Where I End And You Begin

At most, it was a fragment of a dream -- a very slender girl with pale skin. Lithe and athletic, she moves with an almost artificial grace. I observe her without being seen and when she turns to face me the dream ends. I was always deeply aroused by the sight of her. Not just her nakedness but her utter bareness. Devoid of breasts or pubic hair; absolutely a girl but not. She'd first appeared when I was just a young teenager and I'd awaken from the dream to find my pajamas damp and sticky. At that age, I'd hadn't yet seen a naked woman... not a live one, anyway.

So different than my life today. I'd just spent the last nine hours with a room full exquisitely beautiful women. My French client was launching a new line of high-end lingerie and had hired me to photograph their Spring print campaign.

Sexy, edgy and sensuous.

That was my brief from their Creative Director.

Anything else?

I'd asked, hoping for a little more direction before I embarked upon a day that would cost almost fifty thousand dollars. Seven models, four make-up artists, three assistants, two stylists and me at the hectic center of a tangle of hair, mascara, fragile egos and delicately embroidered silk.

Don't you get turned on being around all of those beautiful women?

It was a question that I got asked constantly -- holiday parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs and once in my dentist's chair. Turned on? Right now I was completely drained and every muscle in my body ached. A CD of the day's shoot had been messengered to the client's office and I was awaiting the inevitable phone call. Breathless with faintly concealed anxiety; the shots were

great, fantasticy. You're brilliant. It's just that we... we need them to be a little less... you know.

Of course I knew. Which is why the shoot would take three times as long as the client had budgeted for. It was always that way. Knowing this, I'd left the next two days open, actually turning down a quick assignment from one of my steady clients: a glossy monthly that ran fawning profiles of celebrities, royals and the super rich. In this case, it was an assignment to shoot Mrs–thirty-years-his-junior-billionaire at their new Indonesian-inspired beachfront bungalow on St. Barts.

Getting out of a gray, frigid New York City for even a few days sounded fantastic. But I knew that my lingerie client was running up against a deadline for their ad campaign and even a weeks' delay would cause unimaginable havoc. So I'd turned down St. Barts and waited for the inevitable phone call.

My assistant put on brought me a bottle of chilled mineral water and a few of the models began to trickle out of the dressing room.

Stunning as always, my love.

A quick peck on the cheek and they disappeared into the hectic New York night. Not to hail a cab but into the warm, cozy confines of the Town Car that their contract stipulated be waiting for them at curbside. Next the support staff – my assistants, stylists, make-up artists traipsed out. They'd make their way home on subways, busses or maybe if they were lucky, a shared cab.

My phone rang. Quite a bit sooner than I'd expected. Of course I knew. Except in this case, it wasn't that we need them

to be a little less

, it was, can you be

a little more. In fact, can you be a lot more... you know.

The Creative Director prattled on and I offered up an occasional

right

and

sure

. It wasn't often that a client surprised me.

Hold on,

I said,

let me check..

Tapping on the dressing room door, I heard someone inside humming.

Anyone there?

I asked softly,

After waiting a few moments, I opened the door. Inside was one the models, a new girl whom I'd never worked with before. She was sitting in front of the mirror, naked from the waist up, brushing her thick blonde hair. Her back was more muscled than most of the other models. She fell squarely in that category of fine-boned, well-bred society girls that was popular a few seasons back. Not my type, actually, but that might have been because I'd had a life long history of striking out with that type of girl.

She was listening to her iPod which explained why she didn't answer my knock. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, she pulled the buds out of her ears.

Sorry, I...

Her smile was warmer than I'd expected. Like all experienced models, she was used to being undressed in front of rooms full of people. She did nothing to cover her breasts.

I explained the situation with the client.

Impossible fucking deadline, not quite right, no, not you, the shots, all my fault, they need them tonight, three hours ago actually, sure you're okay to stay for an hour or two, you're a doll, whenever you're ready.

Closing the door behind me, I began to set up the studio. Moving lights into position and adjusting the camera, it seemed strange not to be surrounded by the cadre of assistants that usually hovered around me.

There was a chair in the conference room that would be perfect for the shot. I positioned it under a small spotlight. Brushed aluminum, sleek and unforgiving. No pink or amber gel would soften its harsh glare. The client wanted hard-edged and that was what they were going to get.

Jonelle...

was her name Jonelle?,

popped her head through the door, and held out a silvery-blue bra and panty set.

Is this the one you wanted?

Perfect, love,

I answered.

She didn't bother closing the door behind her as she disappeared back inside the dressing room. She had a perfectly shaped bottom, muscular and tight. Aside from a pair of fuzzy pink slippers, she was completely nude.

Don't you get turned on being around all of those beautiful women?

How to explain to people that my job required equal measures of being an intruder and a protector? How to explain that coaxing a reluctant model out of her clothes was the easy part? Getting her to drop her polished patina to reveal something far more intimate than a breast or a buttock, that was the hard part. How to explain that there was an unspoken line that was never crossed? I'd learned very early that adding my own desires to the mix could instantly spoil the creative alchemy of a successful shoot -- that collaboration between model and photographer that created magic.

It was my senior year of high school. My first photography class. The teacher, Mr. Boyd, gave us an assignment to shoot something unexpected and out of the ordinary. For two days, I wandered the small town in Delaware where I grew up, camera at the ready, hoping for a lightning bolt of serendipity to strike. At the end of the weekend, though, my camera was still showing the same 36 exposures that I'd started out with.

It was after gym class the following Monday that an idea came to me. Finding a willing group of male classmates proved easy. The first six friends I'd asked – a mixed collection of jocks, nerds and a God Squad member, all agreed without hesitation. The hard part, I'd thought, would be to find a willing girl to go along with the idea. But much to my surprise, the first girl I asked, agreed with barely any hesitation.

Sibyl Lyons was quiet, petite and slender and projected an air of always being slightly amused by the world around her. Why I'd even asked her, I'm not sure. She was one of those girls in the middle -- neither popular nor a loner. Pretty but not beautiful, conservative and safe. Definitely not one of the rebellious Goths who would do anything as long as it had shock value. In short, she was a highly-likely choice to turn me down cold. I'd thought later that maybe I'd asked her because I was absolutely certain she'd say, no. I could abandon the idea secure in the notion that at least I'd given it my best shot.

Yet, a few days later, I stood in the locker room with five of my male classmates – one of the nerds had chickened out. They were draped in nothing more than towels and a heavy cloak skepticism.

No way she's going to show.

I'd arranged for one of the guys on the track team to distract the gym teacher that was was supposed to be keeping an eye on the locker room. He claimed to have an acute case of Achilles tendonitis that needed immediate attention in the training room. We'd have at least twenty minutes of relative privacy. At exactly four o'clock, and exactly on time, Sibyl slipped in through the back door and smiled at me.

Years of successful speech therapy seemed to evaporate in an instant.

Do you want to, you know, go into one of the, uh stalls, to, uh, you know, chchchch, change..

I'd expected to hear a few of my male classmates snicker, but I think they were as terrified as I was.

Seeming more amused than usual, Sibyl answered,

what's the point.

She lifted the hem of her simple denim dress and in a single motion, pulled it over her head. Obviously more prepared than I'd imagined, she wasn't wearing any underwear.

Let's go before we get caught.

With that, everyone walked toward the showers. Surprisingly, no one cracked any jokes or snapped their towels. I followed with my camera, not quite believing that this was actually going to happen. In truth, I had only a vague idea of what I wanted to shoot. And I'd never given any real thought to how I was going to convey those unformed ideas to a group of nervous, naked classmates. Once we were in the white-tiled shower room, they stood there waiting for me to tell them what to do. None of the boys snuck a glance at Sibyl, and she seemed calm and nonchalant.

Uh, turn around, and uh...

What on earth was I thinking?

On the first shot, there was no flash. Maybe the camera would work better if I actually turned it on. A few shots later I got around to adjusting the shutter speed and aperture setting.

Now get closer. Mark, turn away from the camera, a little more.

I hadn't counted on the shower steaming up my lens and needed to move away from the group to keep the lens clear. I gradually recovered some capacity for speech and began to take some pictures that might be usable.

Seth, look up at the shower.

I moved the group into different arrangements and orders. Sometimes Sibyl was in the group of boys, in other's she stood separate. In one image, I had the boys all look at her, while she ignored them. In another, she stared at the boys while they were seemingly oblivious to her.

Frank, cover your face with your hands.

Until, now, I'd shot the group completely from behind or in sharp profile. A slight angling of the hips was all it took to preserve some sense of modesty yet still show everything I wanted.

Guys, stay where you are. Sibyl, turn around face me.

At that age, I think I was sixteen at the time, I was mostly inexperienced with girls. A few makeout sessions and a brief squeeze of a negligible breast that belonged to the visiting cousin of a neighbor from down the street. Never even close to third base.

When Sibyl turned, I was rocked by a shuddering pang of surprise that caught me in the gut. It wasn't the sight of her curly patch of light brown pubic hair that made my breath catch. Nor was it her breasts, much larger and rounder than I'd expected, that moved me so powerfully. Instead, as I adjusted the lens to focus on her face, I was surprised by the look in her eyes. Neither shy nor guarded nor even a little angry at being so exposed. What I saw through the viewfinder was complete vulnerability matched with unaffected confidence and honesty. In that moment, the sound of the running shower faded to a distant, muffled whisper. The other boys in the shot blurred to ephemera and I lost all sense of my own body. What I felt at that moment was simply an intense connection - model and photographer and nothing else. The pure intensity of her gaze touched me so deeply that my penis immediately grew hard. With both hands occupied by the camera, there was nothing I could do to hide my obvious arousal.

I managed one more shot before I saw Sibyl's gaze drift downward. Knowing what she was looking at, I moved the camera away from my face and smiled shyly. In an instant, the intense connection between us was cleanly severed. In its place, I saw an expression that conveyed her disappointment that a fragile trust had been violated.

I think we're done,

is all she said as she walked past me, quickly put on her dress and slipped out of the locker room.

I got an A on the assignment but then Sibyl showed the picture to her parents. They threw a fit and stormed into the Principal's office, demanding to know when the school had added Porn 101 to the curricula. I ended up with a one week suspension, Mr. Boyd almost got fired and coach Mezzaro got chewed out bad.

Sibyl and I never talked about the photograph or what happened, but in truth, we weren't good friends to begin with. I heard a couple of years later that she'd lost her virginity a few weeks later to one of the jocks who'd been in the shower with her.

Jonelle came out of the dressing room.

Is this okay,

she asked to get my attention. Lean muscular legs sheathed in a pair of blue suede boots that ended just above her knees. She walked toward the chair in the center of the room.

Is this where you want me?

She must have been an athlete, maybe a swimmer. Her shoulders had clearly defined muscles, not weight lifter muscles but an athlete's build, for certain. Yet when she walked, it was with an ethereal grace punctuated by just the slightest provocative wiggle of her left hip.

Have a seat,

I said.

The lights cast her partially in shadow and accentuated her cheekbones and crystalline jaw line.

Are you okay, warm enough?

I could see through the sheer mesh fabric of her bra that her nipples were stiff. Like most models, her breasts were small but her nipples were surprisingly long and thick. Pencil erasers that demanded long contemplation from the orally fixated. Jonelle let out a deep, raspy laugh that didn't seem to go with her slender body.

I once had a lover who nicknamed them Barbara and Jenna.

I'm sorry?

I tried to mask my lack of comprehension.

You know, the twins. Always up for a party,

she added, squeezing her nipples as if to emphasize the punch line.

They're always like this.

Sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you.

, I said. Except it was me who was actually embarrassed. Unlike most models, there was something very natural and un-self conscious about her.

You're going to have to try a lot harder than that if you want to embarrass me,

she answered.

Our eyes met. Half in challenge, half in invitation.

I like the way you look at me,

she added as an afterthought.

Our eyes locked for a moment too long. I'm not sure who smiled first, her or me.

Don't you get turned on being around all of those beautiful women?

Any music preferences

, I asked, retreating from that line professionalism demanded I not cross.

Jonelle paused for just a brief moment before she answered.

Something to rev me up and make me calm at the same time.

Had I imagined that we'd been flirting.

I walked over to the sleek iMac that controlled the studio's music library. With a few keystrokes, the dreamy driven sound of Radiohead's "Hail to the Thief" album filled the studio.

There's a gap in between

There's a gap where we meet

Jonelle stretched her arms overhead and swayed side to side, half stretching, half dancing.

God, I love Radiohead,

she said to no one in particular even though I was the only one in the room.

As she moved, her muscular torso created shadows that twisted like the tail of a kite in a gentle wind. I took up the camera. Quickly checked my settings and focused on her lips.

That's good, Jonelle,

I said.

Just go with it.

She ran her hands through her thick blonde hair, while I fired. One shot after another.

Where I end and you begin

And I'm sorry for us

Our timing was perfect. Move. Hold. Shoot. Move. Hold. Shoot.

Right to me, baby.

I ordered.

Our eyes met and there was a connection. Intense. Honest. But then gone in the instant that 1500 watts of studio lighting flashed.

Move. Hold. Shoot.

Where I end and you begin

Chin down a drop. Beautiful.

A gentle undertow of arousal and I felt a stirring in my pants. She's a professional, I thought, her job is to seduce the camera. Seduce me. It was working.

One hand inside the bra.

Her lips parted ever so slightly as she cupped her breast and I caught that moment, too with the camera.

You're fantastic.

I feel that same shudder in my gut that I felt in a high school locker room twenty years ago. Everything changes but nothing does. Testing that line.

Move. Hold. Shoot.

That connection again. Three shots in quick succession. This time, the acid hot lights don't erase it.

I am up in the clouds

And I can't and I can't come down

Now she's cupping her breasts with both hands. Shadows defining the rift between them. Is there a mystery that only light will reveal? Or will more be revealed in darkness.

You're amazing.

I quickly move a light to provide more shadows and they reveal shapes that make all the good parts better.

Now look past me, far away.

From sexy to something else. The flash reveals a sadness that echoes like the ending of an unfinished story. A young girl waiting behind a screen door for her father to return from a quick trip to the grocery store.

And back at me.

Looking a me. Or that lens that serves as my trusted emissary. I notice she's breathing a little more heavily, and that hand inside her bra is moving, subtly but insistently.

Lean back, just like that. Perfect.

Now a hand inside her panties, only I didn't ask for it.

One of her bra straps falls off her shoulders but she doesn't seem to notice. She bites her lower lip. Definitely not posed. I move closer.

I can watch and can't take part

Where I end and where you start

Connected. I shoot but she doesn't hold. Too close now to take in the whole. One perfectly manicured hand. Pulling that thin wisp of fabric between her taut legs aside. While her hand finds a rhythm that matches the music that surrounds us.

Don't stop.

Only it wasn't me who said that.

Now my lens is just inches from her. Non-stop shooting. A surrogate hand, she responds nonetheless. Focusing where I shouldn't be. Absolutely bare. Soft and smooth and delicately pink.

X'll mark the place

Like the parting of the waves

Legs spread, I hear a new voice join the chorus. So close. Sex glazed eyes. Her bra falls to the floor. Did I undo the clasp with my free hand? Anonymous lips that speak poetry. I'm still shooting, but don't want to put any distance between us. Hips dance and the panties are gone, too.

Her hands finds my belt and undoes it without subtlety. A quick flick of the thumb and my pants are down around my ankles. Lines and boundaries forgotten and my stiff penis is in her mouth. Did I shoot that too? But now it's not, the wet shaft suddenly cold and neglected. Had I gone too far? Her hands on my hips. Hungry mouth sucking my balls. One of her hands stroking my cock, the other buried between her legs. Fair enough.

One final shot and she takes the camera from me and sets it gently on the floor. Even in the passion of the moment, $8000 worth of metal and finely ground glass is treated with dignity and respect. Not so me. Jonelle stands up and pushes me roughly into the chair. I have just enough time to free one foot from the confines of my pants before she straddles me. Nude save those provocative high boots, her body is covered with a glossy patina of sweat.