune to catch a glimpse of herself naked in front of a mirror. Who was that prune-like person with a décolletage as wrinkled as the bellows of a piano accordion and knees that reminded her of two sad clowns commiserating with one another?
Oh god. It was her…
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