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 DOMAI.com - simple nudes of beautiful girls |
THE LINEIf you do something over and over again, no matter what it is, you tend to become comfortable with it. Relaxed. Confident. So it is with my work. Work. After twenty-odd years of this, the word sounds hollow to my ear. Pretentious. Mis-used in my context. What I do is not work. Oh, there is an element of technical competence required, to which one must pay close attention or the work will not look its best. It is easily mastered, however, and I have long ago made friends with its peculiar discipline.It has been said that I am an expert. Another mis-used word. I do not consider myself an expert. Yes, I take a certain pride in my clients' satisfaction, but I am a modest man. I know myself well. I have a lot to be modest about. What I do is easy. For me. That it is not easy for everyone is a source of endless puzzlement to me. I photograph women. The most sublime of all photographic endeavor. Women are, I opine, the reason God, in His infinite wisdom contrived to have the camera invented. Of course, it can be used for many other things, but at its most noble sufficiency, the camera is pointed at ...a woman. I seldom ask for what reason a client comes to me, for if she wants me to know, she will tell me. If she does not want me to know, she will lie, and I will know it and that's a poor beginning for something that can be the essence of good. Most women are forthright in our conversations, however, and the reasons nearly always fall into one of three categories. Some are simply seeking a flattering photograph to attach to a resume, or are fulfilling an obligation to family members, usually mothers, whose appetite for photographs of their offspring is legend. Often, these women bring children with them, either to be included or as often to dominate the photographs. Fathers seldom attend. Sad comentary on the state of the family in our time. These photographs frankly don't require much effort on my part. Of course, I always do my best, and my best is very, very good, but these clients aren't of a mind to show me or anyone else very much of themselves beyond the fact that they were in a studio and this is what they looked like that day. I give them what they want, a pleasant time that will soon be over. Once I have all that they're willing to give, there's no point in prolonging their discomfort. Next are women in love, whose disposition it is to present someone with the gift of some sexy, personal photographs. For some it's a husband, for some, a lover, or as one stunning middle-aged lady said, smirking, "both". Often, these women are nervous, having come to the realization that to want the photographs is not unusual, but to do the photographs, to actually reveal yourself to a stranger is something else altogether. Some ask if it's all right to bring the husband or lover along, to which I always agree with a smile. Without exception, husbands or lovers, have concerns about their woman coming to a glamour studio. Is this a real studio? Is the photographer a drooling pervert, intent on ravishing her? Once satisfied that neither of these things is true, these husbands and lovers undergo a remarkable transformation; they now become DIRECTORS. They know what kind of photographs they like. They've been looking at them in skin magazines since they were teenagers, and will cause their women to do outrageous things for the camera. Things the women would have never imagined doing, had the man they brought along not asked for it. Of these, these women in love, there are some sad ones. Women desperately trying to add a spark to a flickering relationship. They admit it, usually in some oblique way, and I can see in their eyes the truth of their circumstance. These are attractive women. Nice women. These women are victims of someone's abuse. Often, but not always, a man's. The truth I see in their eyes is a question. Am I the problem? Am I fat? Am I ugly? Am I not sexy? Is it, as he says, all my fault? These women also make me smile, not because of my cool indifference, but because I know I can show them the truth of their beauty. Women see themselves only in the mirror. Early in the morning, struggling to overcome what is probably less than enough sleep, or late at night, after a long and difficult day. They know who they are, but they seldom see who they are. ALL women are beautiful, some more than others, but it hasn't anything to do with the skin that covers their bodies, or the clothes behind which they often hide. The beauty of a woman is herself, and it will inevitably make its way to the surface. I can see it. My photographs will show it, and I know she will embrace the truth of it. The third, and I must admit, my favorite category is comprised of women who want to do the photographs for themselves. They've seen their beauty, or at least suspect it's there. They aren't in the studio to satisfy obligation or necessity. They're here to enjoy being themselves. To experience and record who they are and what it looks like. It's not subtle. It's a memorable experience, to see a woman being herself, holding nothing back. It's particularly exciting to me, since I may be the only other person in her life to see it, though experience tells me that most of these women cannot contain the feeling that these photographs bring them and are compelled to show them to someone sooner or later. But, for a short time it's just the two of us, sharing an intimacy many people never experience. For this story to make sense, I must take a moment to explain the nature of the intimacy between a photographer and his model. The intimacy is real, but only on a certain, well-defined, if unspoken, level. The reason the woman feels free to be herself is that she knows the photographer will not misunderstand her. He knows what she's showing of herself is for the camera, not for him. He is privilged to be a witness to who she is, but if she thought for a moment that she'd receive any kind of unwelcome attention from him, the magic would be gone, and the true woman would not show herself. They both know there is The Line that will not be crosed. The Line may be in a different place for one woman than another, but it is always there and they both know where it is. Therein lies the intimacy that makes the photographs what they are. "Don't you ever want to fuck some of these women?" a photographer friend asked me one day. "Of course", said I, "But part of being a grown-up is knowing you can't just fuck anybody you want." So it is with me and the women I photograph. If I do my thinking with my dick, the photography won't be any good. It's not that easy. * 
Sherrie is a dancer. Neither in the ballet, nor in one of those artistic travelling companies advertised in the "entertainment" section. She dances to a nearly sold-out house five days a week; a bar called the Sugar Shack. Her name does not appear on a marquee. Only crude, plywood dayglo signs proclaim who's on stage: LIVE! NUDE GIRLS! I've known her about a year. This will be her fourth visit to my studio. Sherrie, I use her name freely here because it is not her name, has two children, a boy, three and a girl four years old. Their father, a man she does not appear to miss, went out for a six pack three years ago and never was heard from again. She lives with her mother in a pleasant, middle class neighborhood. The children, whose college tuition resides safely in Sherrie's well-managed brokerage account, attend an exclusive private day school. She drives them there and home again each day in her Lexus. Sherrie works the day shift. She dances with her clothes off from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon. For this privilege, she pays the Sugar Shack seventy-five dollars a week. Sherrie takes home fifteen hundred a week. On a bad week. I shoot a lot of dancers. Many of them are not unlike Sherrie. Some of them have a couple of kids and a dissapeared husband, some of them are working their way through school, some of them are just "livin' large" as they say. Whatever their circumstances, they've made a choice. They can work a "respectable" job (or two) at five forty-five an hour, or dance at a place like the Sugar Shack and make some real money. For some women, it's not a difficult choice. The dancers sell my photographs at outrageous prices to smitten customers, called "goobers" by the girls. Some men persist in the belief that money will impress these women. As often as not, the dancers earn more than the goobers. On her first visit to me, Sherrie arrived in a foul mood. She'd had a disagreement with her gentleman friend, a man she has referred to as "Asshole" for as long as I've known her, and was unhappy at the prospect of paying to take off her clothes for me, a reversal of what she considered normal. "It doesn't cost you that much to do these pictures," she smiled, "You should be paying me." To which I replied, "It doesn't cost you anything to shake your ass on that stage either, but you still expect to be paid, right?" The smile evaporated. She was thoughtful for a moment, her face a mask, "It costs me more than you know," she said softly. Then, brightening, "But you're right. I'm a pro; you're a pro. We all gotta eat. Let's do it." We've been good friends ever since. It didn't take long to do the "Dancer" shots that day. The sparkly costumes and the coy poses were not unfamiliar to either of us. As we were finishing up she said, "Could we do something different? You know, something nice? Just for me?" "Sure," I said, "I was hoping you'd say something like that. Do you want to put some clothes on?" "What? Oh no," she smiled. "It's kind of an interesting experience, being undressed without someone constantly hitting on me. If it isn't the goobers in the front room, it's the other girls in the dressing room. This is nice." We've never repeated those original "dancer" shots. She's been using the same ones ever since. When she runs out, she orders reprints. Every time she comes to the studio now, it's all for herself. We have lunch together about once a month. It's always at her invitation, and she always insists on paying. "I can afford it, and I bet you can't." she said one day. "You relax me. Everyone I get to talk to either knows I'm a dancer or they don't, but either way it's always an issue, and it's hard to relax. I feel comfortable with you." "Like with a helpful eunich," I smiled. "No." she said. "No?" I said. "No." she said. There followed what some would call an uncomfortable silence, but she seemed to see no reason to elaborate. My razor-sharp wit failed me and I could think of nothing cute to say, so we left it at that. We had an afternoon appointment to shoot the next day. * "I've got the power today." She said as she breezed into the studio. This is a phenomenon I've observed in many women. There are days, usually on a monthly "schedule" when a woman feels more sexually powerful than on other days. It's not a physical thing so much as a self-image thing. She feels thinner, her makeup goes on just the way she wants, her bra is filled to her satisfaction when she struggles into it, her clothes fit, her hair does what she wants. It isn't always this specific, but every woman knows when it happens. By contrast, there are other days when she feels powerless, with all the self-image problems that implies: she's dumpy. She's fat. Her ass is sagging. Her boobs are too small. It can go on and on. These power cycles have nothing whatever to do with her actual appearance, mind you, nor that other monthly cycle, which has it's own rather more physical set of issues. It is simply the way she feels. When she has the power it's a great time to do photography, for the woman, and for me as well."I should be dancing today," she said. "I could make a TON." She smiled brilliantly. "But I'd rather do this." She thought a moment, shrugged, as if to herself. "I can afford it." I've noticed she says that a lot. Could be because it's true. She rolled her giant suitcase full of "stuff" into the dressing room, opened it, and began setting out the tools of the model's trade. Today she had three different hair dryers, two curling irons, rollers, hot and cold, makeup, lotions, nail polish, and numerous things I have long since stopped trying to identify. Something I had no trouble identifying were the bottles of vodka and orange juice that came out last. She paused long enough to mix herself a stiff one in a plastic cup. She took two long pulls through a straw that drained the cup. She wasted no time mixing another. She believes she does her best photographs when she's a little loaded. I was leery of her drinking on the set at first, but I couldn't talk her out of it, and I've come to believe she may be right. The straw? Models drink everything through a straw in the studio. Mustn't muss the lip gloss. Sherrie hates getting makeup on her clothes so, like many models, her next step was to take them off. She sat naked at a table and began to focus her total concentration on painting her fingernails. I stared at her quietly for a while, (No, I never tire of looking at naked women. Sue me.), then I reluctantly went into the studio to set up some equipment. After a few minutes, she called me back to the dressing room. "Put some of this lotion on my back. My nails are still wet." Sherrie is a skin lotion junkie and wouldn't think of stepping on stage or in front of the camera unless every inch is covered. This was not an unusual request, and I didn't give it much thought. I started at her shoulders as she stood waving her hands around, drying her nails. I worked my way down to the small of her back with the lotion and, as always, stopped before I was asked. Sherrie trusts me to do such things for her. That's why. "My nails are still wet," she said. "Want to do the front?" This was an unusual request. In fact, this was an unheard-of request, at least in my studio. I stared at her for a moment, searching her eyes for an unspoken message. Nothing there. A small jolt of discomfort passed through me. I'm well-known for always being aware of The Line and where it is, and I don't like being tested. I tried to think of something cute to say, but, for the second time in as many days, my razor-sharp wit failed me. I reverted to my old standby: when in doubt, ask. "What's that mean?" I asked, feeling aprehensive. Still holding my eyes with hers, she sighed, then stopped waving her hands around. "OK, I should have known. My nails are dry. You've been around me more with my clothes off than with them on, and you've never done anything even remotely like hitting on me, even when I was drunk enough to let you get away with it. I know that putting your hands where they don't belong isn't who you are, but I've seen you looking at me. I feel the way you touch my back. I'm not trying to start anything, I just thought you might like to do it, that's all." "Just doing me a little favor?" "Little, hell," she smiled a mild challenge at me. "A huge benevolence." Like her vocabulary, Sherrie's ego is always in full bloom, even when she doesn't feel powerful. "C'mon, you know you want to." I had to smile. She really meant it. "OK, if that's all it is. You're sure you aren't lusting after me?" Sherrie gave a small snort and said, "Don't get any on my nipples or the BenGay won't work, and stay the hell out of the pussy." * 
She came dancing naked into the studio half an hour after I finished with the lotion. (Yes, I enjoyed doing it. No, nothing happened.) In one hand she carried a hairbrush, the vodka, the OJ, and a tube of BenGay. The other held a fresh drink which was rapidly disappearing as she sucked mightily on the straw. She piled all this on a side table, and mixed another drink before applying the BenGay to her nipples. Many dancers do this whenever they're on stage. Try putting some on your own and blow on them and you'll understand why."Mmm, just right." I'd like to think she was talking about the set I'd prepared, but it might have been the BenGay. Sherrie plopped herself inelegantly down on a black velvet-covered mattress she liked, surrounded by a dead-black backdrop. "I want pictures of ME, not some terribly clever set." She'd once told me. "Music?" I asked. "Mmm." She said, sucking on the straw again. "Do you have Brahms' fourth?" Full of surprises, this woman. "Sure," I said. Relieved to have a surprise of my own for a change. The Brahms symphonies were something I often listened to when I was alone in the darkroom. No one had ever asked for them in the studio. "Not too loud, I want you to be able to hear me." I thought about that for a moment, decided to let it ride. "Got any dope?" she said, as if asking for a toothpick. I tossed her my Dugout, wondering what this was about. Decided to let that ride, too. She took a couple of hits and set it aside. She was on her back, hands squeezing her breasts, fingering her nipples. "Light me flat. I want to be able to see evvrrythinggg." I moved the lights, left a few small shadows to show some texture and depth. Sherrie's body was made for my style of photography. She is maybe five-six with slightly pendulous breasts that look larger than they are because of her smallish, prominent nipples and her slim build, and because they point tantalizingly east/west on a definitely north/south body. She has womanly flaired hips and the tiniest finger of pubic hair hinting at her cleft. One of my favorite shots of her is a tight close-up of her body, sitting, straight-on, cropped very tight at her upper thigh at the bottom, and showing a strong chin and what may or may not be a smile at the top. Her legs are pressed tightly together, the faint line of pubic hair dead-center suggesting that other vertical line we all know is there. "Helllooo. You're staring again. You gonna take some pictures, or what?" A smile. I began shooting high, on a ladder, nearly straight down at her. The black around her disappearing, leaving only her beautiful, incredibly white body. She moved around languidly, slowly, her hands moving over her body, as if she were dancing on her back. She was enticing, but I knew she wasn't enticing me. Her mind was centered on herself. There was nothing but her and the strobes and the camera. She kept her eyes on the camera, her face reflecting the pleasure she was feeling. As I stopped to change film, she kept moving. "Hurry," she said. I hurried. It seemed like only moments later, but soon I had shot five rolls of film. Her movements had become more subtle, and I continued to shoot every nuance. Move. Shoot. Move. Shoot. "Closer, she said breathlessly, "Come closer. Look how wet I am." She drew her legs up and spread them wide, her fingers spreading glistening lips apart. That's a fairly lewd, over-done pose, for most women, but somehow she made it look elegant and beautiful. I kept shooting, moving closer and closer. "Closer," she panted impatiently. "Just my pussy. I'm going to come." Her fingers kept moving. I kept shooting. Her body stiffened as the orgasm took her. She held her breath for a moment, then inhaled sharply, held it again. She seemed frozen in time and space, apart from the tiny tremors that passed through her body like waves. Finally, a ragged exhale and she relaxed. Still breathing hard, she leaned forward, looking between her legs. She held her lips open with her fingers. "Wow, look at my clit." She said. "It looks like my thumb." I looked. Her clitoris really was the size of her thumb. But her thumb wasn't dark pink, almost purple. She touched it lightly with the tip of her finger and took in another sharp breath. The stiffening and the tremors began again. It was not huge, like her first one, but it still made her pant when it was over. She was copiously wet, her juices running down her cheeks in little rivulets, making a saucer-sized wet spot on the mattress. "Just my face this time." "This time? As in 'again'?" "Oohh, yeah. Where's that Dugout?" She found it and took another deep hit. She moved closer to me and brushed the back of her hand across my fly. "You hard?" "No." "Shit. OK, just my face this time." I changed lenses. "And my tits." I changed lenses again. The next one took longer, but I had the impression it hit her before she was ready. Her eyes opened wide and she shook her head from side to side. This time she cried out, not loud, kind of a musical whimper. I kept shooting, faster and faster, hoping to catch every subtlety of this beautiful woman in her beautiful moment. One of the strobes overheated and buzzed obnoxiously just as she relaxed and lay panting. I hoped it wasn't the one on her face. Moments later she jumped off the mattress and stood, giving me another glorious smile. "Time for drinkie. Gotta pee." She started for the bathroom. She stopped suddenly, and glanced pointedly at my crotch, her eyebrow raised. A question. "Nope." I shook my head. "Somethin' wrong witchew boah." Over her shoulder. "Flip that mattress. It's getting soggy. And mix me a drink, baby." She glanced around. "What's that buzzing? Turn that damn thing off." Ah, respect, it's a wonderful thing. I flipped the mattress. It was pretty wet, but it did have a terrific fragrance. Chanel and sex. What could be better? She flew out of the bathroom as I was fixing her drink. "You know what's weird?" She grabbed the drink and sucked on the straw. "Getting up from the john and not having any pants to pull up." As I was digesting that, she added another dollop of vodka to the drink, sucked it down and again pounced on the mattress. "Ahh, that's much better." As I was resetting the breaker on the strobe, she was hitting the Dugout again. "That's great shit, by the way. You're not hard at all? What happened to the music? How about sommmmmm......Robin Trower! You have Bridge of Sighs? Wow. C'mon, c'mon, one more ought to do it." A quick brush of her hair. I found myself shaking my head again. I seemed to be doing a lot of that today. "I think some of these ought to have all of you in them." "You're right." Holding a finger up. "One more hit." She reached for the Dugout again, hit it, coughed hugely. "Great.." Cough.."Shit." Cough cough. Then she was on her back again, hands moving, fingers busy. "Mmm." Kind of a growl. "This won't take long at all." She was right. Her body moved scarcely at all. But her fingers did and her face said everything. She was at once elegant and raunchy. Angelic and wicked. I'd never seen her more beautiful. The orgasm was her most intense of the day. She thrashed and moaned and yelped and shuddered and thrashed some more. It left her breathless and, as I took my eye from the camera, her smile was at me, and it said everything I ever wanted to hear from a woman. "Keep shooting," breathless, "There's another one right behind it." This one was quick, subtle. She made no sound at all. After, she lay panting quietly for a few minutes while I unloaded the cameras and turned off the strobes. Then she jumped up as before, and ran, yes, ran to the dressing room. I stayed in the studio, trying to think of developer, or lenses, anything but her. Neither of us said a word. After a while she called me to the dressing room. Her gear was all packed. She was still naked. She came very close and put her arms around my neck. She kissed me long and hard. No tongue. Her hand strayed to my pants again as we came apart. Her hand stopped. She'd finally found what she was looking for. I expected the usual knowing smile, but her expression was serious. We looked intensely at each other for a long time, each of us thinking the same thing, each of us considering the same posibilities. "You know........," she said. "I know......" I said. "But it would never be the same again." We stared at each other wide-eyed for a moment, then fell into uncontrolable laughter. We had both said it at the same time. The exact same words. There were tears in her eyes, mine too. Maybe from the laughter, maybe not. We shared a giant hug. She felt me up again. I grabbed her ass, and pulled her into my erection. Both, exagerated, comical motions. "Thank you," we said. We laughed some more. We had been to The Line. We'd had a look at the other side. We had not crossed. It would be the same again. © Jerry Taft, 2000. Photograph © Tim Phillips, 2000. |
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