It was a dreary February day in the Ozarks with overcast skies and a drizzling rain. Not able to work outside on the property, I drove the 30 minutes into the nearest town where I kept a small storefront office for my hobby photography business.
I started the business after my wife died just to give me something to do and didn't worry too much about making money. I had run a few newspaper promotions, but was mostly involved in store promotions and school picture packages . . . thus, I did not have to keep someone in the office. Instead, I just left my message machine on and had a drop-box at the door for written messages.
Arriving about 10 a.m., I found a couple of interesting messages on the phone and picked up another small school in the area for next year. The word was getting around that my work was high quality and my prices were cheap.
I turned on the local radio station to see what was happening around town and sat back at my desk to catch up on some photo editing and completing my annual store promotion schedule.
My shop is on a side street which gets little traffic, so I became interested when I saw the same old Pontiac cruise slowly past the front window a second time and stop on the other side of the street. A couple of minutes later a woman stepped out of the car and crossed the street toward my office, pausing slightly at the door before entering.
She looked to be about 30 or so, with long, light-brown hair which she tucked behind her ears making them stick out a little. She would have been pretty if she did not look so tired – worn-out, actually. Maybe she had a houseful of children.
She was wearing an old flannel jacket with a couple of tears on the front – most likely from carrying wood, judging from the smell of wood smoke which she brought into the shop with her. Under the jacket she wore a flannel shirt and faded jeans. Her clothes were clean, but nearly threadbare in spots.
The lady was slim, almost skinny, and looked out from under too-long bangs with a hesitancy that signaled insecurity rather than just shyness.
I walked to the front counter which is really just an old bar I had taken out of our house when we moved in. It was just over waist-high to me, but came up almost breast-high on the petite woman.
"I would say 'Good morning,'" I began with a smile, "but we both know I would be lying."
She looked at me blankly for a second, then returned my smile slightly, glancing out the window to show she understood my jest. She then bit her lower lip in a cute sort of way, and I realized I had interrupted her train of thought. She must have memorized what she was going to say.
Pulling a worn piece of paper from her jacket pocket, she laid it on the counter, pushing it toward me.
"Is this still good?" she asked, looking down at the paper as she did.
I looked at the paper and recognized an ad I had put in the local paper back around Thanksgiving. It offered $5 off for a $15 calendar made from snapshots brought in, or $10 off for a $25 sitting. The sitting would include a free calendar and the opportunity to save 10% on any pictures purchased. The promo had been pretty successful and I had planned to use it again this year.
"Of course," I replied, "And I will still give you twelve months, they will just start with March instead of January. Did you bring in some snapshots with you?"
She shook her head and looked back down at the paper again, once more chewing on her lower lip.
"I was wondering if you could take the pictures?" she asked, looking me in the eye for the first time. Her gaze was almost child-like, with a mix of innocence and trepidation.
"Sure thing," I said. "We will just have to set up an appointment and decide when to get the shots. Are they going to be of your children?"
She shook her head again, returning her gaze to the paper.
"My husband wants to know if you would take some sexy pictures of me . . . kind of like the ones in the magazines and things," she said in a voice so quiet I could barely hear it.
I didn't respond immediately. I had taken a lot of nude pictures of my wife over the years, and even some of my friends' wives on occasion. The Ozarks are pretty conservative, however, and I had never had such a request since opening the shop. There were a couple of women who had brought in home snapshots of themselves in lingerie and swimsuits for calendars, but no one had asked me to take revealing pictures.
I needed a few seconds to think about my response, and while I was doing so the woman stood perfectly still in front of me, never lifting her eyes from the paper on the counter. It was clear this was not her idea.
"I don't have any problem taking whatever type of pictures you want," I said softly, feeling sorry for the woman, but also feeling a little heat in my crotch at the thought. As I spoke I looked more carefully at her face and body as she continued to look away. "Are you talking about nude pictures . . . or just pictures in your lingerie or swimsuit?"
"The kind with all my clothes off," she almost whispered, and then looked up at me with tortured eyes. She had not blushed, as I expected, but had turned even paler than before. I wasn't sure what I was getting into, but her vulnerability turned me on, whether the emotion was noble or not.
I had to respond to that almost desperate look in her eyes, however, or I would not be able to live with myself.
"Do you drink hot tea?" I asked pleasantly, smiling at her as warmly as I could muster.
She just blinked, and then her gaze went totally blank, showing no emotion at all.
"Sometimes," she said, watching me carefully, like a trapped animal which was already hurting.
"Well, I just boiled some water and was going to make some tea to cut the chill," I said, turning to walk to the back of the room where my desk was. "Why don't you come on back and have some tea and we will sit down and decide what to do."
I did not wait for her to answer but went straight to the apartment-size gas stove which I had bought at an auction and on which I had water boiling. I took out two cups, two spoons, two teabags and a cup of sugar and walked to my desk. She had followed me hesitantly, and was standing by the chair across from my desk. I put the stuff down and returned for the boiling water.
She took the cup of tea that I offered her and followed my lead by putting a couple of spoons of sugar in it and stirring it. She also perched delicately on the edge of the overstuffed chair that I indicated to her while I settled into my ancient desk chair that creaked and groaned at every joint as I sat down. Neither of us spoke as we prepared our tea.
"My name is Cal," I said, starting the conversation simply, hoping to get off on the right foot. I had watched her covertly as she stirred her coffee and realized that I really wanted to photograph this woman in the nude. She was not a raving beauty, and did not have a voluptuous figure, but she was cute . . . and I had the feeling I would get to see something few people had seen before.
"My name is Jennifer," she began looking at me briefly before looking back at her tea. "But people just call me Jenny."
"Jenny, have you ever posed in the nude before?" I asked gently, watching her face for any negative reaction. Uncooperative models are very difficult to photograph.
