marcus gets shot

I walked into the apartment. Marcus had just showered. It was late afternoon, and we had theatre tickets for the evening. As I took off my boots marcus nodded to the camera, sitting out on the bed.

“Wanna take some pictures?”

We’d been talking about the photo shoot we wanted to do, with one photograph in particular as our goal. I was game.

He was already naked and I set about setting the studio for our little project.

“Baby, can you help me with this light? I want to move it over there…can we turn the shade towards you? That’s no good; it needs to be higher. Just a sec…”

I went to the kitchen and brought out the stepstool. He lifted the floor lamp up and adjusted the height. marcus sat on his perch. The light shone down at an angle, illuminating the front of his shoulder, casting a shadow across his leg. His muscles were on display, the light and shadow bringing them into full focus.

I am accustomed to the other side of cameras. I know what poses, lighting and angles make me look good on film. I suppose that made it easier to do my part now, as the photographer. I recognized the little surge of delight that comes when I take charge of a situation.

It doesn’t happen often during sex with marcus or with Jefferson or with anyone to whom I’ve been submissive. I guess it’s because I’m comfortable in that role with them. I have been the dominant partner with a few people, but only from the very beginning.

Now marcus was submitting his naked body to me in a different way. I liked it.

I stepped back, looking through the camera, making adjustments to the drapes, his feet, his shoulders. I would take a series of shots, tell him he could release his pose and we would critique the digital images together. Some just didn’t work, and we agreed on those. There were others on which we disagreed, but in the end we chose two: his favorite and mine.

There was a time when the only photos I cared about were the ones with me in them: school photos, candid shots from parties, me and my boyfriend at a tourist spot. I used to dream of meeting a photographer (Italian, of course), who would make black and white prints of me and us and our children and dog and hang them throughout the house.

Like a great big Calvin Klein ad.

what the world needs now is love, sweet love…

I haven’t met the photographer. And I have precious few photos of myself, save the self-portraits with shutter-timers and camera phones. None of those are hanging in my house.

I adored photographing marcus. I adored documenting the aftermath of Jefferson’s bedroom following Viviane’s first threesome. I love composing self-portraits and posting them here for the world to see.

But I don’t have the passion for it that a photographer needs. I do it because; in a way it’s necessary. There are a few sights I want to remember when I am eighty. I don't have the compulsion to photograph every interesting or beautiful or terrible thing. That's not me.

I'm on the other side. The exhibitionist. The submissive. The girl who likes to follow instructions. Just put me in front of a camera and tell me what to do. That makes me feel alive. That gets me off.

That being said, given the right model, I take a hot picture.

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