At 50 I Started Getting Naked For Cash

Asha Sanaker on her side-hustle as a nude model for a life drawing class.

A painting Asha Sanaker posed for at 50, by Ben Marlan

One Wednesday night a month I drive to the next town over, park in the gravel lot behind a former church, make my way down to the basement, and then take my clothes off. Two and a half hours later I drive back home with $60 in my pocket.

This is not a longstanding practice of mine, taking my clothes off for money. Not due to any inherent modesty, which I seem not to have acquired at birth or any later point. In fact, I spent a lot of time when I was younger naked in public—skinny dipping whenever and wherever possible, naked canoeing in the backwoods of Virginia, nude sunbathing on the roof of my best friend’s row house in inner city Baltimore. (People never, ever look up.)

This is not a longstanding practice of mine, taking my clothes off for money. Not due to any inherent modesty, which I seem not to have acquired at birth or any later point.

I even, per school tradition, streaked around the pond in front of the entire community at the conclusion of my senior year of high school. That was actually the only time I can remember, in all of that blissful nudity, being particularly concerned about how I looked. Crouched down behind the hedgerow on the far side of the pond with my compatriots I suggested that perhaps running while naked, with breasts and penises flopping about, was not a great look. Instead, I maintained that we should walk—calmly, sedately, regally.

My fellow streakers thought I was nuts. They took off around the corner of the pond to the accompaniment of delighted screams from the underclassmen, “Oh, my god! They’re NAKED!” while our teachers, used to these annual antics, rolled their eyes. I followed behind, smiling serenely, walking slowly, offering the best approximation of a royal wave I could manage—elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist.

While living in Seattle in my 20s, I was approached by a woman I knew socially, though not well, at a statewide conference we were both attending. She sat down next to me at lunch in one of those massive, sterile banquet conference rooms and said, “Asha, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure”, I replied. “What’s up?”

Asha Sanaker at 50.

“You know how I dance downtown, right?” she asked. I did know, in fact. She made good money as an exotic dancer in one of the downtown clubs— a fact about her that had always sort of delighted me, since she, like me, was on the shorter and curvier side, rather than being some long, lithe goddess with a little ass and big tits—the culture’s stereotype of the kind of woman people would pay to see get naked.

“When I started they told me, for safety purposes, I had to choose a stage name,” she went on. “Being a redhead, I immediately said Cherry, but that was already taken. They said I couldn’t dance without choosing something and the only other redhead I could think of popped into my head. So, I’ve been dancing under your name for the last six months.”

When I took my clothes off in public I never did it to be seen as attractive or appreciated for my body. I just did it to feel wildly and defiantly free.

Clearly, she expected me to be upset. This was a confession, with all the apprehensive, shamefaced looks to prove it. But, instead, I just started to laugh.

“That’s awesome!” I insisted, chuckling. “I only wish you worked in the kind of place that had a marquee. Then I could get my name in lights without ever having to take my clothes off!”

I never would have done what she was doing, despite my tendencies towards public nakedness in my youth. It wasn’t a moral judgment. I just found her willingness to perform naked, to actually seek strangers’ affirmative gazes (and dollar bills), unimaginable. When I took my clothes off in public I never did it to be seen as attractive or appreciated for my body. I just did it to feel wildly and defiantly free.

So, a few months ago, when an acquaintance put out a call for art models for a weekly life drawing class, I was intrigued but ambivalent. I mean, being naked in front of people doesn’t bother me, clearly, but doing it in order to be studied? Captured on paper?

Wouldn’t the sorts of people looking to draw the female form prefer exactly the sort of woman the culture says people would rather see take their clothes off in those downtown Seattle clubs? As opposed to a 50-year old single mom with breasts that have fed two kids, and cellulite from navel to knees?

Maybe they would. But I needed the money and, it turns out, those sorts of women weren’t clamoring to stand around naked in a former church basement on Wednesday nights.

A few months ago, when an acquaintance put out a call for art models for a weekly life drawing class, I was intrigued but ambivalent. I mean, being naked in front of people doesn’t bother me, clearly, but doing it in order to be studied? Captured on paper?

At my age, it also turns out, I’m not clamoring to stand around naked either. We start with one- and two-minute poses, to get everyone warmed up—though I’m too warm, and have to request a fan on me so I’m not trickling sweat the whole time (thanks, perimenopause!). I can stand in those poses, without any balancing or yoga-type silliness. Once we move onto the five- to ten-minute poses, though, I have to sit down, or kneel, or recline. Being completely still, even off my feet, for that many minutes in a row is surprisingly taxing.

By the time we get to the final twenty-minute poses, I’m splayed out on the platform like I’ve been shot, just trying to offer enough angles for interest without having any of my extremities fall asleep. The folks who come to draw have assured me I’m not the only one, that all of their models lay down by the end. Some have even fallen asleep, they insist, which the regulars seem to take some pride in—a testament to how chill and unthreatening they are.

I can’t offer them that satisfaction. I don’t sleep in moving vehicles or around people I don’t know, especially amped up on the reality of being the only naked person in the room. I think this is probably evolutionarily appropriate. If I had to guess, I’d say the only people falling asleep while nude modeling are men. Women are too habituated to the reflexes of prey.

Once we move onto the five- to ten-minute poses, I have to sit down, or kneel, or recline. Being completely still, even off my feet, for that many minutes in a row is surprisingly taxing.

The last time I went, just three folks were there to practice—two middle-aged men and a young woman attending for her first time. She was, she reported, an art student at the local university. One of the men, a regular, is a professional DJ and a new father. The other, also a regular, is the head of the performing and media arts department at the local university. He only started drawing in the last handful of years. I find his relative newness comforting, like we are in this together.

We all chatted amiably during the breaks between poses and made cracks about the crappy snacks—stale cheese balls and old butterscotch candies. I introduced the DJ to my favorite Willie Nelson album of all time (Teatro, if you’re wondering). After asking permission, I peeked at his work towards the end.

Instead of drawing, the DJ painted with oil paints on small blocks of wood the size of playing cards. The images were tightly cropped—the curve of a hip, the turn of an elbow. His paints were laid on thick and layered, exaggerating my bumpy juiciness. For a split second, I was taken aback. How vulnerable—to be watched so closely, captured so unsparingly.

All the parts of me I actually love—the line of my neck, the weighted curve of the underside of my breasts, the intense blue of my eyes—were absent. Just the parts of me I struggle to love were there—the pooch of my belly, the width of my hips, the heaviness of my upper thighs. I thought, That’s all you see when you look at me?

At the end of the session the young woman approached me, shyly.  She stepped close, ducked her head and warmly offered, “You’re beautiful. It was a pleasure to draw you. I hope I get to do it again sometime.”

Then it occurred to me that it’s like when I listen to my voice recorded, which sounds so different than the way I sound in my own head. I can’t control for the differences in either case. I can’t autotune my way out of being seen as I lounge there on the platform any more than I can make my voice sound to other people the way it does to me. And, honestly, why would I bother? I finally like inhabiting this body I’m in, more than I ever did when I was younger. Why should any difference between my experience of being inside of it and other people’s perception of it be of any concern to me?

At the end of the session the young woman approached me, shyly.  She stepped close, ducked her head and warmly offered, “You’re beautiful. It was a pleasure to draw you. I hope I get to do it again sometime.”

Her perception of me doesn’t matter either, ultimately, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve also gotten better at taking a compliment, at accepting that sometimes other people’s perceptions of me do feel accurate and good and meaningful.

“That’s kind of you!” I responded. “This 50-year-old single mom says thank you!”

I mean, it was kind. And I also want them all to never forget who they’re dealing with. Take a long look, folks. Capture me in all my beauty and imperfection. This is what 50 looks like.