If you want my body and you think I'm sexy come on, sugar, paint my toe

I never wanted to have my portrait painted. I’m not complaining that someone offered, I’m just saying that it wasn't on my top 10 list of things to do (in case you’re wondering, #1 is go to bed and #10 is hang glide. I’d also like to see the Grand Canyon).

Last night I went to my last sitting for Mr. Painter—with my clothes on, of course (remember how you all helped me decide whether or not I should disrobe? That was so special).

For some reason, the sitting was particularly boring. It dragged on, and somewhere between 5:00 and 5:01 I really started to dislike Painter Man. I gave up hours of my life to sit for him; if I’d known it meant I’d be listening to him wax philosophical about his passion for art, I’d have declined.

Plus, he talks to himself. After having a child I’m more sympathetic to this affliction (what parent doesn’t talk to him or herself?) but I never knew if he was looking for affirmation from me. Like when he’d shout, “Keep it together, Mr. Painter! Oh, you louse! What were you thinking with that shade of blue?” I never knew if I should interject with “I’m sure you’re doing a great job” [freak].

Since this was our last hoorah, I thought I’d amuse Painter Man with my clever observation about how portrait painting is the perfect cover for having an affair (think about it: you can’t answer your phone and you go home in different clothes. What more do you need?) But instead of applauding my ingenuity, he got all serious on me.

“It's one of the gray areas of my profession. Some of my models assume that certain extras are part of the modeling arrangement. I have to very nicely tell them it’s not.”

The room grew very

very

quiet.

I started to wonder if he thought I was coming on to him? Ack! The last thing I'd want to do is sleep with someone who'd shout out “Keep it up, Mr. Painter! Oh, you louse! What were you thinking with that hip thrust?”

And then I started to get silly. Cause really, what would a portrait painting pick-up line sound like?

“Oooooh, is that a paintbrush in your pocket or are you just happy to see my left breast?”

(Oh shut up. I triple dog dare you to come up with something better.)

When he was finally done painting, he invited me to take a look at his masterpiece. I have to admit, he captured my likeness. Fictitious DDD breasts and all. And now I want the painting. Bad. It would look so nice over the bidet.

There’s only one problem: Anyone have an extra $10,000 lying around?