A photograph is a drawing of light, perfectly voluptuous in its perversities.
Through my camera lens, amid the cicadas buzzing in this summer night, I am composing a representation of she. A woman. A girl. Everybody. I am snapping away at her undressing. Because she asked me to. Because I wanted to.
She is sex dressed in skin. In clothing. In panties and lace and strings and curves and lines. She is everything before her, she is a mirror for what comes after. She is archetypal.
On this night we will take hundreds of photos, but only a handful will capture the moments that matter. Only a few will capture everything that she is and isn’t.
In the beginning she is rigid. Scared. Alluring in her uncertainty.
But the light in this room is melting everything…
She has invited me inside and I am delicate with my reception. I respond with compliments. Deep breaths. Gratitude.
I tell her that she looks beautiful. I tell her that I love what she wore and I don’t want to cloud it with lingerie or anything that is not her walking out the door on any night.
This is her apartment. I am shooting her in her world. In her bedroom light. Where she lives, dresses, showers and calls her lovers in the cool dark night of her bed sheets.
Secretly she is an exhibitionist and loves showing off her windswept 20 year old body. Secretly she knows that death is forever, still a lifetime away from her. Explicitly she knows that this body is not forever. That the weather will come.
This is why I am standing with all the blood swirling through my body in torrents and waves to my midsection, to my head and then down to my hands holding this camera.
She is not without flaws. She is perfect. And young.
She is standing before me with her pants splayed open, the top of her panties peeking out. She is running her nervous hands up and down her stomach, around her bellybutton. Waiting to depress it. Waiting to exhale.
I ask her if she is an exhibitionist. She replies indignantly, no. She draws me the picture of a man in a raincoat. And I dissent. I tell her that she is an exhibitionist. At home, walking into a store. The way you dress and flirt with the world with your body – you want to be watched. You like being watched.
Coyly she laughs and then says, yes. I do. I suppose that’s why you are here.
Five minutes later and she is hot with fetish. She has slipped off her shirt, over her head. Her exhibitionism must be written on her skin. Simultaneously it all becomes exposed: her want and need and desire wrapped within her dripping sex.
Even from behind the camera and I can feel it.
Her sex, hot and wet and warm.
I am a voyeur and an exhibitionist.
A camera is like my clothing, my wall between these worlds.
Behind the camera there is a safety.
Behind the camera there is beautiful danger.
I am simulacra. I am standing behind my camera like a pervert who is not perverse.
I am watching her bending over, sliding her jeans down and over her shimmering ass. She slides a finger inside her panties at her hips. She snaps it back onto her skin. She looks back at me. At the camera.
She is becoming sassy. She is growing older right before me. She is expanding into her sex.
She rolls over and I have stopped giving her direction. Now that nerves have worn off, she knows what she wants out of this. She knows who she is within this.
With my gasps of air she knows that she is gorgeous. She knows that I am flush with fetish.
She is on her back and running her hands up and down her thighs.
No longer is she looking into my camera. Instead, she is looking at me. My chest. My body. My cock. Her eyes are fluttering up and down, trying not be caught. As if I can’t see anything behind the camera. As if, from here, I am invisible.
Her tongue is pressed against her top teeth like a knife that wants to cut through this heavy air.
I am moving around her snapping away as she is stirring, squirming, sliding.
She says, I feel underdressed. You are overdressed.
I am snapping away at the edge of the bed. Close to her. Her nipples are hard and I am focusing-in on the curves and the shadow below her tit, her armpit. Her lines in her muscles. I pull my eye away from the camera and look down at her.
She is staring at my midsection.
I am hard and I know she can see my throbbing cock through my pants.
She looks up at me, biting her lip and running both of her hands over her chest, concluding with a twirl of her fingers around her nipples.
I have an idea and tell her that I want to see her unbuckle me. Take me out.
Slowly, seductively and confidently she slides even closer to the edge of the bed. Without word she reaches up for my pants.
I begin snapping away. I say, slower…
I shoot her hands and nails and the bulge in her forearm as she is taking me out.
I shoot her face and the naughty smirk like liquid from her lips.
She unzips me and then my cock flies up and out. I am throbbing. Pulsing. Buzzing.
Her mouth is agape.
I snap away…
As I take off my shirt and step out of my pants, she is watching me. Just like I, the simulacra, have been watching her like a camera. Like a lens. Like a solar flare.
I am standing close to the bed and as she slips off her panties, I am snapping away. My cock hard and curved in a path of light, right towards her.
I shoot her bald mound, its curves and the shadows that define it. From the light that is afforded I can see that she is already wet. Glistening.
As she is staring at my cock, she says, I think I love being watched. And,
I like watching you.
Bucking her hips in the air, I move around her, to her head – so I can shoot down her torso to capture her fidgety fingers sliding down to her wetness, playfully.
I am leaning in for the shot when I suddenly feel my cock become enveloped with a hot wetness.
I say nothing and only continue shooting. Exhaling loudly and with force. This is me obliging not only her, but this entire situation. To that end, I can hear her music vibrating over and around my aching cock.
I pull the camera away from my face and look down and into her glimmering eyes. She is staring straight up at me, teasingly. Hungrily.
My legs are becoming weak and so I prop myself on the bed as she continues to alternately take me in her mouth and pull me out to stroke me and examine my body. Then my other leg begins to fall into an intoxicated paralysis and so I climb all the way above her.
With my camera in-hand I leave my cock where it is and then crawl outward with the rest of my body – down and towards her wetness where one of her hands is full of her cunt. Fingering. Flicking. Circling her clit. Sliding in and out of herself.
Once propped on my elbow, I snap away. At her circling hand, a blur now. Her thighs. Her curled toes. My cock in her mouth. Her erect nipples. Her tight tummy.
I shoot her and I shoot me.
And then I lean in and take her clit into my mouth. I suck and flick it with my tongue. Her mouth is wide open, my cock on her lips. She is moaning.
Her toes are wave cycles of intoxication. They tense. Curl. Release.
A moment. A snapshot.
I’ve seen the shadowy things appearing and then withering into the sidewalks, since my youth. Ever death obsessed for all of my life, I have troubled myself endlessly over questions of fame and fortune. Nearly 30 years down my road and I came to the conclusion that: with fame or fortune, either way I can’t take them with me when I leave.
As this life lives like my dream state where there is no holdover, from one life to the next – I have come to the conclusion that what I desire is beautiful moments. Whether they last three seconds, three minutes or three years – the purpose is not in the duration. The purpose is in the striving.
Because when you can conceptualize that notion to the point where you are floating on top of it, a strange thing begins to happen: The beautiful moments begin to happen. All around. For seconds and moments.
Small slivers of time that reverberate at the frequency of illumination. So pungent are my collected moments of beauty and patience and time that they have burned themselves upon the silver plate of my mind for all my days.
Like a drawing of light.
Like a photograph.