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Istretch out on the bed and strike a pose. I lean my head on one hand, my elbow buried in the bed cover. I know I’m far from perfect, but in Weston’s presence, I feel so pretty.
He’s pointing his phone camera already. “Stick out your hip a little more.”
I do as he says, a little self conscious. I don’t hate my body, but I don’t love it either. My breasts are a little too small, my nipples a little too big for my liking. My waist is a little too wide, and my hips a little too narrow. And my legs are a little too short. I know I’m being silly. Most of us women are. We are way too critical of our own bodies. We should stop obsessing and just appreciate what our healthy bodies do for us. They can bring us pleasure, can bring children into the world and feed them. They can share a hug, and feel the love of close ones. They can carry us from one place to another, and do so much, things that we take for granted every day. Yet, we can’t help but scrutinize ourselves.
I study the way Weston looks at me, with nothing but adoration. I’m sure he doesn’t see the imperfections like I do. I decide to embrace my body, and let him take as many photos as he likes.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
He dances around the room, barking out orders. Sit up. Lay down. Stick out your bum. Pull up your hair. It’s exhausting, but also very fun.
“Now, I want you on your stomach,” he says. “I want a shot of that great bum of yours.”
I smile and turn around. I stick out my rear before he even tells me to.
“Oh, sweetie… I hate what I’ve done to you.”
I laugh. “It’s all good.”
“You know I’m not usually this wild,” he confesses. “There’s just something about you. I’m less inhibited with you, less inhibited than I’ve ever been.”
“Really?” I say. “So you’re telling me you don’t usually go around biting bums?”
He laughs. “Nope… just yours, baby. There’s a certain quality about you… it makes me want to be playful.”
“I like it when you’re playful.”
He bites his lip. “Yes, I like our playtime very much too.”
Snap. Snap. Snap.
“Perfect,” he says. “You’re a natural. Good girl.”
I smile. I’m kind of loving this. Who knew I was such an exhibitionist. “You need to send me all the pictures. All of them. Including the ones from the park.”
“I will.”
“And after you send them, I want you to delete them all from your phone.”
Snap. Snap. Snap.
“What?”
“I’ll erase the ones I don’t like,” I explain. “Touch up the others, and send them back.”
“Oh… okay. As long as you don’t erase too many.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “They’ll be beautiful, you’ll see.”
* * *
I spendall Friday night and Saturday morning working on the photos we took. He’s actually not a bad photographer. He seems to have an eye for composition, and a relatively good understanding of his phone camera.
Some of them are horrible though, and I quickly get rid of them and pretend they never existed. And thankfully, I manage to touch up the bruises on my behind. I add vignettes and play with the lighting until they look like professional photos. I’m giddy when I email him the finals, and wonder what he’ll do with them.
The more I look at the photos, the more I’m thankful he took them. I may not be perfect but I like what I see. I especially like the photos we’ve taken of the both of us, and the ones I took of him. I like the idea of having images of him, memories of our happy times. No matter what happens in the end, I’ll always have these to cherish.
