"...dance, walk, or simply sit, and share myself with you. This 
action is my poetry to your camera."

      She spoke to me from a distance I could not imagine...from a 
proximity that made me tremble.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ @ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      I meant to arouse him. It was my desire. It was my way of pleas-
ing myself. And I did.

      It is not about the body. It is about "attitude". I studied his
work for sometime before I suggested that I model for him. Nude, I 
would lie on  the bed when he was not home with his pictures scattered 
about me and run my hand along my own flesh to feel if it looked like 
what he captured. He loved me. I knew that. His hands, his eyes, the 
strength of his legs and how he moved mine aside to enter me was done 
with the passion of man very deeply in love. But I wanted  also to 
experience the love that went into these photographs. I could tell in 
the eyes of every woman she  had sought to please him in a way 
different from the wonderful love making between us. I knew nothing 
transpired between him and his models though the world upon seeing the 
pictures would say..."Oh you fool! Look how she looks at him....." 
    Oh, yes. Look.And I would over and over and over again at the
exquisite beauty of his work until I realized....   in each woman, I 
saw a statement to him about who she was. And I knew that her ability 
to do this through her body, through her mouth, through her eyes, 
sensously aroused him, and when he snapped the shutter on his 
camera...he would be whispering to himself, "Yes!" And each woman 
could hear him.

    It wasn't jealousy.

    I wanted the experience to arouse him as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 01/25/99 1:30:35 AM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ how it started ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      She first asked him the question after he had entered her, and 
had begun to move within...slowly at first.  When his back was arched, 
his hands gripping hers that lay above her head and her legs held him  
firmly as he thrust himself deep into her entry, now smooth and slick 
with the arousal of long foreplay.  And she looked at him, a look that 
let him know what great pleasure he was filling within her as he 
moved, easily against the walls of her inner sanctum...a part of her
that felt filled with powerful tides, ever-increasing in strength.  

      "My God, you are beautiful, that face! Oh God!" he gasped.

      "Would you photograph me?" she said, pulling his face toward 
hers, kissing him with a wild sense she wasn't sure she'd felt before. 
It was not even a thought, exactly...she was too lost in the rising 
heat. But the image of him...of her. As overpowering as her need to
release her own orgasm, was the need to maintain some visual memory of
it. 

       And he answered her by penetrating  deeper, faster. But she 
kept her eyes in his...letting him see, letting him watch what he did 
to her with the beauty of his body. Her hands, tangled in his long 
hair, held his head.

      "Photograph me..." she softly moaned. And then with her own legs 
she slowed his movement...taking over  their bodies....gently moving 
back and forth along his shaft...while he remained raised above her.
"Watch me" she whispered. 

      And now... fascinated by her eyes, her mouth, the movement of 
her shoulders and breasts as she responded to the  sensations that she 
felt from the strength of his body...he did watch her. His eyes were
locked with hers. Until, when he could contain it no longer,  he  
plunged himself into her, howling her name as he spilled his seed into 
her body. 

     He would photograph her. They both knew it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ later ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     He thought about her the next day. All during the day. Two things
seemed to repeat themselves, over and over -- her face, against the 
pillow...that beautiful and open expression of hers, that said to him,
"I love you...I love the feeling of you within me." 

     And, a soft voice that murmured, cooed... gasped to him as he 
felt the explosion of passion that seemed to accompany their love-
making -- "Photograph me..." 

     He couldn't believe the incredible sense of longing with which
he had awoken, although she had already gone. She worked a day job, at 
a child day-care center, and always left him a deliciously enticing 
note on the dining room table (often with some new and exotic pastry
she'd discovered somewhere in their neighborhood bakeries). It amazed
him that she had the energy to do the things she did. 

    This morning, he managed to pull himself out of the bed, vaguely
sad and content at once. He associated this odd juxtaposition of 
emotions with her. Renny was unlike any woman he'd met. And, for the 
first time in his life...he'd quit his one-night stand affairs with 
other models.

    As he entered the kitchen he saw a small package (he was sure his
breakfast, which she had probably walked several blocks to find, to 
return for him, before she left for her other job, was in that sack).
Next to it was a note.

    With an unusually high sense of arousal (which brought back the 
sadness...because he longed for Renny's presence) he sat down at the
table, and picked up the note.

    He could smell the sweet aroma of some new and exotic pastry 
within the sack, but the note drew him first...it had her aroma, her 
hands had touched this piece of paper. Her hand had written the words. 
Her mind had composed the words...and he knew, for her...that the 
words were literally a part of her. Even before he began to read it, 
he simply held it in his hands. Then he lifted it to his face, where 
he inhaled her scent...the perfume she wore, like the wonderful lace 
panties...the perfume that was her. It was the scent beneath the 
panties.

    Something was stirring within him that transcended the physical.
He knew that at once. Yes...he longed for Renny. He missed her in a
manner he had never missed a model, moring after...or an hour follow-
ing what he used to call "A full session." 

    He missed her eyes, looking into his. Yes, there was that certain
look when they made love, but now -- he realized it was also a look 
she had when she was sitting across the table from him. It was a look
she had when she had just read a piece of writing to him...hers, or
some author she admired. It was a look she had that was...he tried
to articulate it to himself, but found difficulty doing so. Using 
visual imagery had always been his approach to the world. Finding the
words was her area of expertise. 

    Whose? Renny's, of course. But...what about Lia...what about 
Eva...what about...

    What was going on, here? Was he falling in love? Was this what it
felt like to fall in love? He had never intended any relationship be-
tween himself and a woman to extend beyond....weeks? months at best...
now, he realized that she had touched some part of him that had never
been touched. 

    He began to read the note:

"Good morning my beautiful sleeping prince.
   Ahhhh, it is so tempting to want to wake you. Your moist
lips do invite kissing as you lay, so handsomely bare
under warm covers.  I dress in the morning twilight,
pulling stockings over the very legs you caressed
last night with your  kisses. Oh that I could give  you more
to taste than the delicate muffin you will find in this
small bag....but, a man has many appetites so this 
will do for now until I can provide for other sweet
hungers. 
   With love,
    Renny J"

    He was overwhelmed for a moment...perhaps for several long moments
as he held the note, caressed it with his fingers, gently, as though
it were part of her. Which it was.

    How he wanted her to be here! How he needed her! And that was
something he would never had admitted to any other woman. Would he 
tell Renny? How could he not?

    He took the pastry bag, opened it...deepy inhaled of it. Yes, 
there was something of her in this package. She knew how excited by 
the various senses he was. She had called him, on many occasions --
"The sensualist" ... "The dreamer who filled his senses during waking
hours, so that he might take these senses with him into dreams..."

    He loved the sound of those words, but never truly understood 
them. It was easy to call him a "sensualist." He would never have de-
nied that fact. He loved the sights, the sounds, the touch, the aroma,
the texture of moments. And yet...he had convinced himself that this 
world of sensuality was the "total package." Remembering each woman
he had taken to bed, every touch, gesture, visual clue was a component
of their being. And, he had come to believe that by knowing them in 
this way somehow fulfilled a moral, ethical, even spiritual connection
with them.

    Now...he was not only unsure of that view of the world...most of
all, the relationship he had with women...was somehow complete. They
made no demands of him. Renny didn't make demands, either. But, she 
was different. What was it? 

    He reached into the bag, pulled out the "delicate muffin" she'd 
left for him...and as he put it to his lips and took a bite. As al-
ways, her taste was impeccable. The taste, the aroma, the sense of
its nutrient qualities, and most importanly...the very texture of this
pastry was no accidental choice. 

    It was then that it occurred to him that she knew him so well that
she could find a simple piece of pastry, and that she knew it would
please him...was a simple element unique to her...to Renny. Other 
women had pleased him, in many ways. But Renny, consciously or not, 
had tapped into some deeper part of him.

    As he finished the last bites, washing the last one down with a 
swallow of juice still left in a bottle in the fridge, her face kept
reappearing...her voice filled his inner ear. "She's..."

    He was slightly appalled and embarrassed by the fact that he had
just spoken his thoughts aloud, even thought there was no one else to
hear them. And yet..."She's...magic? She's..." Oh, God...how he hated
when he was unable to articulate in words the feelings that seemed to
drive him from day to day. 

    "She...loves me?" He spoke the words aloud, again. Was that it? 
The very concept of love was an abstraction to him, he knew. Now, he
had to confront its possible reality. Had he ever wondered whether 
his other models had "loved him"? Probably not. It seemed as though
the world in which he had lived until now was composed of vague 
philosophical ideas that made him feel complete. 

    He had devoted himself to what he considered a "bohemian exist-
ence." That precluded emotional attachments, and no woman had ever
complained, or had seemed hurt, or upset when he suggested that "they
needed time apart...to experience..." etc., etc. The question of love
was simply not part of any equation having to do with physical re-
lationships. 

    Until now. 

    But...how to respond? That was, indeed, its own question. 

    It then occurred to him, with a slight shock -- he realized that
he'd never really intened Renny to be a model. She hadn't approached
him with the prospect -- in fact, until she'd seen his studio, she
only knew from what he'd said, when they were talking over books one
afternoon, after a class they were taking together at the university,
what it was he did.

    And yet...her voice, super-charged and heated had whispered to 
him...had asked him in a manner no model had ever asked before --
"Photograph me..."

    He knew, the moment she'd spoken those words, that he would. She
was attractive, lithe, and engagingly open. Why hadn't he thought of 
it himself? That in itself was unusual.

    It would lead to an unusual session.      

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ more later ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



A note left by the photographer, near a new contact sheet,
for his model:

-- This is about the scent you leave when you are gone. It appears 
in the most unusual places. It appears in the most unexpected 
places...and yet... it comforts ... even as it adds to that ache of 
longing... 

-- the shower, the clothes you have left in the closet ... those you 
have left in the upper right-hand drawer of the dresser...

	no... it’s not by accident that I open that drawer anymore 

	no... it’s not by accident that I notice things like... some 
undergarment left by you in another drawer ... which I find ... 
knowing that it caressed you for hours where I would love to... 
which reminds me of a certain night ... 
or perhaps a sock you were 
still wearing when
...ahh...that night!

-- the sheets, I confess... I leave awhile, still with your sweet
aroma
lingering 
in their folds  ... for I will turn in the night, 
and  
that side  of the bed 
will exhale you ... 
rising from them like an image 
in a vision of Paradise... 
the woman who is all women .. the woman who 
is earth and wood ... who is seed and flower ...

-- and...

	like the flower... in my dream ... you blossom ... 

your petals 

inhale the sky and light .. 

 -- and the nectar is set free...

-- David

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ @ @ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    "I imagine," she moaned softly, as she guided his fingers within 
her, " there would be some primal instinct that  a body when naked 
among the elements,  would give rise to a sense of incredible freedom. 
Oh God..." Her hand held his firmly as he moved it expertly within 
her. 

    "You think so?" he grinned. "You think you could howl at the 
moon?"


     "Right along with you!" And with that she reached for the heart 
shape mound between his legs, causing him to shriek with howling  
pleasure.


     "I will be your woodland nymph," she cooed to him. " You will be
looking into the clear waters of a a spring or small pond...and you 
will catch the reflection of bare legs...I will tease you, darting 
naked, in and out of the trees, the brush...and then I will lay, upon 
some  sun rock...open to you...inviting." Renny had moved as she 
talked so that she was now straddled over David. "And I will raise my 
arms to the sun-god, stretching my body to welcome in its energy...and 
then..." 

     Renny now took her hands, and slowly moved them down her neck, 
over her breasts..." guide the warm rays along my body, feeling the 
sunlight penetrate each cell..." She now cupped one breast and with 
the other hand, her fingers moved in circles round the nipple," I 
would marvel at how the sun glowed upon the rosebud". Now she switched 
breasts and hands..drawing the same circle until David reached for her finger,
drawing it to his lips. With his tongue, he moistened the finger tip. 


    "I want to photograph..."he said, taking   her finger and placing it
back on her nipple..."the morning dew on the rosebuds."

Again...a source of beautiful graphics....

      

      He remembered that he had taken a picture of her before. One
about which he'd never told her. He'd almost forgotten, because he'd
never used the negative after making his contact sheet.


       Once, while she still slept, and he was awake (unusual in 
itself... since she was an early riser, and he was most definitely 
not) he had slipped his Nikkon from beneath his bed (an older 35mm 
model, but it was already 1,000 SS and he was ready to push the ASA 
past 1,000 as  well). 

       He was certain there was enough light entering the room. 

      It was simply a moment he couldn't let pass. They both had spent
the evening before making incredible love -- she had introduced him to
sensations he hadn't believed existed, with her nimble tongue, and her
hands -- her hands, he could easily believe, were indeed, magic. 

      They had fallen asleep naked, wrapped around one another. This
morning, the covers had slipped down below her perfectly rounded 
bottom. He only had to slip from the bed without wakening her, and
slip the lens cover off. The shutter speed was 125...and the lens
was already set to shoot from approximately the distance he would be
using -- about 6 feet. He had done this before, and he knew the 
settings were just about right. In fact...it was often how he'd
done "follow-up" shoots after a session the night before. He had
discovered many of the models were at "just the right heat" at this
time. Most of them loved being photographed in this manner.

      This was different. He never wakened her. She never knew the
photo had been taken.

      Her head showed, just slightly, with its curling dark hair (her
"elfin hair," he called it). The curve of her back, down to her waist,
and what he considered a most lusciously shaped derriere, was mag-
ficent, and bare. She was bare down to her knees, in fact.

      He slipped the lens cap off the Nikkon, slowly raided the SLR
view to his eye. Just a slight adjustment, focus-wise. Power on. Deep
breath. He took the moment. Later, he would forget he'd taken it, but
when it appeared on a contact sheet, he was somewhat taken aback.

      How could he have ignored her in such a manner? The camera, as
the photographers, camera operators, etc. loved to say, "loved her."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ continued in "Taking Photos" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~