The Erotic Poet And The Nude Photographer

Jezebel is an erotic poet. Her publisher has sent her to meet with a young photographer who specializes in nudes. Because she captures erotic sentiment in verse and he explores it in black and white images, the publisher thinks they should collaborate, and explore the creative process.

Their highly charged encounter provides them both with artistic and erotic challenges that lead to sensual experiences and new insights.

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The moment she walked through the door, she felt his gaze on her, brushing over her face and body as gently as a lover's touch. Then she watched his expression change from astonishment to eagerness as he raised the camera which was draped around his neck and began clicking off shots. He was young. She guessed she had probably five years on him, but he was no kid, even if he dressed poorly. He had that scruffy art college look with jeans and ragged tee-shirt, and longish hair. He moved gracefully, dancing in bare feet across over the wooden floor. The clothes, the hair, made her aware of her clothing, which was simple but high quality. She didn't feel overdressed however; her silk blouse and cotton skirt were almost outside of fashion, one of those timeless looks women could achieve with work. Her clothing helped her to remain difficult to see—nearly invisible as an observer should be. She wasn’t surprised by the way he dressed. That kind of affectation, or unawareness of his appearance — whichever it was in his case — and the polar opposite of fastidious costumes, were the normal extremes the creative people she knew inhabited. After a while, it meant nothing. The room itself provided the only surprise. “This isn't what I expected,” she said, her first words referring to his studio. She studied the room, hearing him click off pictures, and not facing him. She saw promise in his obvious pleasure with this strange introduction. Strong morning light came in from an open window, wrapping shadows around her body as she moved toward it. The light caressed her tight cotton skirt and followed the contours of her breasts over her silk blouse. It painted sensuous lines on the backs of her stockings, accented the curve of her calf. The seductive morning light striped her body as she moved. “What did you expect?” he asked, still snapping off rapid shots. “Why did you expect something specific?” She waved a hand. “Margarite,” she said. “She told me that you were the best nude photographer in the city,” she paused wondering if she should tell him the rest. “Perhaps the best anywhere, actually. So, I suppose I expected to find you in a more elegant studio.” She peered into dusty corners. “Something more upmarket.” She smiled. “Something cleaner, perhaps. The top photographers I've met are usually dandies, and love to lavish money on camera equipment and fancy furniture.” “A great subject is what matters. The camera and the subject are all I need,” he said. He moved with her, his camera intruding, capturing her as she examined the sparse furniture in the room. A wooden table that was crude but strongly made, two wooden chairs, a brass bedstead and, at the side of the room, a black leather couch. By the door was a wooden desk with a computer. The only other furnishings were those of any studio; backdrops, lighting umbrellas, and strobes, the necessary paraphernalia of his profession. “I can take photos anywhere if I have the right subject.”

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