Somewhere in between watching a beautiful blonde deep throat a carrot between my legs and trying to ignore the cascade of sweat between my arse cheeks, I wondered what life choices I made to get here.
I don’t know about you but I can’t help but associate the term ‘life drawing’ with unwelcome visions of art wankers in berets putting a little too much detail into the perfect boobs of the waif-like nude Uni student they’re sketching.
So when I was invited to life model for Dr Sketchy’s in Sydney, I laughed. Not only because my boobs don’t defy gravity, or because I didn’t think my self-confidence could handle a group of strangers realistically drawing me side on, but because it didn’t seem right to get naked and hold a whole room hostage while I paraded as their muse.
But, $20 is $20 right*? So I did my research and quickly learnt that Dr Sketchy’s isn’t your typical life drawing class. A cross between an old-fashioned life-drawing session and a new-wave cabaret; artists, cartoonists and hipsters flock to the event every second Tuesday and pay upwards of $20 to drink and draw a duo of various about-town personalities who are wearing costumes that adhere to whatever the theme is that fortnight. Nudity was not the focus.
Brilliant. Count me in.
My theme for the night was ‘Rule 34’ (inspired by the monthly event I run). For those who don’t know what Rule 34 means, it’s an internet term that basically means if it exists there is porn of it. Rule 34 grabs the seemingly mundane and makes it sexual. My co-poser went for a skimpy, campy burlesque look, while I opted to emulate a rogue sexy bunny, complete with a brown furry bodysuit, bunny ears and carrot dildos. “Disturbing yet sexy,” someone told me after the event. I figured if you’re going to make people draw you, you may as well give them something interesting to draw.
I drowned the nerves buzzing around my gut by chugging a white girl amount of Sav Blanc before stepping on the stage.
We started off with 10 lots of two-minute poses. Strike a pose and do not move until a bell clangs, they told us. Seemed easy enough. I sailed through the first few poses with ease. It was just like playing a perverted game of half-nude statues. By pose four, the lights had started to burn into my brain and I could feel an unflattering amount of sweat beading on my upper lip. I hoped no one was going to choose their allocated two minutes of speed drawing to focus on my moustache sweat.
During pose five, I found myself wondering how I was going to keep the next 20 poses looking fresh. For pose six, I jumped into a deep leg spreading squat and experienced immediate regret. Not only was I unsure whether or not the whole room could see my vag, there’s nothing like experiencing the realisation of just how unfit you are 20 seconds into a two minute squat. Finally, praise the art Jesus, the bell clanged, signalling it was time to change the pose.
Next up, we kicked off the five-minute poses. As you can imagine, these were more physically taxing. We decided to mix it up and serve up some perv. I reclined in a chair while my co-poser got on her knees, gripped my thighs, arched her back and pretended to deep throat my carrot dong. Hot pose in theory… until she realised she was in for a shitty, back-breaking five minutes. After 90 seconds, her legs started shaking and my eyelids began to sweat. At the three minute mark, I heard her mutter something under her breath about being in pain. I stifled a laugh, which caused the sweat from one of my eyelids to roll down my face and splash onto her nose. At minute number four, I started to get bored of the position so I amused myself by tapping my carrot against her forehead while maintaining a blank stare into the audience. I’m not sure she appreciated this as much as I did. With 10 seconds until the pose was up, her whole body quaked from the brutal back-arch from hell position.
Finally, we were able to transition into another position. By this point, my whole body was slick with sweat, despite no one else in the room even looking remotely overheated. Isn’t life-drawing supposed to be sexy, glamorous and liberating?
By the time we hit the 10-minute poses, I was a bit drunk from the white wine I’d been chugging between poses and forgot to care how sweaty I was. I began trying to strategise my poses because the last thing I needed was to get trapped into some reverse cowgirl position from hell. Was I even capable of standing still for 10 minutes?
To change up my costume a bit, I slid a giant gag into my mouth – one of those ones that force your mouth wide open and expose all of your teeth. At the two minute mark I felt saliva form on my tongue. By the five minute mark, my body was screaming at me to swallow the pool of spit that had formed on my tongue. I rebelled against my instincts and kept my mouth open. Take that, body. By minute 9, my teeth felt like chalk. By the end of the pose, the saliva had made its way to the front of my mouth and had started to drip from the gag onto the stage. The final bell clanged and it was game over. I pulled the gag from my mouth as I left the stage and watched a thick trail of spit fly off in the direction of one of the artists. Whoops. Glamour.
Afterwards, I felt a strong sense of achievement. I was proud of myself for surviving this weird arty hipster quest. I wandered around and looked at everyone's sketches as they were packing up, feeling particularly chuffed by the artists who chose to draw me with bigger tits than I actually have.
For more information on Dr Sketchy’s click here.
* I got paid more than $20, I’m just being dramatic.