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Copyright Oggbashan November 2010
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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I belong to an amateur photographic club that takes cheesecake and mildly erotic pictures. We have to be careful to be discreet about our hobby to avoid offending our medium size community.
We own a former church hall that has been replaced by a larger, more modern building. We rent it out for other groups including another photographic club that has a wider range of interests including nature and landscape pictures. An Art/painting group meet at our hall on Saturday afternoons and exhibit their work on a few summer Saturdays. Our pictures are never exhibited locally and are sold on our anonymous website.
You might expect our membership to be wholly male. It isn't. We take pictures using male models as well as female ones. Some of the males pose for Gay Male erotica, some of the females for Lesbian.
Although amateur, we try to achieve professional standards and our website has a small but loyal group of members who provide us with sufficient income to keep our hall in good condition, to pay our models, and to improve our facilities.
One of our female members, Angela, who is openly lesbian, found a model agency we hadn't used. Some of us were doubtful but their rates per hour were so reasonable that we arranged a two-hour session as a trial. That evening almost all the active membership were present and we really enjoyed ourselves. The three models were attractive, professional in their approach, and suggested poses we wouldn't have normally considered. Apart from simple cheesecake we were given opportunities to shoot mild bondage with scarves and rope. The models tied each other because we were not allowed to touch. The agency had made it clear that the conditions were: Look, take pictures, ask for any reasonable pose, get as close as you want, but no touching, and no attempt to date the staff.
One of the models was obviously the supervisor. Elsa was slightly older than the other two and directed them and us subtly but clearly. At the end of the two hours Elsa announced that her agency would offer a prize to the club's member who had produced the most effective shot that evening. We could choose up to five pictures as our entry, submitting them by email to the modelling agency's website. The winner would get a free evening's Christmas-themed workshop at their premises using their professional equipment. The winner wouldn't need to bring anything except a largish data stick to load the results on to.
Of course almost all of us would submit our five best pictures. It didn't really matter that none of us knew what Elsa or her bosses meant by "most effective". One of us would win and as there were only about twenty of us present on that evening there was a reasonable chance for each of us.
I had an idea. I asked Angela whether she would look through my pictures and give an opinion as to which of them she thought were "most effective", and I would look through hers. I have found before that working with Angela helps both of us. I've never tried to date her. What would be the point? She prefers women. So do I. She has a brain and is possibly a better photographer than I am.
Angela agreed if we involved her partner Petra as well. We would try to choose which were the best five each of us had taken. We three agreed to meet at their flat tomorrow evening for a critical session.
Later that evening I reviewed my shots and copied all of them that had no technical defects such as red-eye or poor focus to a data stick.
Next day Angela rang me at work. Petra was willing to cook for the three of us. Would Italian do? Of course it would. Almost any cooking that someone else made was better than me cooking for one. I'd bring some wine.
I walked to Angela and Petra's carrying Italian wine. The data stick was in my pocket. Angela let me in. The smell of cooking was wonderful. We ate dishes that Petra named. I'd never heard of most of them but enjoyed everything. We had drunk the wine by the end of the cheese course. While Petra cleared away Angela brought a laptop to the table. We sat beside the table with cups of coffee.
We tossed a coin to decide whose photos we would look at first. Petra won.
Petra's pictures were good with a bias towards the younger blonde, Dawn. She had taken many close-ups of body parts instead of the whole body. Petra's shot of Dawn's arm, partly shielding a breast, really worked for me, producing an instant erection. I liked the line of the arm showing tiny blonde hairs backlit and the contrast between the roughness of the rope bond with Dawn's breast texture.
I complimented Petra on it. Angela bristled. She thinks she is a better photographer than Petra. In many ways she is, but Petra's eye for detail, for small scale close ups, is better than Angela or me. Nearly always I shoot a complete body and I like the facial expressions on the models.
When we had agreed on the chosen five of Petra's shots we started on mine. Angela's comments were barbed, brutal, but possibly justified. Petra's criticism was less forthright but equally candid, expressed more diplomatically. We agreed on four and were split on the fifth. We agreed to look at the two possibilities after Angela's.
Technically, all Angela's pictures were good. There were no flaws, no muffed shots, no inaccuracy of focus or exposure except when done deliberately for effect. It was hard to reduce the possible down to five until we decided to score each of our top twenty from one to ten and add our scores. The worst, if any of Angela's could be called 'worst', scored twenty-two. The last of the top five scored 27, with two on 28, one on 29 and the one shot scoring a perfect 30.
Having given numbers to Angela's pictures we went back to Petra's. One of the possible last two scored higher than the one we had originally chosen as number four, which became the fifth.
We looked at mine again. Three shots were marked at 26, then one at 24 and another on 22. All my scores were lower than Angela or Petra's worst. We uploaded all fifteen pictures to the modelling agency's website. We hoped that at least one of us would succeed.
After coffee we discussed whether we thought any of the other club members would have produced competitive pictures. Our chairman, John, was capable of great pictures but we agreed he might not bother to enter. As a Chairman he was competent but he is lazy. He needs a good secretary to remind him about outstanding issues.
Some of the others, on a good day, could take better pictures than any of us but their standards were erratic. Angela was consistently good but rarely exceptional. Petra was good at her genre. I could be good, very rarely brilliant, but too often mediocre. All three of us had won at least one of the club's trophies but there were others who had won more.
Nothing much happened for the next fortnight. I had invited Angela and Petra back for a meal at my flat the following week. It wasn't a success. There seemed to be some tension between the two of them and Angela expressed even more criticism of my photography. I wasn't offended. I dismissed it as a symptom of whatever was wrong in their relationship. I was startled when Petra kissed me on a cheek as she left. Neither of them had ever treated me as anything but a friend before and I knew that they weren't attracted to men. It was the sort of kiss that an elderly aunt might have given me. It seemed to have no sexual overtones. Perhaps Petra was just expressing her thanks? It was odd.
Angela phoned me at work.
"Dave? Have you checked your inbox today?"
"No, Angela. Why?"
"Petra and I have had emails from Elsa.
Apparently they have decided that all three of us, including you, have won a session at their studios. It's this Friday evening at 7.30. Could you make that?"
I opened my diary.
"Yes, Angela. I've got nothing on then."
"Look at the email and then ring me back this evening."
