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“This is only my second fantasy.”
“And what about this scenario had you fantasized about?”
I cast back to the day I had filled out my folder on my kitchen table. What had I written about Courage? It wasn’t specifically about having sex with a handsome photographer, but I had written something about “watching myself, seeing myself” as a desirable woman.
“It was about being … watched, seen, feeling beautiful,” I said.
“Why’s that hard for you?”
“I don’t know … in my business it can distract as much as it attracts. The more beautiful you are, the less, it seems, you’re taken seriously.”
“I’m certainly taking you very seriously right now,” he said, peering over the camera intently at me. Click, click.
“Can I ask you something? Why are you doing this?”
“Why would you ask that?” he asked back, half laughing.
“It’s not like you’d have any problem meeting girls.” There I go. The journalist in me is about to kill the chemistry.
“No problem meeting girls. They’re everywhere.” Click. “On the other hand, I don’t really meet a lot of women,” he said, adding, “How about this. Instead of telling you why I’m doing this, let me show you.”
My head swam with that proposition.
“Starting with that bathrobe. Let’s lose it, Solange. And then I want you to just ignore me. And relax back onto the couch.”
Maybe it was how commanding he was, or maybe because the light was dimming and flattering and the puffy sectional so comfortable, but I found myself tugging free of the terry-cloth robe and tossing it to the side. I rested on my side, on an elbow, in that black negligee, my hand on my still-churning stomach.
At first, I didn’t know where to look, how to be. And then … I began to relax. I closed my eyes and lay back against the pillows. After I’d stretched and lounged for a few minutes, he stopped and flopped next to me on the sectional holding the camera. He smelled delicious, a deep citrusy musk. His warm arm brushed against mine as he positioned his viewfinder in front of me, cueing up images.
“I want you to see yourself.”
And there I was, or someone resembling me, now bathed in a gorgeous light; my skin seemed to glow, velvety shadows hugging my curves. Then I saw my dark nipples pressed against the sheer fabric. I covered the viewfinder with my hand, my pulse racing.
“Wow,” I said. “You realize because of my job, you’ll have to destroy these.”
He smiled.
“I wanted you to see what I see when I look at you. Let’s do some more,” he said, springing off the seat next to me.
There was that familiar tug, that ache behind my belly button. I was becoming aroused. Having the courage to reveal this side of me to someone was turning me on.
“Feeling a bit bolder?”
I nodded.
“Do you want to try something else on? Or take something else off?”
What a choice!
“I’ll … check out that rack again,” I said, unsure if I wanted to delay, or draw this out. What did it matter? I was getting into this.
I practically trotted to the bedroom and flicked through the rack feeling a little more daring. I pulled out a pale pink bra laced with gray ribbons and matching bottoms. The bra gave me the kind of cleavage I normally never flaunted. I threw on a matching gray gauzy wrap over the ensemble, deciding to go barefoot with this outfit. That’s why he didn’t hear me approach the partition, behind which he was now tinkering with filters, adding some kind of scrim over the lightbox.
He looked up. I let my hands drop to my sides, allowing the wrap to gape open so he could take me in.
Courage.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, nodding to indicate that I should take my position on the sectional again.
