"...dance, walk, or simply sit, and share myself with you. This action is my poetry to your camera." She spoke to me from a distance I could not imagine...from a proximity that made me tremble. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ @ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I meant to arouse him. It was my desire. It was my way of pleas- ing myself. And I did. It is not about the body. It is about "attitude". I studied his work for sometime before I suggested that I model for him. Nude, I would lie on the bed when he was not home with his pictures scattered about me and run my hand along my own flesh to feel if it looked like what he captured. He loved me. I knew that. His hands, his eyes, the strength of his legs and how he moved mine aside to enter me was done with the passion of man very deeply in love. But I wanted also to experience the love that went into these photographs. I could tell in the eyes of every woman she had sought to please him in a way different from the wonderful love making between us. I knew nothing transpired between him and his models though the world upon seeing the pictures would say..."Oh you fool! Look how she looks at him....." Oh, yes. Look.And I would over and over and over again at the exquisite beauty of his work until I realized.... in each woman, I saw a statement to him about who she was. And I knew that her ability to do this through her body, through her mouth, through her eyes, sensously aroused him, and when he snapped the shutter on his camera...he would be whispering to himself, "Yes!" And each woman could hear him. It wasn't jealousy. I wanted the experience to arouse him as well. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 01/25/99 1:30:35 AM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ how it started ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She first asked him the question after he had entered her, and had begun to move within...slowly at first. When his back was arched, his hands gripping hers that lay above her head and her legs held him firmly as he thrust himself deep into her entry, now smooth and slick with the arousal of long foreplay. And she looked at him, a look that let him know what great pleasure he was filling within her as he moved, easily against the walls of her inner sanctum...a part of her that felt filled with powerful tides, ever-increasing in strength. "My God, you are beautiful, that face! Oh God!" he gasped. "Would you photograph me?" she said, pulling his face toward hers, kissing him with a wild sense she wasn't sure she'd felt before. It was not even a thought, exactly...she was too lost in the rising heat. But the image of him...of her. As overpowering as her need to release her own orgasm, was the need to maintain some visual memory of it. And he answered her by penetrating deeper, faster. But she kept her eyes in his...letting him see, letting him watch what he did to her with the beauty of his body. Her hands, tangled in his long hair, held his head. "Photograph me..." she softly moaned. And then with her own legs she slowed his movement...taking over their bodies....gently moving back and forth along his shaft...while he remained raised above her. "Watch me" she whispered. And now... fascinated by her eyes, her mouth, the movement of her shoulders and breasts as she responded to the sensations that she felt from the strength of his body...he did watch her. His eyes were locked with hers. Until, when he could contain it no longer, he plunged himself into her, howling her name as he spilled his seed into her body. He would photograph her. They both knew it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ later ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He thought about her the next day. All during the day. Two things seemed to repeat themselves, over and over -- her face, against the pillow...that beautiful and open expression of hers, that said to him, "I love you...I love the feeling of you within me." And, a soft voice that murmured, cooed... gasped to him as he felt the explosion of passion that seemed to accompany their love- making -- "Photograph me..." He couldn't believe the incredible sense of longing with which he had awoken, although she had already gone. She worked a day job, at a child day-care center, and always left him a deliciously enticing note on the dining room table (often with some new and exotic pastry she'd discovered somewhere in their neighborhood bakeries). It amazed him that she had the energy to do the things she did. This morning, he managed to pull himself out of the bed, vaguely sad and content at once. He associated this odd juxtaposition of emotions with her. Renny was unlike any woman he'd met. And, for the first time in his life...he'd quit his one-night stand affairs with other models. As he entered the kitchen he saw a small package (he was sure his breakfast, which she had probably walked several blocks to find, to return for him, before she left for her other job, was in that sack). Next to it was a note. With an unusually high sense of arousal (which brought back the sadness...because he longed for Renny's presence) he sat down at the table, and picked up the note. He could smell the sweet aroma of some new and exotic pastry within the sack, but the note drew him first...it had her aroma, her hands had touched this piece of paper. Her hand had written the words. Her mind had composed the words...and he knew, for her...that the words were literally a part of her. Even before he began to read it, he simply held it in his hands. Then he lifted it to his face, where he inhaled her scent...the perfume she wore, like the wonderful lace panties...the perfume that was her. It was the scent beneath the panties. Something was stirring within him that transcended the physical. He knew that at once. Yes...he longed for Renny. He missed her in a manner he had never missed a model, moring after...or an hour follow- ing what he used to call "A full session." He missed her eyes, looking into his. Yes, there was that certain look when they made love, but now -- he realized it was also a look she had when she was sitting across the table from him. It was a look she had when she had just read a piece of writing to him...hers, or some author she admired. It was a look she had that was...he tried to articulate it to himself, but found difficulty doing so. Using visual imagery had always been his approach to the world. Finding the words was her area of expertise. Whose? Renny's, of course. But...what about Lia...what about Eva...what about... What was going on, here? Was he falling in love? Was this what it felt like to fall in love? He had never intended any relationship be- tween himself and a woman to extend beyond....weeks? months at best... now, he realized that she had touched some part of him that had never been touched. He began to read the note: "Good morning my beautiful sleeping prince. Ahhhh, it is so tempting to want to wake you. Your moist lips do invite kissing as you lay, so handsomely bare under warm covers. I dress in the morning twilight, pulling stockings over the very legs you caressed last night with your kisses. Oh that I could give you more to taste than the delicate muffin you will find in this small bag....but, a man has many appetites so this will do for now until I can provide for other sweet hungers. With love, Renny J" He was overwhelmed for a moment...perhaps for several long moments as he held the note, caressed it with his fingers, gently, as though it were part of her. Which it was. How he wanted her to be here! How he needed her! And that was something he would never had admitted to any other woman. Would he tell Renny? How could he not? He took the pastry bag, opened it...deepy inhaled of it. Yes, there was something of her in this package. She knew how excited by the various senses he was. She had called him, on many occasions -- "The sensualist" ... "The dreamer who filled his senses during waking hours, so that he might take these senses with him into dreams..." He loved the sound of those words, but never truly understood them. It was easy to call him a "sensualist." He would never have de- nied that fact. He loved the sights, the sounds, the touch, the aroma, the texture of moments. And yet...he had convinced himself that this world of sensuality was the "total package." Remembering each woman he had taken to bed, every touch, gesture, visual clue was a component of their being. And, he had come to believe that by knowing them in this way somehow fulfilled a moral, ethical, even spiritual connection with them. Now...he was not only unsure of that view of the world...most of all, the relationship he had with women...was somehow complete. They made no demands of him. Renny didn't make demands, either. But, she was different. What was it? He reached into the bag, pulled out the "delicate muffin" she'd left for him...and as he put it to his lips and took a bite. As al- ways, her taste was impeccable. The taste, the aroma, the sense of its nutrient qualities, and most importanly...the very texture of this pastry was no accidental choice. It was then that it occurred to him that she knew him so well that she could find a simple piece of pastry, and that she knew it would please him...was a simple element unique to her...to Renny. Other women had pleased him, in many ways. But Renny, consciously or not, had tapped into some deeper part of him. As he finished the last bites, washing the last one down with a swallow of juice still left in a bottle in the fridge, her face kept reappearing...her voice filled his inner ear. "She's..." He was slightly appalled and embarrassed by the fact that he had just spoken his thoughts aloud, even thought there was no one else to hear them. And yet..."She's...magic? She's..." Oh, God...how he hated when he was unable to articulate in words the feelings that seemed to drive him from day to day. "She...loves me?" He spoke the words aloud, again. Was that it? The very concept of love was an abstraction to him, he knew. Now, he had to confront its possible reality. Had he ever wondered whether his other models had "loved him"? Probably not. It seemed as though the world in which he had lived until now was composed of vague philosophical ideas that made him feel complete. He had devoted himself to what he considered a "bohemian exist- ence." That precluded emotional attachments, and no woman had ever complained, or had seemed hurt, or upset when he suggested that "they needed time apart...to experience..." etc., etc. The question of love was simply not part of any equation having to do with physical re- lationships. Until now. But...how to respond? That was, indeed, its own question. It then occurred to him, with a slight shock -- he realized that he'd never really intened Renny to be a model. She hadn't approached him with the prospect -- in fact, until she'd seen his studio, she only knew from what he'd said, when they were talking over books one afternoon, after a class they were taking together at the university, what it was he did. And yet...her voice, super-charged and heated had whispered to him...had asked him in a manner no model had ever asked before -- "Photograph me..." He knew, the moment she'd spoken those words, that he would. She was attractive, lithe, and engagingly open. Why hadn't he thought of it himself? That in itself was unusual. It would lead to an unusual session. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ more later ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A note left by the photographer, near a new contact sheet, for his model: -- This is about the scent you leave when you are gone. It appears in the most unusual places. It appears in the most unexpected places...and yet... it comforts ... even as it adds to that ache of longing... -- the shower, the clothes you have left in the closet ... those you have left in the upper right-hand drawer of the dresser... no... itís not by accident that I open that drawer anymore no... itís not by accident that I notice things like... some undergarment left by you in another drawer ... which I find ... knowing that it caressed you for hours where I would love to... which reminds me of a certain night ... or perhaps a sock you were still wearing when ...ahh...that night! -- the sheets, I confess... I leave awhile, still with your sweet aroma lingering in their folds ... for I will turn in the night, and that side of the bed will exhale you ... rising from them like an image in a vision of Paradise... the woman who is all women .. the woman who is earth and wood ... who is seed and flower ... -- and... like the flower... in my dream ... you blossom ... your petals inhale the sky and light .. -- and the nectar is set free... -- David ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ @ @ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "I imagine," she moaned softly, as she guided his fingers within her, " there would be some primal instinct that a body when naked among the elements, would give rise to a sense of incredible freedom. Oh God..." Her hand held his firmly as he moved it expertly within her. "You think so?" he grinned. "You think you could howl at the moon?" "Right along with you!" And with that she reached for the heart shape mound between his legs, causing him to shriek with howling pleasure. "I will be your woodland nymph," she cooed to him. " You will be looking into the clear waters of a a spring or small pond...and you will catch the reflection of bare legs...I will tease you, darting naked, in and out of the trees, the brush...and then I will lay, upon some sun rock...open to you...inviting." Renny had moved as she talked so that she was now straddled over David. "And I will raise my arms to the sun-god, stretching my body to welcome in its energy...and then..." Renny now took her hands, and slowly moved them down her neck, over her breasts..." guide the warm rays along my body, feeling the sunlight penetrate each cell..." She now cupped one breast and with the other hand, her fingers moved in circles round the nipple," I would marvel at how the sun glowed upon the rosebud". Now she switched breasts and hands..drawing the same circle until David reached for her finger, drawing it to his lips. With his tongue, he moistened the finger tip. "I want to photograph..."he said, taking her finger and placing it back on her nipple..."the morning dew on the rosebuds."
He remembered that he had taken a picture of her before. One about which he'd never told her. He'd almost forgotten, because he'd never used the negative after making his contact sheet. Once, while she still slept, and he was awake (unusual in itself... since she was an early riser, and he was most definitely not) he had slipped his Nikkon from beneath his bed (an older 35mm model, but it was already 1,000 SS and he was ready to push the ASA past 1,000 as well). He was certain there was enough light entering the room. It was simply a moment he couldn't let pass. They both had spent the evening before making incredible love -- she had introduced him to sensations he hadn't believed existed, with her nimble tongue, and her hands -- her hands, he could easily believe, were indeed, magic. They had fallen asleep naked, wrapped around one another. This morning, the covers had slipped down below her perfectly rounded bottom. He only had to slip from the bed without wakening her, and slip the lens cover off. The shutter speed was 125...and the lens was already set to shoot from approximately the distance he would be using -- about 6 feet. He had done this before, and he knew the settings were just about right. In fact...it was often how he'd done "follow-up" shoots after a session the night before. He had discovered many of the models were at "just the right heat" at this time. Most of them loved being photographed in this manner. This was different. He never wakened her. She never knew the photo had been taken. Her head showed, just slightly, with its curling dark hair (her "elfin hair," he called it). The curve of her back, down to her waist, and what he considered a most lusciously shaped derriere, was mag- ficent, and bare. She was bare down to her knees, in fact. He slipped the lens cap off the Nikkon, slowly raided the SLR view to his eye. Just a slight adjustment, focus-wise. Power on. Deep breath. He took the moment. Later, he would forget he'd taken it, but when it appeared on a contact sheet, he was somewhat taken aback. How could he have ignored her in such a manner? The camera, as the photographers, camera operators, etc. loved to say, "loved her." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ continued in "Taking Photos" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~