I have the picture mounted and framed, and it occupies a prominent place in my little impromptu gallery, the section of one wall in my apartment where I display my best work.
It's a bit unusual for me, since I'm really not a glamour photographer. I'm a photojournalist by trade and inclination, good at shooting meat-and-potatoes stuff for the newspaper, much better at capturing sports action.
Nevertheless, the portrait always draws comment, for several reasons. For one thing, it's a candid shot of a woman, a young woman of dazzling good looks with an awe-inspiring body. She's tall, probably six feet, possessed of thick red hair and a perfectly-placed set of tits.
For another, it's what she's wearing, or, more precisely, what she's not wearing: a bikini top and tight, low-cut pants, both white as snow, with a string of pearls around her neck, a funky orange hat on her head and white come-fuck-me heels.
But the main thing is the look. The woman is leaning forward on a chair in a provocative way, with her sparkling eyes gazing away, to something to her right, and they are eyes that draw the viewer like magnets, mischievous orbs that fairly scream out a lust for life and a lust for ... lust.
Friends see the picture, they ask me about it, and I just smile knowingly.
See, the picture is the only proof, the only memory I have of one of the most memorable experiences of my short life, now all of 24 years. It's the story about how I made love to a goddess, a princess, and so help me God, every bit of it is true.
Her name was Cecilia and I met her in Paris one warm summer afternoon -- actually, it was late morning -- at a street-side café, and I have my natural curiosity and abundant self-confidence to thank for that.
My name is Reese Matthews and I am the only child of a career cop and a schoolteacher from Pensacola, Fla.
I wasn't spoiled by any means, but as the only child I could pretty much get anything I wanted, as long as I behaved, did well in school and did my household chores in a timely and efficient manner.
And what I wanted, from the time I was 10 years-old, was a camera in my hands and an opportunity to shoot pictures. I liked action, and when I got into high school, Dad started letting me tag along when he went out to investigate crime or accident scenes.
Needless to say, I saw some pretty gruesome stuff. I think that was Dad's way of letting me see for myself -- without him having to lecture me -- about the pitfalls of drug and alcohol abuse.
Pretty soon, I started stringing for the local newspaper, and quickly earned a reputation as a kid who could be counted on to shoot anything, anywhere, any time, and come back with clear, evocative photos.
That job, along with a part-time job at a local camera shop, allowed me to get my hands on some pretty sophisticated equipment. The guy I worked for was old school and he insisted that I learn how to develop film, even though the digital age has made film an anachronism.
When I graduated from high school, I got a scholarship offer from the University of Florida and went to work for the school paper, while still stringing for several newspapers, as well as the Associated Press.
The first two summers, I came home and interned with the local paper, but after my junior year, I decided to join one of my history professors on a three-week tour of Europe.
The theme of the trip was, "The Footsteps of Napoleon," and the idea was that we would immerse ourselves in the life and times of Napoleon, including stops in Corsica and Paris, plus visits to the sites of his most famous battles.
I'm a bit of a history buff, but my main reason for going was simply that it was a chance to visit Europe for a reasonably affordable price.
I really wanted to go to France, more so than any place else on the itinerary. My mom is from Louisiana and I've got a bit of Cajun blood in me, not enough to speak much French, but enough that I kind of look the part.
We were in Paris for four days, and on the last day, we had the day to ourselves.
I was having a cup of coffee at this sidewalk café a couple of blocks from our hotel when I saw her. She was talking in an animated way with a man, arguing about something or other, then he got up and walked away rather angrily.
It was as her eyes were following him that I got the shot, and the look in her eyes puzzled me. There was almost an amusement to them that was totally at odds with the scene I'd just witnessed.
I shot several frames in rapid succession, and then I heard her say, in perfect English, "fucking bastard."
I wasn't sure whether she was directing that comment to the now-departed man or to me. I found out when I saw her stand up and walk toward my table.
"You!" she said standing over me belligerently. "I didn't give you permission to take my picture. Who the fuck do you think you are?"
Whoever she was, one thing was certain. She was an American, and she was acting like every European's worst stereotype American, angry and arrogant. I'm not sure how she figured out that I was also an American, but started right in on me like she assumed I understood the language.
For a moment, I was speechless, not because she intimidated me, but because I was absolutely in awe of this woman's beauty.
Like I said, she was tall, well-built, with a healthy set of lungs, no visible excess anywhere, and very good-looking.
"Well?" she continued. "You think you can roll your tongue back into your mouth long enough to answer a simple question? Uh, parlez-vous Anglais?"
"Excuse me, but I believe this is a public place, and I'm entitled to shoot any damn thing I please," I said as I came back to reality. "What makes you think I was taking your picture? I could have been shooting your boyfriend, for all you know."
"Oh? Then I suppose that's a banana you have sticking in your pocket, no?" she was smiling now, I guess because she thought she had the upper hand.
"Probably isn't the first one you've seen today, is it?" I shot back.
I'm not the biggest guy around, or the strongest, but I don't lack for confidence, especially in the face of snooty bitches, and I've got a quick wit and a deft way with a comeback.
I was ready for more verbal warfare, having regained my equilibrium. But she surprised me. She suddenly started laughing.
"Good one," she said. "Mind if I join you? I don't get too many chances to talk to an American these days."
"With pleasure," I said, pointing to the chair across from me. She sat, and a waiter quickly came over and took an order for a glass of wine, and I got another café au lait.
"So, what's a perfectly good American girl like you doing slumming around in Paris?" I asked with a puckish smile.
