She allowed her hand to trace the edge of the black photo album. Bettie Page vamped on the emblem embossed into the leather. She couldn't decide which he would like better the pictures or the story behind them.
*************************************
She walked through the shopping district, putting off the inevitable stop at the grocery store. The early fall air reminded her of wintergreen peppermint. It had just the right mix of warm and cold with its mouth filling warmth and tantalizing cold waves with every inhalation. A mannequin beckoned from one of the boutiques. She pondered the outfit – a vintage dress of deep red silk.
Ten minutes later she was walking down the sidewalk with shopping bag in hand and the poor mannequin was left to hide behind some brown wrapping. To celebrate her new purchase, she decided to treat herself to a latte and took a detour towards the coffee shop. The line at the order counter was short. A young man leaned behind the Formica as two teenage girls tried to simultaneously flirt and order. Directly ahead of her stood a tall woman with short dark hair. Bettie Page vamped with a whip, peeking out from under the edge of her white t-shirt.
With a sigh of disgust, the woman turned and muttered under her breath, "God, were we really that silly when we were that age?"
She laughed and made a casual reply as she gave the woman a quick look. The woman was about her height and probably her age, with short cropped hair, Roy Orbison glasses and that tattoo.
"So, what's that?" The woman asked.
Silently, she pulled the red dress from the bag.
"Sweet!" the woman commented as she slid the fabric between thumb and forefinger. "You know, my studio is just a couple of blocks from here. A pic of you in that dress would be a nice surprise for boyfriend? Girlfriend?"
She laughed. "Maybe one of each." She raised her eyebrows in exclamation. "Would you really have the time?"
The photographer assured her the entire afternoon was open, as was a nice bottle of Grand Marnier. Both women laughed and coffees in hand walked down the sidewalk to Bettie Page Studios.
The studio stretched the length of the storefront. Painted bright white it glowed with afternoon sun spilling through the plate glass window. Cameras were scattered around the room, on tables, on tripods. Lights hung from the rafters and looked upwards from the floor.
"I do more formal stuff out here. We are going to the back studio. That's where the fun happens." The photographer smiled mischievously.
She followed the other woman down a dark hall. To the left, she noticed a kitchen and a small office. Stairs at the end of the hallway led to living quarters, so her hostess said. At the end of the hallway, through a brick archway, the photographer stopped and with a sweeping motion signaled her to enter.
Windows also lined one wall of this room, but the exposure was to the west and afternoon sunlight filtered by large trees cast deep shadows. Several furniture groups were set up as little vignettes. There was a white chaise lounge with a reading lamp in one corner, a dining table with a slate top and four black chairs sat on an exotic embroidered rug. Between two of the windows at the back, a four poster bed with its black satin spread and pile of pillows invited...something.
"What a wonderful studio," she had been here before, any number of times but today would be a first. They both knew it; it was the reason they neither one called the other by name.
"I have been doing a series of pin-up inspired photos most recently," the photographer said. As if to prove her legitimacy, she motioned to a row of prints, hung on a floor to ceiling bulletin board. "I think you and that red dress would be a lovely addition."
She leaned closer to examine the photographs as the woman spoke. They were amazing reproductions. Each of a different woman, vamping for the camera in dresses, hiked up to show stocking tops or bending to reveal breasts that threatened to fall from the precarious perch of a push up bra. As she turned to compliment the woman on her work, the photographer leaned forward and kissed her.
The woman's lips were soft and warm and tasted of coffee and cream. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Neither touched the other, save for their lips. She could smell the woman's perfume and wondered if her's was as pleasing. At last, the photographer stepped back offering a shot of Grand Marnier. The women clinked glasses and drank.
"I hope you don't mind. You have such a lovely mouth." She turned and walked to an equipment table and began to assemble a camera. "So, are you interested? I think we'll need two maybe three hours. I would like to shoot you on that chaise and if you're game, on the bed." The photographer winked.
"Well, I know this may sound predictable, but, I have never done anything like this before." She barely kept a straight face as she spoke. She held it together long enough for the photographer to turn and look her way, then both women broke into a gale of laughter.
"Yes, well, that's what the alcohol is for," the woman smiled and poured two more glasses of liqueur. "Now let's have a look at that red dress."
She walked behind a Japanese screen imprinted with doves and began to undress. T-shirt and jeans slipped off to reveal black and beige boy shorts and a matching bra.
"Very nice," the photographer leaned against the screen. "It's almost as if you knew you were coming here"
She smiled and turned to face the woman full on. Her breasts, supported by the thin fabric, rose with each breath. "I like to be prepared."
The photographer laughed. "Pull on the dress and let's start on the chaise."
