Authors: Sina Annin
Sex and the Photographer
A very well-known photographe
r agreed to tell me her story, after I signed a comprehensive confidentiality agreement. After exploring her on-line portfolio, I was thrilled to be invited to her studio to talk. She had both great presence and stillness. Her voice was crisp and dry, like brut champagne, and her language was cultured and vivid.
“After graduating from a small liberal arts school in the Midwest, I took the bold step of defying my parents and moved to New York. I quickly found work as a photographer’s assistant, and moved into a
small apartment with three other young women, acquaintances of my cousin,” she told me.
“The photographer was nearly 20 years my senior, an intense man, an artist, really, who appeared unaffected by the obvious interest of so many women. Clients, models, ad agency mavens…he just didn’t seem to notice when they flirted with him, or even when they grew frustrated and demanded his attention
with their antics, and especially not when they gave up and went away.
“He had what used to be called ‘rugged good looks’
—a phrase that always conjures up the image of a man in jeans and boots, rolling up the sleeves of his open-necked shirt to reveal muscular forearms. I was both attracted and repelled by him. He was much too old for me—I was only 22 at the time—and although he was polite and serious in all our interactions, his adult good looks and mature masculinity frightened me.
“After several months, he asked whether I would like to work one of the evening shoots. These occasional night shoots were mysterious events, signaled by the photographer sending me home earlier than normal. Although he always paid me for the full shift, I felt a dull jealousy. I wanted to be indispensable. I wanted him to acknowledge me as a professional, as a partner, not dismiss me like hired help.
“He said this shoot would be for a very particular client, a wealthy man whose tastes were unusual. He eyed me closely, and said, ‘The models may be nude.’
“I blushed but said I could use the extra hours.
“The truth was, I was dying of curiosity, and thrilled to be included.
“The afternoon of the special shoot brought a group of stylists who unloaded covered clothing racks, large locked cases and huge suitcases on wheels from a plain panel van. The photographer kept me busy setting up lights and snaking cables around a large platform that w
as ultimately covered in fluffy white sheepskin rugs against a stark background.
“When the models arrived, they disappeared behind the racks and cases, where we had earlier arranged two futons piled with soft wraps and pillows. The studio was cavernous and chilly except under the lights, so I had assembled a beverage station with an electric kettle, an assortment of teas and some mugs I’d fished from a dusty storeroom cupboard. I could hear the occasional clink of a spoon against ceramic and low murmurs from behind the stack of gear. Once, I heard the pop of a cork, and giggles.
“Models in the studio always meant music. The photographer and I worked in silence normally. He was very reserved, and I had learned to relish the quiet atmosphere. That night, though, we listened to instrumental music that somehow made me think of firelight, and the velvety night sky over the Sahara. The music leapt and circled, winding through odd percussive rhythms and minor chord changes. I had never heard anything like it, and to this day, I don’t know what it was. It was a long, continuous flow of music, a river of sound.
“Finally, he called for the models.
“I hadn’t known what to expect, but then I was a naïve young person. This was years before the photography of Robert Mapplethorpe caused such a stir, and before episodes of prime-time police procedurals would feature accidental deaths in secret sex clubs. I had never seen anyone dressed in fetish gear before, because I wasn’t aware that fetishes existed. I’m sure my mouth was literally hanging open at the sight of the costumes.
“Of the three models, two were tall, very slender and small-breasted. They could have been twins, sealed in matching black latex body suits that covered their entire bodies and heads, while the face mask with its small eye slits revealed only the lower half of the face. Their twin full pouts were coated in shiny gloss.
“The most startling feature of the suits was the stylized male genitalia: two firm, ovoid plums hung beneath a slender, curving erection. They were beautifully sculpted in shiny ebony. As startled as I was, I was still able to admire the artistry that had gone into the design of these costumes.
“The third model was a
blonde whose taut, creamy, and curvy body was draped in simple, skin-colored lingerie. The filmy material floated over the tips of her pointed breasts and softly skirted her rounded hips. Her body appeared pale and powdery under the lights, in contrast to the sleek black latex.
“To this day, I can’t imagine a more erotic tableau.
“The photographer arranged the three figures on the platform and took photo after photo. He positioned the feminine blonde standing alone, back to the camera, and her face in shadow while the light gleamed along her spine. Then, he bent the blonde over at an extreme angle, to peer closely at one penis while unaware of the other model approaching her from behind, penis in gloved hand. The blonde reclining in the arms of the two black bodysuits, her head thrown back. A close-up of a black gloved hand weighing a full white breast, and another of a shiny black hand tightly cupping her crotch. The blonde in the foreground, staring into the camera, while the two figures bite her arms and shoulders and fingers. The blonde’s pale pink tongue stretching toward a raised black nipple.
“He then placed the two models in latex as mirror images, kneeling, arching backward, with the two penises almost touching. Then, one bodysuit on hands and knees, with the blonde straddling her narrow back, head thrown back. Another with both bodysuits on hands and knees, with buttocks just millimeters apart.
“The photographer took hundreds of shots that night, stopping to pose the models with his hands as if they were articulated dolls. They moved almost passively into position, then stretched their necks or arched their backs and pushed out their lips to bring the pose to pulsing life.
“The music lilted along, then began to build momentum. I felt lightheaded, watching
the photographer’s fingers at the edge of the silky nightgown on the blonde or his hands against the black latex. As the poses became more overtly sexual, I found it difficult to breathe, arousal drowning out all other senses.
“The blonde perched on the edge of the platform, pressing both hands into her crotch, and looking on as one of the black body suits stroked its erect phallus.
“The blonde on her back, knees spread and a sleek black head hovering over her clean-shaven mound.
“The blonde lying with arms overhead, with the two others licking at her breasts, her stomach.
“A close-up of two black penises approaching the shadowy crease between white buttocks.
“One black body suit on hands and knees; the other
posed behind while the blonde looks on with her bee-stung lip caught between perfect white teeth.
photographer stopped posing the models, and just snapped frame after frame. The models arranged themselves in various positions, together, apart, touching, almost touching. The music swelled and the blood pounded in my ears.
“The blonde came to her hands and knees, while one model knelt in front of her and the other behind. Her open mouth reached for the
shaft in front while she tilted her pelvis even more. The arch of her spine, the moist ‘O’ of her lips, everything about her transmitted desire. The slender model behind her held very still, long legs trembling a bit while the blonde slowly stretched back toward the outthrust penis. Then, the blonde moved forward, closer to the other cock. As the blonde swayed back and forth, the model in front edged slightly closer each time.
was torturous to watch them. I could feel the throbbing wetness between my legs. One of the stylists had disappeared behind the racks. Everyone else was silent, intent upon the scene under the lights. I handed a lens to the photographer and our hands touched briefly. It felt like an electric shock, and I stepped a few feet away, so the change in my breathing wouldn’t be as obvious.
“The blonde moved her knees farther apart as she pushed back and then stopped abruptly as she reached the tip of the penis behind her. She pressed back very slowly, easing its length inside her, inch by inch. Her breathing was now loud and ragged and both models trembled in the connection. The model in front moved even closer, pressing her hips forward, forward, forwa
rd until the blonde had taken all of that penis deep into her mouth, and then the blonde began rocking back and forth, faster and faster, impaling herself again and again.
strangled cry escaped me and I ran into the storeroom.
“Seconds later, the door opened, and briefly I saw the silhouette of the photographer lit from behind before it closed again.
“In the dark, we reached for each other. Between rough, deep kisses, he frantically ripped open our clothes and picked me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he entered me. It took just a few thrusts to bring us both to a shuddering climax. We clung to each other for a few moments, panting, before he staggered over to the table and let me down slowly.
“We put our clothes in order, and his breathing finally slowed enough to ask me if I was all right.
“’Yes, fine,’ I whispered. ‘Just a bit…you know...’”
’Yes,’ he said, ‘I understand.’
“He fumbled around and found a box of tissue, which he handed to me before he left the storeroom. Mercifully, he did not turn on the lights.
“I stood there, waiting for my pulse rate to slow before I turned on the light and smoothed my hair back into a ponytail. I wasn’t a virgin, but I had never had a one-night stand or a fling or an encounter like this. I didn’t know what to think about my behavior, or his, but I knew I couldn’t be nonchalant about what had happened between us.
“Do you know, I never went back? I
was too embarrassed to even resign. My final paycheck finally came in the mail, and he had added an extra $500. To this day, I still have the check in its original envelope.
“My own work was, of course, very much affected by this experience, but I couldn’t do anything so overt. Howev
er, critics often call my work ‘sensual’ and ‘erotically charged.’ A nipple might be silhouetted unexpectedly or we will wax a surface to achieve a soft gleam, or glaze an object with oil…fashion photography is seductive, of course, but no one is wearing a latex penis, I assure you. Well, one season in Milan, I did ask the models to wear athletic supporters weighted with silicone inserts. We wanted to bring some edge to their runway walks for a line of beautifully tailored tuxedo trousers. The designer thought I was brilliant to suggest it, and I laughed it off as an inspiration from a popular movie about baseball.
“It is odd that we never bumped into each other, the photographer and I. We both worked with many of the same agencies and magazines. I nervously scanned industry magazines and conference materials for his name for the first few years, but then stopped worrying that he would confront me, or tell others what had happened between us. My secret, our secret, was safe.
“When I look back, I sometimes wish I had returned to the studio. Would we have become lovers? The inexplicable biological force that brought us together has had a great impact on me...I often think of that night, knowing that it was impossib
le, in the moment, to resist.
“You may think it strange, but before I get in bed with a lover, I sometimes perform a little ritual. I excuse myself for a few minutes. I pull on a pair of gloves that I keep hidden in my closet. I turn out the lights, and I lightly stroke my face, my neck, my breasts with shiny black vinyl hands until I’m aroused and ready. And every time, it brings back some of the thrill, a hint of the passion that overcame us that night.”
Chapter 4: South Beach
I struck up a conversation with a woman while we stood in the security line at the airport. We continued on toward our adjacent gates, talking easily, when I revealed that I was researching women’s tales of sexual adventure. Her face was lit by a radiant smile.
“Do you have a story you’d like to share?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t mind sharing it, but I wouldn’t want it to end up in a book.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. I’m fascinated by true stories but I’ll write my own sex scenes for the novel. Part of the writers’ code of ethics,” I smiled and handed her my card.
As she tucked it into her wallet, she said, “I supp
ose I shouldn’t be so trusting.” She tapped her lips with one fingertip, considering. “Alright, I’ll tell you my best story from my single days. It happened a few years ago but I remember every detail.”
We settled into seats at an empty gate so we could speak freely. She curled one leg beneath her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I travel a lot for work, and on this particular trip, I arranged to meet clients from South America in Miami, along with a colleague of mine. In short, after a very successful meeting, the clients flew home while my colleague caught a flight to La Guardia. My original plan was to take a red eye to Amsterdam, but my flight was one of those cancelled when the volcano erupted in Iceland.
This kind of thing doesn’t faze me. After all, what could I do about the delay? A volcano in Iceland affecting flights out of Miami…who would ever have predicted such a thing? I decided to make the best of the situation and enjoy the city.
“The front desk clerk was terrific
, really helpful. When I asked for suggestions for unique things I could only enjoy in South Beach, he had plenty of ideas. He kept me laughing the whole time we talked. I hope he’s since found his way onto a stage somewhere.
“In addition to describing the character of several different night clubs, and the type of
men I might meet there, he also suggested I tour the World Erotic Art Museum. ‘You’re joking,’ I said. ‘There’s really a museum here devoted to sex?’
“’Oh yes, it’s real and it’s actually really good. They’ve shown Rembrandt’s work there.’
“Somehow, I’d never associated Rembrandt with erotic art! He pulled out a map and showed me how to get there. ‘The thing is, most people find touring this museum has a strong aphrodisiac effect, so I recommend you arrive an hour before closing. Once you’ve seen the exhibits, you can go on to one of these clubs here.’ He marked up the map. ‘I recommend these. This is where you have the best chance to find someone to, let’s say, help you take the edge off after your museum tour.’
“I laughed, not taking him all that seriously. More comedy, I supposed, thinking he was angling for a bigger tip by saying something so outrageous. But then, I’d never been to a sex museum before. I can’t tell you much about what I saw there, because frankly, I saw it all through a haze of
arousal,” she laughed.
, some of it was kind of tacky, but a lot of it was really art and really hot. To be a bit crude, my lady parts responded to every exhibit in every gallery. I thought it was hilarious at first that the collection belonged to an elderly Jewish grandmother, but the more I saw, the more I began to cheer her wisdom and hope that my own libido would be still revving in my eighties.
“I then surprised myself by doing something I’d never considered in my life. Just before
leaving, I stopped in the museum’s restroom. It was nice—large, private, and clean. The walls were clad in shiny black granite, like polished mirror. Pretty sexy for a public restroom. You can probably guess what I did next.
“I stood against one wall and pulled my skirt up to my waist and practiced sexy poses, watching my reflection
in the dark walls. I leaned back and spread my thighs, placing my feet wide apart on the polished floor. I slowly slid my hand into my panties to feel the pulse and heat with my fingers. I couldn’t remember being this aroused in ages. I lifted my fingers to my mouth and watched myself as I licked and sucked each finger. When they were slick, I slid my underwear down and pushed my fingers up inside my pussy, feeling the contractions begin before I’d even touched my clit. I put two, then three fingers inside, in and out, wishing for a big, hard prick and sending a silent thank you to the desk clerk. His list of clubs where I might find a hook up was definitely going to come in handy now.
“I circled my clit with slippery fingertips. I thought of the word ‘engorged’ and how
beautiful and how right a word it is. My lady lips had opened like a flower, with the pistil extending out, quivering and eager. I wanted someone to put his mouth on me, to lap up my juices, to take me over the edge. I had to make a decision…finish myself or go hunting for a man willing to ‘pollinate’ my little blossom.
“It was excruciating to stop, but I finally bent over to pull my damp panties up from around my ankles. I was in such a state that I didn’t even take time to wash my hands. The cab driver likely thought I was nuts, squirming around in the backseat and telling him to hurry to the closest of the three clubs.
“After just a few minutes, he deposited me in front of a club with a good-sized crowd spilling onto the front veranda. There were lots of likely candidates, as well as some serious competition from the women, but I guess I had a secret advantage. Not only was I exuding a cloud of pheromones, but I already smelled like sex. By the time I made my way into the club and over to the bar, two men were offering to buy me a drink. I said yes to both.
“In fact, I said yes to both for more than just drinks. I brazenly took both men back to the hotel with me. There was a different front desk clerk on duty when
we arrived, but he grinned and winked at me as I crossed the empty lobby with my two new friends. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other, and we took turns kissing in the elevator, laughing and falling against the walls as it rose.
“I had no idea what I was doing, but I felt great, in the zone, and the guys seemed to be enjoying themselves. It seemed natural for me to direct the action, so I invited the taller one to break open the minibar while the
first man undressed. Then, I asked the naked guy to make drinks while the second guy took off his clothes. I could detect a little nervousness in the way he neatly folded and stacked his pants and shirt on the dresser, tucking his underwear in between layers.
“The tall one
sweetly toasted ‘to Beauty’—we hadn’t exchanged names—and the one with the great shoulders added ‘And to her pleasure’ which pleased me very much, I have to admit.
“I stripped down to my bra and
panties and knelt down to pet and kiss them. I stopped with a stiff prick in each hand and looked up at them. ‘Have either of you ever done this before?’
“They looked at each other
for a long moment, then back at me before one shrugged and the other shook his head. ‘Me neither,’ I said, ‘but in case you are concerned, I won’t ask you to do anything to anyone except me.’ Their relief was obvious, and I was glad to know I’d be the star attraction.
After sucking each of them to hardness, I stood up to nuzzle one guy’s neck while the other unhooked my bra and put his hands on my boobs. Then, I turned to kiss him while the other pulled my panties down. After I stepped out of them, he nestled up behind me with his dick pressing against my butt. I moved my feet apart so he could enter me from behind. I gently pushed the other one down to kneel in front of me.
“I had been aroused for hours, and the feel of a man’s large hands fondling my
tits and the twin thrills of a cock inside me and a tongue on my clit was overwhelming. Fireworks, the seas parting, a galaxy of stars leaving their orbits—you name it, I felt it. It was the biggest, boldest orgasm of my life.
“Those guys were probably delighted that it had been so easy to get me off, but it must have been a shock to
the guy behind me when he suddenly had to bear all of my weight. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say I was insensible with pleasure for several heartbeats.
“He helped me onto the bed where I flung out my limbs like a starfish, exhausted. They stood at the foot of the bed looking at me, wondering, each fondling a flagging erection.
“’I could use another drink before I return the favor,’ I said hoarsely. One helped me sit up while the other put a glass of water in my hand. I looked up in surprise.
a conscious woman,’ he said with a grin. So cute!
Okay, what shall we try now?’ I asked, setting the empty glass on the bedside table and wondering how imaginative the three of us could be.
The two guys ended up staying all night, and after a couple of hours of sleep, I treated them to omelets from room service. I kissed them, and watched as they waved goodbye from inside the elevator. As the doors slid closed, I saw them high-five each other. It struck me as very funny.
“So you’d think I’d feel like a complete slut after a night like that, right?
After all, I’d given several blow jobs and had been fucked several times, by two different guys, having sex with one while the other one watched or petted me. But, you know, I just can’t feel bad about this, maybe because I came three times. The experience was really fun and deliciously naughty all at the same time. It made them so happy to please me and I really loved
by them. It was a great night for all of us.
“I haven’t tried
anything like that since. It has the feel of a magical, once-in-a-lifetime experience. I often wonder, though, if men realized how much fun we could all be having when they keep the mood light and generous…well, I guess there would be a lot less time to play video games!”
She laughed agai
n and left to board her flight. Her story made me smile all the way to Chicago.