The Photography Lesson

I kind of knew Sally from some committees we were on together at the school, the Academic Excellence Committee and the Teacher Appreciation Committee. I won't bore you with details, these were just about what they sound like. Six or eight parents would meet in the library at the school every few weeks and plan award ceremonies and special things. I was being a good parent, and did not find that the other good parents were very interesting. Privately I used to refer to the mothers of the school as "cows," which is not very nice, I know. Fat and dumpy were the norm. And dumb, they seemed dull and petty as a rule. My wife did not like me calling them that.

Sally was not a cow. She was very small and slender. I admit that at first I did not find her attractive, in fact I did not pay any attention to her at all. She is what is technically known as a chatterbox; she could be carrying on four or five conversations simultaneously at our meetings, on all levels from the most businesslike to the most personal details, yacking away. Her voice was white noise to me, a background sound. She wore her hair short, like a dyke, but I did not take her for a lesbian, it actually seemed more like she just didn't care how she looked. She had a fit, petite body, and dressed in ill-fitting jeans and t-shirts or whatever they sell at Target or Wal-Mart, she had no sense of fashion or apparent awareness of her own-self-presentation and how she came off to people. She was full of energy, almost to the point of obnoxiousness, and that turned out to be great for the committees, because she would take notes, organize everything, make the phone calls, keep track of the budget. She couldn't help herself.

She had a kind of endearing way of empathizing with the women in the meetings and in discussions before and after, where she seemed to understand their frustration and their needs in an entirely direct way, and she had a twinkle of the eye for some of the men. She was a hugger, and the kind that puts her hand on your forearm when she is talking to you.

The meetings always ended up on the sidewalk in front of the school with a bunch of moms showing each other pictures on their phones. The guys would scram as soon as the meeting was over, and the ladies would stand outside the administration office. Some nights I would leave and then drive past an hour later on the way to the store or somewhere, and they'd be out there in the dark in front of the school, passing phones around with pictures of their kids doing cute shit. And that is how this started.

The AEC meeting had ended, I went to my car, and was almost out of the parking lot when I realized I had left my cell phone on the desk in the classroom. I parked in the Principal's space and trotted into the building to retrieve it, and when I came back, Sally was just saying good-bye to the last mom.

As I hurried toward my car, she said, "We were just looking at pictures."

I said something like, "Yeah, I saw."

"Here, let me show you," she said.

So I found myself standing on the school grounds for another twenty minutes looking at tiny photographs of kids playing. She told me their names, the whole story, it went in one ear and out the other. She had her hand on my arm sometimes. I liked that, and kept listening and watching. She would look up at me sometimes and smile knowingly, teasingly, touching me lightly. It was harmless.

The next day she sent a note to my home email address while I was at work. Subject line: "Photos." The email just said, "How'd you like those pictures? -Sally"

The committees generate a lot of emails and text messages, and most of it is off-topic chitchat. It was just before lunch, and or some reason last night's laughing voice and her fingertips on my arm came back to me. It was a nice, warm feeling, and I felt playful. I replied: "Pretty good, but you were not in any of them."

Her reply came in a minute: "No, the pictures of me are on my husband's phone. -Sally"

I wrote: "I guess I'll never see them."

In another minute I got an email with a photo in it. It was apparently Sally, perhaps fifteen years earlier, sitting on a brick wall in a forest somewhere. "Our honeymoon," she wrote. "All I've got. Sorry. -Sally" Her hair, even back then, was the same dyke cut, she was a little slimmer than she was now, skinny even. She had the same toothy grin.

"Guess I'll never see the good ones," I wrote. I felt that this minor flirtation had run its course, and did not expect to hear any more from her.

After lunch I did get another message from her: "There aren't any 'good ones' -Sally"

I replied: "Not on your husbands phone?"

She replied immediately" "No none. I wish there were -Sally"

Me: "Didn't you say the pictures of you are on his phone?"

Her: "Yes, me playing with the kids, me eating, me giving a presentation -Sally"

Me: "I see. Those don't sound very interesting, I agree."

Her: "Your not missing anything -Sally"

She sounded sad, even in the sterile medium of email. I don't know how that works. No facial expression, no tone of voice, no gestures. I guess you call it "reading between the lines."

I felt bad for her, but was not quite sure why. I replied, "Maybe he can take some."

Less than a minute later: "It would never occur to him -Sally"

"His loss," I typed, hoping the conversation was ending. Also hoping it was not ending.

It was not.

"Are you good with a camera? -Sally"

I gave this one some thought before I replied: "I don't know. I don't have one."

Her: "Phone I mean. -Sally"

Me: "I don't know. I don't use it very often." I had used my phone camera to get the writing off the sidewall of my tire to show the tire-shop guy, and also to identify a weird plant I had seen when I was walking the dog. Not exactly glamour photography.

Her: "I could show you. -Sally"

Me: "Show me how to take pictures with a phone?"

Her: "Yes. But you would have to use my phone. -Sally"

Me: "Why?"

Her: "I don't want them getting out LOL -Sally"

I did not reply to that one. I was sitting at my desk with a hard-on I wished I didn't have, picturing pictures. Sally was not what you would call a beauty, though I couldn't say why not. Her facial features were dainty and her skin was smooth, her body was firm. I had never noticed her tits but I had noticed in the school hallway that she seemed to have what I would call a "black girl's butt" on her. Something I have always loved, a nice round, full ass. She wore baggy mom-jeans to the meetings, and I couldn't really tell but my mind filled in the blanks in a pleasant way. So, yeah, it was all in my mind, but still. Sally's emails stopped for the afternoon.

It was good to go home after work, to my secure, normal, home with its routine, my plump wife and noisy kids, the TV blaring some stupid shit and the neighborhood teenagers gunning their motorbikes up and down the street. There is a feeling when the train is moving along nice and fast and the frame of reference is stable. No ripples in your coffee, everybody sits up straight, even though you are hurtling down the tracks. And then you feel the train going into a turn. You lean unconsciously, correcting for the angular momentum, and without thinking you reach out for your cup, to hold it level. That is also a kind of nice feeling as you adapt to a little bend in the track, and the feeling is amplified somewhat by a kick of anticipatory fear, caused by the fact that you don't know how sharp the bend is, or whether you will be thrown up against the side of the car soon, or derail.

In the morning I made my coffee and set it on the desk, watching the ripples settle down. The fluorescent ceiling lights were reflected on the surface of the opaque liquid, and it appeared that another nice, wonderfully boring day was beginning to roll down its straight tracks.

I turned on the computer, clicked email. The screen filled with bolded subject lines from overnight. The company spam filter was pretty good, no penis enlargement or Russian models wanting to meet me. Just bolded, unread emergencies from the regional offices and from upstairs, and one, halfway down, that jumped out at me: "Subject: Lunchtime ok?"

I opened it with a sense of dread. "If you can get out, Esmeralda Park is close to your office. I can teach you how to work the camera on my phone. 11:30 ok? -Sally"

"Shit." I said it out loud. My cock was rising in my slacks, like a puppy dog looking up when it hears the crackle of its kibbles bag. My inbox was unread, each message impatiently insisting I read it first, emergencies leaping up like a pack of mad dogs. "Shit-shit-shit." My mother used to say that. "Jesus Shit Christ." She also used to say that.

I typed, "I won't be able to make it, Sally, sorry," but I did not hit Send. Sat there thinking. What's the problem? I often went out for lunch anyway, usually around eleven thirty. I had enough seniority that nobody cared if I took a couple of hours. Before lunch, if nobody could find me they would figure I was in a meeting. And after lunch, same thing. This is the big secret of successful office life. If people do not know where you are, they assume you are doing something productive. Remain invisible and you can do anything.

I deleted my text.

"OK, I'm willing to learn," I typed. This time my fingers hit Send before my mind could stop them.

In half a minute, the reply: "I'll try to wear something nice. -Sally" Somebody came to my door and the daily shit hit the daily fan.

I chaired the ten-thirty meeting and ended it at eleven twenty-five. Everybody high-fived each other over the record short meeting, and then got the hell out of the conference room before anybody could bring up another subject. I went to my office and dropped off my notes. I stopped into the men's room on my hall, not to pee but, actually, to look at myself in the mirror. No shit between my teeth, no boogers on my tie. My hair was pleasantly tousled. I tucked my shirt into my charcoal Dockers and looked myself over from the left and the right. You're holding up pretty fucking good, I said to myself.

Took the elevator down and checked the building lobby. No Sally. Maybe she wouldn't show. I checked my watch as the second hand crept over the twelve, signaling exactly eleven thirty. I stepped outside onto a busy downtown sidewalk and heard a familiar voice, "Oh, there you are."

I would not have recognized Sally. She was wearing a short yellow-print skirt and a kind of tight halter top or tank top, I don't know what these things are called. I do know that my wife does not have one. Sally did not have what you would call "cleavage" but she did have significant fine breasts and they rose looming and jiggling over the hem of her top. Her hair was combed differently, it was parted and again I can't describe it but she did not look like a dyke. No, this was boyish but fucking sexy. I hate to say it that way, but it is more accurate than a whole page of description.

And whatever she had done with her makeup. I do not understand how this stuff works. I could not see noticeable artistry but her eyes were big, with full dark eyelashes and her lips were voluptuous and bright red - and yes, I know lipstick when I see it, and I saw it. I never would have thought this kind of transformation was possible. The noisy little chatterbox mom from the grade-school was hot as fuck. "Park's this way," she said, looping her arm through mine and leading me toward the next block.

We took the street that ran behind my office building, and a side street off that, and a side street off that, and there were some trees and she nodded to a path that you might miss, running beside a thicket. Then in five steps, right in the heart of the city, we were in apparent wilderness. You could hear the noise of the city but it seemed far away. The path led through a dense, dark forest. This beautiful place was deserted; there were no benches or tables or anything to induce someone to stay. The path was too narrow and bumpy for jogging or biking. There was simply no reason for a busy office worker to go there, even at lunchtime. Not even a flat place for yoga or meditation.

We came to a little clearing where sunbeams streamed down through the forest canopy, and Sally stopped. "Do you think this looks okay?" she asked.

"Okay for what?"

"For getting some pictures," she said.

"I guess so," I said. "I don't really know how you do it."

She was carrying a purse made of a kind of leather that was obviously treated to look old. A woman would not be caught dead with a worn-out leather purse, but she will spend hundreds of dollars to buy one brand-new that looks worn out. I don't get it. "I can show you," she said. God she looked delicious. Those red lips shone like rubies in the streaks of sun, her hair was a perfect frame for that dainty face. She dug in the purse and pulled out her phone.

She goofed around with it for a few seconds, turning it on I supposed, adjusting things. Then she held it up for me. "First you push this, and then when you see the picture you want, you push this. Oh no that's backwards, just a minute. She twiddled some things on the screen. "That's the selfie setting," she giggled. "That isn't what we want."

"How do you focus it?" I asked.

"Oh, you probably don't have to," she said. She held it up and pointed it at me. "It will..." she concentrated on the image. "It ought to just..." She shifted it a bit, leaning forward slightly, and I tipped my head to see if I could get a glance at those breasts. "Hold still," she said. I heard the fake click of a fake shutter and she held the phone down at her waist to look at it. "Huh," she said. "That was pretty good." She showed me the image on her smartphone. It was me, looking at her with a certain expression of amusement or curiosity. She had gotten me by surprise. She turned it back to look at it again. "Hey, were you looking at my boobs?" she laughed.

"No, I mean, yes, actually I guess I was. Trying anyway. I'm sorry."

"Do you like them?"

"Sure," I said.

She laughed loudly, "Of course you do, they're boobs. Who wouldn't like boobs?" She looked down at herself. "They're a little small," she said. "But you know what? They have exactly the same number of nerve endings as some double-D honkers. And you can't get one of those in your mouth, can you?"

"I, uh-"

"Let's do that again, okay?" she interrupted. "Look at my boobs." She held up the camera, pointed at my face.

"I can't just -"

"Sure you can." Holding the camera steady, she reached to her neckline and adjusted it so a little more flesh was showing. It was not outrageous, he wasn't flashing me, but she knew how to frame her breasts so that you could not look away. I don't care who you are, anybody would have looked. I heard the fake-click again.

She looked at the image. "Ooh!" she laughed and looked at me. "That was a good one. You want to see?"

She turned the phone around to show me a picture of my face. I was obviously looking at her tits. It's funny, because guys don't usually get to know what that is like. We think we are invisible when we peek. The whole thing was there, you could tell I was trying to be sneaky about it, and you could tell right where I was looking. I was embarrassed.

She took the phone back and looked again at the picture and laughed again. "Look at you!" She used her fingers to enlarge the image. "You do like 'em, I'd say." She looked over the phone at my face. I felt naked and vulnerable.

She held the phone up again, pointed at my face. "What if I actually just flashed you?" Her left hand came up to her neckline and grabbed it. Click. Faked me out. I felt like an idiot. She looked at the image and smiled. "Woo," she said. "Gotcha looking that time."

She showed me. I cringed. What a creep. I was staring at her unabashedly, my lips parting hungrily, my eyes shining. "Sorry," I said.

"Naw," she laughed, "Don't worry. I don't know what's the big deal. Here, you want to see them?" She reached for her neckline.

Now it was my turn to laugh. "Not if you're going to take a fucking picture of me!" I blurted.

"Hold this," she said, handing me the phone.

With two hands she pulled down her halter top and tucked the neckline under her bare breasts. "There they are, see?"

Now I did stare. I can still see that in my mind, her happy face looking innocently down at her smooth white breasts. I was speechless. Tight little strawberry nipples stood out against puckered, alert areolas.

She looked back and forth at her own chest. "It's terrible what babies do to 'em," she said. "They used to be like apples. Hard little round apples. My husband used to bite 'em sometimes, they'd have tooth-marks on them afterwards. Oh well, it didn't hurt. Here, give me that."

I handed her the camera in a daze. Click. She laughed. "That'll be a good one," she said. "He hasn't done that in a long time. Oh look, this is great." She turned the camera for me to see. I looked like a total idiot, my mouth hanging open, eyes bugged out. I felt like an asshole. She put her tits away in one quick move.

"Come here," she said. "That tie is fucking it up. You look too uptight." She reached up and pulled at the knot, loosening my tie. She pushed it off to the side and popped open my collar button before I knew what was happening. A finger at my throat spread the collar. She stepped back. "That's better," she said. "Step back. Lean against that tree."

I looked and then stepped back. It was a sycamore tree with smooth bark. I leaned back against it. "Your arms folded across your chest," she said, reaching out and manipulating my body. "Yeah."

She stepped back and held up the phone, pointing at me. "You want to see 'em again?" She reached for her neckline. Click. She giggled. "Now, some cleavage," she pulled her neckline down a few inches. Click. "These are gonna be great," she said.

She looked me over, objectively and professionally. I had lost control over the situation and could not see any way to regain it, or reason to. "Let me do something," she said. She unbuttoned several buttons of my shirt and spread the fabric so my chest was exposed. My chest is nothing special, but I felt a very strange combination of embarrassed and ... sexy. It was kind of nice. She was looking at me with an expression of appreciation, a distinctly sexual expression, not something I was used to. I know what it was: I was a sex object. I bet if you had asked her my name at that moment she would have had to stop and think. She did not appreciate me for my humor or my loyalty or my contributions to society but simply because I was a man. I loved that feeling. She stepped back and held up the phone and looked at me through it. "Naw," she said, "Better but not quite there yet." She stepped forward, close to me again, and said with a conspiratorial tone, "Do you think I have panties on?"

"I don't know." She was torturing me.

"I don't," she said. She reached out and unbuckled my belt. "Put your hands up behind your head," she said. "Lean back like you're just relaxing up against a tree." My slacks had a kind of hook that she was able to work with one hand. I heard my zipper zipping.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Do you want to see my pussy?" she said, stepping back. She reached to the hem of her short skirt and pulled it up, revealing a lovely patch of reddish pubic hair. I hate how girls shave it off these days, what're they trying to be, babies? I could see the ridges of her petite labia, thin like her lips, hinted behind a jungle of brilliant red hair. Click.

I didn't care this time, and she didn't bother to look at that one. "Ya like that? Hold on, I want this just like this," she said, dropping her hem and stepping toward me again. I felt her fingers caressing my cock, which she had tucked into my pants so that the middle length of the shaft was exposed. "Let's make it nice and big." Under her light touch I could feel it stretching to its full length. She tugged at my collar again and adjusted some things around my chest, looking at me like an artist would look at her model, getting it just so.