January 26, 2009

I Want to Take Your Picture (Nude)


So, a million years ago (don't you like the way I keep track of time?) I was in Paris and met this amazingly handsome French man. (Okay, so this is the snarky mental voice of mine that just kicked in: Really? You met a French man in Paris? God, you're so lucky. Most people only meet Italian men in Paris.) But I did. I was with my parents, had only just graduated from high school, and I met this man who was so hot, and so sweet, and so into kissing me everywhere—I mean that in both senses of the word—everywhere in Paris and everywhere on Alison.

When I got to college, he and I became pen pals, and I began to receive the most delightful postcards. Black and white sexy pictures of couples kissing and touching and licking and...and on the backs, he would write these notes in very broken English. I've told this story before—he wrote "I miss you," and my friends translated that to "I want to eat you." Manque for Mange, if memory serves.

But my favorite card was a man embracing a woman. On the back, were the words, "Send me a photo of you real sexy. I want to take your picture (nude)."

I'm a word freak. I mean, I like running my tongue over words. I like tracing my fingertips over handwriting. I like to see how people phrase their desires. What I liked best about this card was his use of parenthesis. No, really. He wanted to take a picture of me (nude). Like he was slipping that part in.

Memories of this man, and the fact that I found these awesome buttons, gave me the idea for this week's contest. Write me 250-words (max) about taking pictures, or using a camera, or posing, or... well, you know me. I don't like to put too many constraints on writers. The theme is photography. You go from there. None of the no-nos. Okay? You have to be 18 or over. Don't feature any type of underage, animal, or incestuous situations. (God, that just reminded me of this hysterical picture I took at the zoo one year. Of a rhino with a really big... But I digress.)

Deadline is Friday. Post your entries here. Use the anonymous button. Add a title. Tell a friend. (The more readers, the merrier.)

XXX,
Alison


13 comments:

Donna said...

It's interesting how in mainstream media, a man asking a woman to pose nude is portrayed as this perverted thing. As in drugging a virgin and taking daguerreotype portraits of her undressed for the white slave trade.

But really, as you show here, the request can be wonderfully sexy.

Way back when, after spying an "art photo" of a friend displayed in her bedroom, I set up a nude photo session with a female photographer. It was a dizzying, empowering experience--in a way, I've been writing about it ever since ;-).

Thanks for the memories! And maybe I'll pop back in anonymously?

Anonymous said...

Ce n’est pas un homme

When the idea first occurred to me, you were the only one I could think of asking. You’re perfect- Vitruvian man perfect. And you love to take your clothes off, for me, for the hell of it. So I asked.

“Can I fingerpaint you?” And you answered.

“That sounds fun.”

“Can I take pictures?” And your eyes got really wide, really bright. That smile… all the answer I needed.

I planned. To make this a proper tribute to Magritte it had to have pnache, ‘double-take’ value. The Harvest. Perfect. The sketches go well. I know what photos I want. The pipe, the apple.

I have you now. Spreading the paint. Each limb a different color, your face, your hair, your cock, all different colors. Playing the serious artist- a raised eyebrow at your obvious errection. You behave till I’m finished- a remarkable feat- but then reach out and cup, squeeze, one breast, a smeared handprint, bright blue on my white tank top.

“Tsk tsk,” hissed through clenched teeth. Pleasant heat is blooming along the nerves that run from nipple to groin. Composure. “If I have to restrain you it will ruin the shot.” I grab more blue and fix your hand. There. Perfect.

My digital camera on the tripod, set to make shutter sounds- the clicking chatter feels good as I warm up with some simple full body shots. Simple… sexy as hell. I want so badly to smear that paint. Art first, I remind myself. Deep breath. Viewfinder. Ch-ch-click

Anonymous said...

"Balls"

“What if they were aroused?”

He frowned.

She held up the “art” book he’d given her, a saucy gag gift that he probably thought was more for him than her. “They say these are photos of female genitalia in an unaroused state, each one beautiful and unique. But why didn’t they have the balls to take pictures when the women were aroused?”

“Because the photographer was female?” he ventured with a grin.

“You wouldn’t have the balls either,” she sniffed. She turned back to the collection of pussy pictures, pausing to study each for a long moment.

“Actually I do. I just need a willing woman.”

She met his gaze. “Go get the camera.”

She sat back on the sofa and spread her legs. He knelt and aimed the camera at her exposed vulva.

Click.

“You’re already all pink and puffy. But I’ve seen you more turned on.”

With a defiant smile, she slipped her hand between her legs and began to strum.

Click.

“Yeah, you’re getting redder.” He shifted on his knees to adjust his erection.

Her wet flesh clicked under her finger. He moved in closer as if to fuck her with the lens.

“Come for me,” he whispered.

With a long, low groan, her body shook in a flurry of shuddering gasps.

“I know I have balls,” he said. “Because they’re aching right now.”

“And I’m sure they’re beautiful and unique.”

She lifted the camera from his hands and turned it toward him.

Anonymous said...

Tearing Down the Darkroom

"Seems such a shame."

"Yeah, but I never use it anymore. It's all digital and Photoshop now."

They stood in the doorway of the little room Mark had built in the basement years ago. He thought of the time he'd spent there, agitating trays, watching the magic happen. He missed the smell of developer and fixer. He stepped inside. Switched on the safelight.

Kathy followed, letting the door close behind them.

"We never got to fool around in here, what with the kids and everything."

She slid her hand over his butt. Gave it a little squeeze. Mark turned, pulled her to him. Eyes not yet adjusted to the dark, their lips missed, then met. In a sudden flash of passion, they groped like teenagers, fumbling at each other's zippers. His hand slipped between her legs, found her already saturated. She pushed his jeans down and slid fingers into his briefs. He groaned as she stroked.

Mark kicked their jeans aside and lifted Kathy onto the scrap of counter he'd installed.
"Oh! It's cold! My butt's making a contact print."

"Gotta make sure I use the right aperture."

Both laughing, she grabbed his hair, kissed him hard as he pushed into her. Wrapping her legs around him, she reached behind to brace herself and bumped into the enlarger. Bathed in amber light, glossy with sweat, silver glinting in their hair, their orgasms solarized them, left them clinging to each other, breathing heavily.

A knock came.

"Mom? Dad?"

Anonymous said...

Pictures of You

I have seven secret pictures of you.

The first is when you were not mine, and I saw you like a dark dart in a crowd of less spectacular people. The second is less crowded but still unbeknownst to you. It’s just the back of your head– all that glossy hair like the leaves of rubber trees dipped in ink.

The third was taken during our first date, when I couldn’t believe it and had to take a fuzzy picture with my phone, of us together. The togetherness grew less believable as time went on, so another pic had to be taken. Just your hands, spread over my thighs.

You took my picture, you said. No-ho-ho, I said.

Five and six are through a shower door, when I was too shy to ask for that most exulted of all things: a glorious man, made slippery and glittery and lickable by water. Water in streamers down your back like arrows, pointing to places I should go.

But my favourite is number seven. Number seven while you were sleeping, the equally sleepy stalk of your cock laid against your thigh, skin pale everywhere and even more so in all of your hidden places. I could have then taken a pic of me licking that pale skin, that sleeping stalk, moving up to the trail of fur on your belly that eventually wanders around your flat nipples.

But I didn’t, because that would’ve been about me. And I’m all about pictures of you.

Anonymous said...

The Camera Never Lies

We’d been seeing each other for two months—mostly in states of undress—when Peter said those words. The ones that make my insides twist up like a dishrag.

“I love you.”

He looked so dreamy, it didn’t seem right to tell him about the stiff, bloodied wrappings around my heart.

Instead I said, “Take my picture.”

Then I told him I wanted him to use my old-fashioned camera with black-and-white film. The poses, the lighting—that was up to him.

He smiled and asked me to stay as I was—naked and still wet from the sex—as he arranged my body along the folds of the rumpled sheets.

Cameras are truth-tellers. My sister always captures me as a dull-witted sourpuss, my eyes half-closed. And yes, we have issues. Once my brother’s photographer friend had him model for his portfolio at the beach. Joe looked so goddam gorgeous in every shot, I knew the guy had the hots for him.

If Peter really loved me, his pictures would capture rolling hills and fertile valleys, my flesh glowing with beauty. But, if he were just another dude grateful for a good fuck, you’d see all the blemishes, the cottage cheese thighs.

Would I be Gaia or dieter’s lunch?

I picked up the prints at the arty photo shop by myself.

This time the tugging in my chest was sweet. He’d get the answer he was waiting for.

Because, of course, the camera never lies.

Anonymous said...

Hot Wet Art


“Don’t move,” Dante breathed. Hidden by the curtain.

The man was big like a bear. He smelled of garlic and beer. “I like this one.” Big thick fingers stroked my bare breast. I swallowed the shiver.

This. This is what I had gone to modeling school for? Suffered through countless photos? Shunned bread for?

“Don’t touch, Marcus.” The wife frowned. He stroked my nipple like a worry bead. I could not move. Could not breathe. He snapped my photo. Off he went.

The wife stared longer. Was I shaking? Panting?

“Don‘t. Move. You’re doing great.”

Art show my ass. Naked women. Bare, painted, beaded, glittered. We were Dante’s art. Live or Memorex?

“She’s got bush,” said the next man. I bit my tongue as his finger sifted my pubic hair. “Feels real.”

“Don’t touch!” This wife, too, looked jealous. And was my pussy wet?

They moved on.

“They want to fuck you.” Dante's voice.

I bit my tongue harder.

Another flash. Another photo. Another finger on my breast. My pussy. “Her clit feels real…”

Three hours down. Done. Dante yanked me back. Blue curtain waving. Mouth on my clit. Fingers in my cunt. On my back--cock driving into me. “You’re art, baby.” He came.

I’d already come twice. Feeling phantom fingers on my nipple, my belly. Foreign breath on my skin. Flashes capturing my image. Thumbs stroking my clit.

“Goddamn, you’re art.” His mouth found me. Licking me clean.

I came again. Arching up to his mouth. Hot wet art.

Anonymous said...

Pictures at an Exhibition

“Come see,” he said. She curled next to him on the sofa as he brought the slideshow up on the laptop. “Tell me which one you like the best.”

They were all out of order. A close-up of her lips covering the head of his cock. “I like that one,” he said, his hand sliding along her thigh.

A full-length profile shot of them kissing, fully clothed. G-rated even, except that the image emanated a decidedly X-rated tension. “Nice,” she murmured.

Angled naked torsos, in high contrast black and white. She looked for a long moment, tilting her head, sorting out which parts were which. “Hmmmm.”

A brilliantly juicy close-up, his cock nestled just at entrance of her cunt, awash with her wetness. At the top of the frame, her clit burst between two of her fingers; at the bottom, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock. She blinked. “I remember that,” she said. “But I don’t remember the camera being that close.” He laughed gently. “Zoom lens.”

He clicked again, and she pulled in a breath, stunned.

The camera caught the slightly rough texture of his skin against the impossible creaminess of hers. The lines of his fingers sunk into the yielding curve of her breast. Her arousal evident in the flushed tightness of her nipple, the arch of her spine. His passion and possessiveness eloquent in the fierceness of his grip.

Her reaction inspired him. And life proceded to imitate art.

Anonymous said...

FLASH.

I come with the flash.

That’s what gets me off. The 10 seconds I have to position and ready myself before the shutter goes off. Before the light washes over my body, to the hidden, secret spots few get to see.

You see.

I stare into the lens. It’s about giving everything I have to you and knowing I’ll get nothing in return. I look at the image of my own eyes to see how deep a person can look into a picture.

You’re in those eyes.

I hold the camera and admire the image it just took- the curvature of shadow and light- how they blend and divide across soft female flesh, flushed with the memory of a lover.

I slide my own hands between my legs. The camera gets it all. The pleasure’s all over my face as well as between my legs. A slick satisfaction created by my hand and a male presence.

You push me back, your hand over my eyes. I feel you. On top of me as your cock slides under me, rubbing between the cheeks of my ass. A delicious friction that has me begging, arching against you for release. All is captured within a continuous round of flashes and shutter snaps.

“I found your camera lover.”

“And I’m thanking you.”

You grip my hips and spread me wider, thrusting inside me now as you come. I feel it building inside me too.

I aim the camera.

And I wait for the flash.

tygre said...

Holy Fuck!! Voting is going to be harder than ever!

Sheesh...

Anonymous said...

Model For Me

Do not look directly into the eye, that small hole into which the colors and borders and character of you get sucked. Look away, be shy, think of how your body is being gazed upon, stroked by light, touched by want. Breath quietly, feel the press of air against you like the soft breasts of your lover. Move your muscles to her sighs, the slow scrape of her nails. Listen to the language and rhythm of the voyeur, the shuffling and dancing around you. Throw back your shoulders, daring the touch, baring yourself to all possibility. This is a piece of you that no one will know, because they do not know you. As much as you reveal, you hide. Expose yourself to that eye. Let it absorb who you wish to be into it. Allow it to tell you who you are. Surrender.

Anonymous said...

Architectural Photography

Oh, that was the hotel in Phoenix, with the cartoonish turrets. I remember gazing down on the courtyard from our window while you hugged me from behind, frigging your bush against my buttocks and teasing my backbone with your nipples. You humped me like that till my erection pointed skyward; then you held it. I think you must have put your other hand between your legs, because as you stroked me off the sound of your breath became dense. I could smell your heat.

That one is from Chicago. Don’t be fooled by the size of the building: as you may recall, the entire block was composed of one immense complex, of which our hotel was only a sliver. There was barely room for the obligatory revolving door. Looking at this picture, what I really see is you with your ass in the air, your knees sinking into the super-soft mattress we had. That night, I went around and around in the revolving door between your thighs.

The picture next to it is the place we stayed at in Boston, of course—when they were in the middle of restoring the fa├žade. Look how the painted-on tulips appear to be gradually resaturating from left to right! The shower in that hotel was a perfect aquatic sex-nest, just large enough for two to squeeze, really squeeze, together, without banging against the soap caddy. The steam enveloped us, and I could see it floating right into your pussy. I followed the steam.

Anonymous said...

"Do You Take This Man..."

Josh had been teasing me mercilessly all day, groping me when we were alone and whispering dirty things in my ear when we weren't. The end result being that, regardless of how inappropriate it was, I was now sitting for my wedding pictures with a soaking wet pussy.

"Now the garter," the photographer prompted, and I groaned. The stupid garter. I thought it was tacky, but Josh hadn't budged, saying that he deserved a few shots of his bride showing some leg.

I sat, and Josh knelt in front of me, sliding my dress up one thigh. I was so worked up that, even through stockings, his hands felt so good on me that I almost closed my eyes in pleasure before remembering where we were. I glared at him, pulling the skirt back down an inch or two.

But when he slipped the garter on, he held the hand closest to the camera motionless while his other hand crept under my dress and between my legs. As soon as he brushed against my panties, my resolve crumbled, and he knew it. He pushed the silky fabric aside, slid a finger into me, then another, and began to thrust hard and fast while his thumb circled my clit. Completely helpless under his touch, all I could do was take it, blissfully.

So it was that under the watchful eye (and lens) of the photographer, my husband-to-be brought me to the final orgasm of my unmarried life.

Best wedding photos ever.