Begrudgingly, I walk toward the door of the house, crossing the plush lawn as I step from stepping stone to stepping stone up the winding path. I pat at my camera in the bag slung over my shoulder out of habit as I near the door, reminding myself of my purpose for being here.
My name is James, and I am not what you might call "popular." In fact, my only saving grace is my relative success with a soccer ball; otherwise, I would be socially useless. My passion is photography, which has granted me access to the world of high school yearbook, and it is because of this pastime that I am now walking toward a house full of the popular kids on a Friday night.
As I reach the door, someone abruptly opens it, running out with her face in her hands. She's sobbing and dashing toward the pool of cars parked haphazardly at the end of the dead end road. The music filters out of the door, assaulting my ears and distracting me from my internal debate of whether it would be inappropriate to photograph her. I am here, after all, to document the social lives of the pretty and the popular.
I walk in the door, nodding at the host who is serving drinks in red plastic cups, and pull out my camera. I feel like I should be wearing a cliche reporter's hat with a "Media" tag on it. People look at the camera in my hand, not seeing me. I don't know if they know why I'm there, but I soon get the feeling that they don't really care. Sighing, I get ready to take some pictures and get out of here.
Sadly, this is my first party. Even sadder is that I wasn't truly invited, nor does anyone actually want me here.
I wander through the house, stepping over and around people as I make my way toward the music. It's coming from the living room where a mass of bodies moves like the ocean, a frenzy of hormonal teenagers dancing out their sexual frustrations. I hang back at the fringes against the staircase, snapping pictures of smiling beauties dancing, carefully avoiding the glasses of beer in their hands.
It is then that I notice her.
A curvy brunette girl is dancing near the speakers, her eyes closed and a half-smile on her face. She's not dancing with anyone in particular, but I see that she hasn't gone unnoticed. A few other sets of enthralled male eyes are on her, tracing her body with their minds in a way they would like to do with their hands. One even has the nerve to smoothly dance his way over to her. I imagine I am this boy.
I watch her carefully-- how could I do anything else?-- as she is absorbed in the music, running her hands up and down her body slowly then bringing them over her head as her hips swing to their own erotic beat. The music seems to be coming from her as she stays in her own world. I watch the change in her movements as she notices the boy next to her. She is slightly startled when her eyes open, her half-smile of self-contentment turns into a tentative smile that doesn't reach her hazel eyes.
This boy leans down and whispers something in her ear, dancing close to her body in a sensual way. She smiles a true smile that adds a slight blush to her already rosy cheeks offered, no doubt, by the beer the kind host is serving. She alters her dance patterns to accommodate him, dancing in a way that very closely resembles sex. He runs his hand down her arm and rests it at her waist, pulling her closer into his body effortlessly as she brings a hand up around his neck. The song changes pace and drifts into a new one, the beat rhythmic and heavy.
Both of his hands are on her hips now as she gracefully and skillfully guides them. Her hands around his neck afford him a closeness that I can see is arousing him-- and me. He leans down and kisses her neck, then her cheek, then pauses momentarily with his lips a fraction of an inch from hers, and she leans up into him. I can almost feel her lips on my own as I visually intrude on their kiss. I snap a picture, centering her body in the frame and his as only an accessory, careful to avoid being seen.
