Several anecdotes about photography and modelling. Warning: there is hardly any sexual content. Sometimes a reader has to bite through it. This is story #6 in the Romance & Rick saga, but each story stands on its own.
It had been a good night. I had asked Rick to tie my hands behind my back, and I told him to do whatever he wanted to do. Obviously, he took advantage of the situation to fuck me in the bum, not once, but twice, and that was, to use a Star Trek quote, highly irregular. I've always been opposed to anal, but once in a while, a girl has to fulfil her man's perverted wishes. To be honest, Rick isn't all that bad, and last night I even enjoyed it, but I won't tell him that. Luckily, he was interested in a few other holes as well, and I fell asleep a happy girl, some orgasms later. He's a real fucklord, my Rick.
In the morning, I got out of bed and hobbled to the living room after the obligatory pee. Rick was sitting at the table, wearing some blue boxers and nothing else, munching a slice of bread with peanut butter. I refused to kiss him as I hate peanut butter, which makes me something of a subversive enemy of the state in this country. He knows that, so no harm done. I was in one of his oversized orange soccer t-shirts, with the big number eight. No need to hide my hairy bush, he's seen it all before.
(May I mention how beautiful he looked? Uncombed, unwashed, and with the sun in his back, he looked like a shoddy messiah. I had to restrain myself from jumping him right then and there. My motherly clock has been ticking wild these last few months. Hormones in overdrive.)
I yawned loudly, scratching my arse. He looked at my muff as interested as a cow watching a train passing by. I went to the kitchen, adding that extra twitch to my bottom cheeks that normally makes him uncontrollably wild, but this morning it had no effect at all.
I frequently walk around bottomless, so if I want his attention, I'd better put on some sexy undies. I poured myself a cup of coffee and looked inside the fridge for some sour herring. You can't get more Dutch than that. I took a postcard that had been lying on the kitchen counter since yesterday and showed it to him.
"Have you seen this card we got from Charlotte?" I asked. "She's staying with her millionaire daddy friend on the Côte d'Azur."
Charlotte is a friend of mine, I guess I can call her my friend, although we probably will never see each other again. We had a threesome once. It was my birthday present to Rick, but we decided not to repeat it as it made me feel emotionally uncomfortable. (You can read that story in Cha Cha Cha with Charlotte.)
"
Antique Forum Jullii fut fondé par César en quarante-neuf avant Jésus Christ
," I read aloud in my best French accent. I handed over the card to Rick, who glanced at it for a quarter of a second and threw it on the table. Rick is often grumpy in the morning, so I didn't care.
I sat down and buttered a loaf of bread. Rick looked at me and started grinning. I found something in his behaviour slightly weird. I mean, weirder than he normally is. Perhaps he was thinking of Charlotte and the wild night we all had together. I slowly slid my cup of coffee in front of the plate with the herrings.
"What are you grinning at?"
"Nothing," he answered with a twinkle in his eyes.
"I know that look," I said, pointing a finger at him. "Are you horny again?"
Rick assured me that was not the case.
"Are you going to tell me or what?"
Rick coughed, looking like a Secretary of State preparing for an official statement. He can be a bit square sometimes.
"I had a weird encounter yesterday afternoon. Well, a pleasant encounter."
I looked at him from the other side of the table.
"This better be good," I warned him. "I haven't had my breakfast yet."
Rick is a freelance photographer. He works for the city council a lot, and when there is a BBQ, dance, or gathering, he takes pictures, hoping he can sell some to the politicians or the local press. I call myself a weekend widow because that's when he is mostly away. With the twenty or so political parties in our country, there's always something to do at the weekends. Then you still have the many religious, social, and cultural societies. My man visits them all.
He started taking pictures of apples and oranges at the local supermarket, dreaming he was going to be the next Anton Corbijn one day. Mobile phones with cameras have made his profession a dying breed, but sometimes someone still wants a talented photographer. And he is talented alright. Very.
The day before, so Rick told me, he did a boudoir session for a lady who was going to be married soon and who wanted to surprise her future husband like in the good old days. She had seen our nude pictures, at the local photo exhibition, and remembered his name (see the story: Circle of Light). She wanted the set to be analogue, and asked for a photo album with prints, developed in a dark room.
Not only did Rick feel like a real art photographer again, but he also liked the subject. The lady was in her early sixties and had wrinkles, some fat rolls, and all characteristics that come with the ageing process. It was more refreshing than the current trend where models have to be photo-shopped before their pictures can be published.
She wanted him to show the beauty of an elderly woman. As the widow of a local portrait painter, she had been in artistic circles for most of her life and had posed before.
Rick couldn't stop talking about the session. Usually, he has to win over the model to make her pose as he wants, but this was the opposite. The woman asked him to be adventurous. The more he talked to me about her, the more his adrenaline levels were rising. He didn't know yet how the pictures would turn out. It was, in his own words, exciting, frustrating, and slightly crazy.
I wanted to know if he would show me the pictures, but he rejected that. The shots were for the woman and her future husband alone, and no one else. He had his professional ethics to obey. The session had been great, with the woman directing the poses she wanted her future husband to see, but giving some input to Rick as well.
She wanted the session to be old skool vintage. It started with her sitting at the
coiffeuse
, an antique cabinet with a mirror, where she pretended to comb her hair, dressed in a red see-through negligée. Underneath, she had the traditional seductive lingerie set with a bra, undies, a garter belt and stockings. Enough clothing to simulate (and stimulate) a slow striptease that my boyfriend had to document.
In the end, she was naked, and Rick assured me that the pictures he had in mind were going to be phenomenal. Nude and confronting, but not pornographic. I was convinced he could manage that.
