“A man created the first camera in order to capture the beauty and essence of the woman and the female form. I’m just going back to the original intent of the camera.”
~Fran the Photographer~
(Originally written March 2020)
I think one of the main struggles I have in releasing my sexual goddess is overcoming the idea that my body isn’t wrong. It’s not a barrier. Nor is it a stumbling block. It’s actually art. I am art. And I wanted–craved–the opportunity for my body to be seen from the eye of an artist. I remember walking through the Louvre Museum in Paris almost 2 years ago and thinking that I could be them if my body wasn’t wrong. There were countless statues and paintings of women and they were beautiful. I was just wrong. But deep down, I had hope that maybe the way I saw my body was wrong and not my body itself. I wanted to be incorrect about my body thesis, but didn’t know how to adjust it or throw it away altogether. I wanted to see something different. I knew I had to see it to believe it to change it this time. I needed empirical evidence in order to change my mind about the body I tow around. Someone needed to help me on this journey and help free me of my inner shame and virgin trauma.
So I was minding my own business and decided to start swiping. I usually swipe right on the white ones, most of the Black ones, all the pilots. This one caught my eye cuz he just looked hella regular, but also like he had an inner spice to him. Something about the button-up, tucked in shirt with brown belt made me think that there was more to him than met my eye. Totally like the trash-ass book 50 Shades of Grey. I liked it and I was intrigued. I make my best and worst life decisions when intrigued.
Ding! He immediately writes back. What a change. He was friendly with several exclamation points, exuding a non-asshole temperament, shared that he’s not interested or looking for a relationship, but he’s an erotic nude photographer and would like to take photos of me.
Me: Well, why the hell not!
We meet in his hotel. Because of the Coronavirus, we had to register me at the hotel. I was worried they wouldn’t let me in! Front Desk guy asks what I’m here for and my Tinder Photographer says, “Oh, she’s only going to be here for one or two hours.”
OMG! The whole front desk thinks I’m a prostitute! How embarrassing. I just stare back in my “Well, what he said” face cuz I’m working on not needing to prove my self or ethic to folks that don’t matter.
We go up to the ninth floor. I wonder about what kind of small talk to make in an elevator when you’re about to be very naked in less than 5 minutes. I guess the weather is a suitable topic.
Cloudy.
As soon as I walk in, I scan for sketch things like cameras, odd odors, drugs, copious amounts of alcohol, blood stains. I’d really rather this not be my last day on earth. Also, my first nude photo shoot left me traumatized, but that’ll be saved for another blog entry.
Fran rushes in and starts moving furniture frantically and with intention. I’m standing there for 2.5 seconds like, “Oh. I guess this is when I take my clothes off…” As he scoots around and checks lighting and makes his plan for the photo shoot, I disrobe and unleash my floppy boobs. When I uncupped my breasts, I thought he would quit what he was doing and lick his lips or something. He didn’t. I slowly took off my undershorts and thought maybe this would be the time for him to be annoying and borderline gross–make a gesture or remark of my pubic hair or use his spidey-sense or fingers to check my wetness. Fran never stares at me like I’m a piece of meat ready to be demolished. I was butt ass naked but still shrouded in my dignity somehow.
As discussed before, all photos were to be taken on my iPhone 7. I didn’t really know how good the photos would be cuz I’m 3 generations behind and only know how to do regular shit on my phone. I hand it over and he starts snapping. I could hear the dull tapping that a phone makes when someone presses the screen to take a photo. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary and I thought they were just regular pictures. I really really hope this isn’t going to be a waste of my time. Cuz I mean, I am a bit obsessed with nude photography and have high standards for this art form. But also, maybe he’ll do suck photos and then ask for a fuck later as a thank you. I was prepared for suck pictures, a fuck, and a lip-lick throughout as icing on the cake.
A bit lost at first, I just stand there. I don’t do well exposed or dancing. I need specific instructions. The whole free idea really stresses me out cuz it’s just too many choices and I get overwhelmed. He gives no instructions at first. In my head I’m like, “Lemme just put my forearm on the window ledge and look contemplative at the clouds.” I saw that on Pinterest once and it looked nice. That was my first pose before Fran started giving me directions.
Sit here. Stand. One leg up. Cross your leg. Lean back. Lean forward on your knee. Let’s move this chair. Oh the natural lighting is going away. Face the window. Hands up. Arch your back. Open your legs wider.
Spread your lips.
More.
We took photos next to the window. Sitting on the ottoman. On the floor. In the corner. In the bathtub. Shower. Legs up. Legs out. Breasts covered. Breasts hanging. Clit peeking out.
It was intense. We take a break and he shows me the pictures and I almost burst into tears. I’m not wrong. I’m art. I look like I was made on purpose. By design. Not a single centimeter out of order. My breasts and thighs and hips, buttocks and back chub and belly pudge and knees and ankles and neckline, arm crease and wrists and fingernails made sense. My pubic hair framed my lips which framed my clit. How had I not seen this before?
Speechless. I made myself speechless.
We make a plan for the rest of our time together. He asked about what other poses and focus areas. I tell him that when I get nervous I do this stupid grin that I hate and it ruins photos. I look for the stupid grin and ask him to do those ones again. I want more of my nipples and areolas. My collarbone cuz it’s my favorite. More next to the brown hallway cuz I think it’s a nice contrast to my skin tone. He wants to try a tiny complimentary hotel red and yellow apple next to my clitoris.
In the middle of Part 2, he gets a phone call from the front desk. He sounds patient answering their questions. I stretch my back with my fingers gracing the floor. I hear that same dull tapping as he snaps a few photos. The lighting is great. Those were a couple of my favorite shots. That’s when I started to get aroused. I couldn’t help myself. My cheeks were getting rosy and my clitoris started to swell. I felt seen like a masterpiece in Madrid.
He gets off the phone and tells me to stay in that position–back arched, toes and fingers touching opposite floor ends. A lazy rainbow assisted by an ottoman if you will. He says he wants to take pictures of my mons pubis. OH LORD JESUS IS THIS BIOLOGY CLASS??!!! What in the world is a..then he inches closer to my v-line and I’m like, “Ooohhhh, well why did he just say the front hair part!” I totally forgot that it had a name. He knew the name. Other men I’ve slept with don’t even know the names of female anatomy–calling lips my vagina and shit. Fran knew the woman’s body intimately without fucking me all because he had studied many and observed them through so many lenses over the years. I get more aroused.
He then says we need to do some pictures that exude **he pauses and thinks** pleasure. By now, I’m trying not to be breathless. I’m ovulating so I’m pretty moist already. It doesn’t take much. He places me near the bed lamp and says to touch myself.
Masturbate with an audience of one. Got it.
I slip my fingers between my lips and lost my breath. He took pictures of my circular motions as I played with my lips and clitoris. After him naming the scientific name of the “front hairy part” and him not licking his lips when I disrobed and him studying my body to grab her essence from the pit of virginal shame, they were begging for attention and finally got some. I reached a pretty deep breath and a low moan. He says I can go ahead and finish if I wanted and then just walks away giving me privacy to be with myself and my feminine energy.
I wasn’t ready to go deeper with my audience of one. Next time, absolutely. That was the one time I actually got scared. What if I go there and can’t get back? What if I like having an orgasm in front of an audience and I can’t replicate that experience ever again and then can’t orgasn ever again? What if this is when he goes ape-shit crazy? I wasn’t ready to be post-orgasm vulnerable. I knew I would want to be cuddled or to ride the wave of the cum. But we had more work to do. So I pulled myself back and my body was deeply sad. She was ready, but I was not.
I didn’t orgasm that time but I could have. Next time. Maybe when I have the iPhone 8 I’ll cum and he can get it on camera. After getting close to an orgasm, I sauntered into a few more poses–a little high off my own libido and ready to finish strong.
He asks if I want anything else. He’d taken almost 350 photos. I’m satisfied. He’s satisfied. I tell him I need to charge my phone for about 30 minutes.
I have so many questions. Like, how and why nude photography? Why women? Must the nude photography be done with a model that the photographer is sexually attracted to? Does the photographer’s sexual orientation and preference matter when choosing gender of the model?
He wants to hear my story. Where I am in my journey. Maybe he cares. Maybe he doesn’t. Perhaps that Spanish politeness coming through? I share anyway. Speaking and having him listen intently was like salve to a purity culture wound. He offered no advice or sage wisdom or encouragement. Just an occasional nod of attentiveness and full, deep eye contact where he saw my essence. And I let him. I gave him the heaviness of my vulnerability and he held it safely for me.
As I charged my phone, we talked. I kept waiting for him to lean over and let me infer that it was coital payment time now. I braced myself for the beckon and it never came. I wasn’t brave enough to ask if he felt the sexual tension at any time during the photo shoot. I sure did. But if we would have fucked, it would have ruined the sacred space of me and him together making art. It would have brought down the innocence and raw eroticism down to dirt level and left me shrugging my shoulders and figuring out when I could fuck my next one.
As my battery revived itself, I was still nude. But somehow, I wasn’t butt-ass naked. I’ll have to ponder the difference between the two in a later blog, but they are truly not the same. The whole time I sat on the couch, my hands gracing my thighs, breasts displayed, and body finally resting, his eyes never left mine. He could very well have stared at my exposed areolas or the haired triangle–my mons pubis–and imagined himself between my legs like every other guy, but he had the dignity, the audacity, and the reverence of the woman and feminine energy to not. I felt that and it almost made me weep again and get to an even deeper level of healing for my wounded soul. He had literally seen and snapped shots of my sacred spaces, gotten mere inches to be counted on 1 hand not 2 away from my treasures. I extended trust to him and he offered strong, safe hands to hold my vulnerability and sacred woundings. Time stood still and I inched my way further down my path towards healing and art and beauty and voice and honor and dignity and grace.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever meet Fran again. I would love to take more pictures with him. I mean, I messaged him and did my best to beg and plead for another chance. I even said that I would shave if he brought his good camera. And y’all THAT is true dedication cuz me and my leg and pussy hair are real close.
Not fucking made me sit and be completely. Be all the things. I couldn’t run and hide behind fucking and flipping from position to position almost robotically. I didn’t fake an orgasm. I didn’t wonder why the guy didn’t care that I hadn’t cum. I brought my whole self in a way that I hadn’t in other sexual encounters. This photo shoot was somehow deper and more intimate than sex and I will wonder how and why it was like that for years to come.
That day, I learned, I need nothing else to be beauty. Nothing more to be art. Just me and my body.
Just me and my art.
Thanks Fran. I’m glad I swiped right on you.
Heauxly Coitus 