She's one of the girls that the modeling agency sends over two or three times a week, a plain brunette, with straight, limp hair parted in the middle, nothing extraordinary in the looks department, not that it really matters. My interest lies elsewhere. She's young, maybe nineteen or twenty. To be honest, I don't really pay close attention because the recent models I've seen have been disappointing. Beautiful girls. A couple of real knock-outs. But not what I am looking for. Nevertheless, I put on my game face and go through the motions.
She's accompanied by a beefy male escort from the agency that I've seen a few times with other girls. He thumbs through a magazine while I greet her in the front reception area to my studio.
"I'm Jerry Sherbourne," I say, shaking her hand. I offer her something to drink, but she declines.
"So, Katy" I say, glancing at her head-shot and getting down to business. "I imagine that Lou explained everything?"
"He says you're working on a book" she says.
"Right, so you more or less understand what I'm looking for?"
"I guess."
I nod. "And you're okay doing this?"
She shrugs her shoulders again. "Sure."
"If you'd be more comfortable, we can have your friend join us or he can stay here. It's your choice."
"He can stay here."
In the corner of my loft photography studio are several rows of long wooden planks resting on sawhorses. On top of these laid out in rows are my collection of orchids, which include several species of cattleyas, cymbidiums, and dendrobiums.
"Are you familiar with orchids?" I ask her.
"No," she says.
I take her over to the flowers.
"Orchids are the most exotic of all flowers," I tell her.
"They're beautiful," she says, stopping to admire the blossoms on one plant.
"Those are Cattleya Bow Bells," I explain.
Rarely have I met anyone who is not impressed with the beauty of an orchid. Women seem to respond to them instinctively. The orchid, as I discovered long ago, exceeds all the other flowers for its sensuousness, brilliant color, and subtle perfume. This works to my advantage as it helps to stimulate the senses and the imagination of the women who model for me. It also breaks the ice and helps them to relax.
After we talk briefly, I invite her to undress in the bathroom. She emerges a few minutes later in a red silk robe tied at the waist. The curtains on the windows and skylights have been drawn to shield the bright afternoon light. I ask her to sit down on an upholstered settee while I turn on some soft music. I take a few moments to position the camera, and then ask her to remove the robe. She does so tentatively, letting it drop to the side.
"Now," I say, "please lean back and make yourself comfortable."
As I peer through the camera's viewfinder, she tilts her head and arches her back, bringing one foot up onto the lounge, slowly parting her legs, opening herself to me. I hear her breathe in deeply.
"Good," I say, encouraging her. My initial indifference turns to amazement as I snap the first few pictures. "Beautiful. Lovely," I tell her, feeling my heart beating with uncontrollable excitement.
I am captivated by her vulva, the soft outer labia fringed with feathery wisps of golden brown hair; the surprisingly long nub of her pale clitoris peering out from beneath the loose, hooded folds, the softly rumpled inner lips pulled back, boldly fanning leaf-like on either side, the ruffled asymmetrical petals hued in pink and crimson, the serrated edges darkening to deep brown. The thick flesh falls like drapes on either side, cascading to a drooping protrusion that beckons towards her inner recesses.
At first I leave the camera on the tripod at waist level. I work from here for a brief time, and then I bring the camera in closer. I sense the tension in her body, see the familiar signs of tightness in the stomach and thigh muscles -- the young, inexperienced model's instinctive reaction to the camera's unblinking eye. I shoot in color, working methodically, letting her become familiar with the pace and flow. From experience I have learned to move deliberately, to create a professional rapport and sense of trust.
After one roll of film is completed, I switch to another camera loaded with black and white film. I concern myself with the subtle play of light and shadow on the surface of her skin. As I move in closer, she pushes herself up on her elbows to watch. I notice that the nipples on her small smooth breasts are erect and pointed. She shifts her hips slightly, signaling a growing confidence with the attention focused between her legs. I have seen this pattern before. She enjoys the camera spying on her most private area. Her inhibitions melt in the heat of the moment. I go about my business, quietly and efficiently, sensing her growing excitement as I continue to click picture after picture. She lifts her hips slightly, spreading her legs further.
"Yes," I say, persuading her. "Good. Just like that." The light catches the first dabs of moisture on her dewy lips; I detect a hint of musk in the air. I move the camera forward, changing the depth of field to capture the complex and irregular edges of her inner lips, while throwing the rest into soft focus. I reposition to study the contours of her flesh, the furrows, the minute valleys, the darkened depths. I have only begun to examine the anther-like cap of her clitoris in detail, capturing its shiny smoothness in contrast to the rumpled folds on either side when, to my frustration, the film runs out. I have only begun to capture its fascinating details and my excitement is surging.
More than that, I sense that I've stumbled on a critical addition to the project that I've conceived. Like an unexpected gift, she has come to me, concealed at first, now open. I want to expose her beauty for the entire world to see.
"I'm going to change film," I tell her. "It will take a few minutes. You might want to get up and stretch or move around if that will make you more comfortable."
"I'm okay," she says. She leans over, grabs the robe off the ground and wraps it around her. "So, is it any good?"
"Absolutely," I say. "You're doing great."
She is nervous and wants me to say more.
"How are you doing so far?" I ask, walking over to the refrigerator to get more film.
"Okay."
