The door opens and you enter the photographer’s apartment. You study him; his intriguing brown eyes, spiky hair, bearded chin. He shakes your hand and invites you into the living room. You follow him, check out his ass, rush into your explanation of why you’re here after chatting with him online. A nervous swell in your stomach.

The photographer is quiet and thoughtful, putting you at ease. It’s as if you’ve met before, but you can’t remember where. He strikes up a conversation, something breezy about hooking up online. You’ve done it a few times yourself, but the guys rarely turn out to be what you expect.

“So what made you decide to come over?”

You feel his eyes on you, enjoy the sensation. “I dunno. I’ve never done this before. I’ve, you know, seen your work online and thought, what the fuck?”

“Then you know what I do.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s why I’m here too.” You look at the photographs covering the walls, dozens of guys. All white. “You never shoot Asians?” You sit on the sofa, stretch out dramatically, savoring the fact that he’s watching you. “I mean, it’s a potato farm in here.”

“What do you mean?”

You reference the wall, at the men in various poses and stages of undress. “They’re all Bleach Boys.”

“A boy is a boy is a boy,” the photographer shrugs. “They all have mouths and cocks.”

You suppress a smile, maintain your distance while your heart is running like a rabbit. “Yeah, but life needs variety. Cocks come in different colors.”

He smiles charmingly. “We all come in white, last I checked.” He leans back, you lean forward. “You’ve been to my site. You know what I look for.”

“Yeah.” A sigh, a confession. “Those guys are hot. Way hotter than me.”

 “I don’t think so. Just different.” The photographer studies you, like a spotlight on your fair skin. You blink rapidly, a habit leftover from childhood. Laugh and cover your mouth with your hand.

 “Don’t do that,” he says.

  “What?”

“Cover your face like that.” His hand straddles his face, peers between thick fingers. You wonder what those fingers will do to you.

“Why don’t we go in there?” He points to a small room just off the living room. It’s only furnishing is a large lamp and a mirror in the corner. You walk in, looking around like a tourist, back slowly against the wall. You pose, hooker style, with one leg crooked up behind you, foot planted on the wall. Tilt your hips out. Close your eyes and wait for him to approach. He’ll be eating out of your hand any second.

The photographer deflates your balloon. “No, be natural.”

You drop your leg and stand against the wall, feeling like a suspect in a lineup. Thoughts of jail house porn movies dance through your head. You’re Jeff Stryker and Brandon Lee in one package; halfway to hard already.

He stands in the other room, tilts his head thoughtfully. “Have you ever done this before? Has someone taken pictures of you?” The camera fires.

“Not naked.” A flush charges your face with color. You are suddenly too warm and slip out of your light jacket, balling it into the corner of the room. “Well... I can’t believe I’m saying this, my, uh, boyfriend and I did it once. It was just for us, you know? Digital.”
           
“And what did you do afterward?” A slow series of clicks reminds you that he’s taking pictures. With actual film.

You smile, the memory flooding back. “We fucked like dogs.” You look out the window down onto the Avenue. Cars flash by, sun glinting off windshields. “Can they see me?”

“No one can see you except me.”

The room gets warmer. You look around at the bare walls, at the platoon of men framed on the walls behind him. “So what do I do? Just stand here?”

“Do whatever you want. Whatever you are comfortable with.” He raises his camera and stares through his viewfinder. “You’re beautiful. Nice smile.”

“You think so?” You cover your mouth with your hand, then remember his previous objection and pull it away. Stare deep into the camera, look stern.

“Doesn’t your boyfriend think so? Don’t you?”

“I guess so? He doesn’t, you know, say anything about me being beautiful.”

“He should. Look at yourself in the mirror. What do you see?”

You move closer to the rectangular mirror, stare at the boy framed in it, like the other boys on the wall. You don’t recognize him. Have to look past the outfit you’d so carefully orchestrated only an hour ago. You ask this boy if he’s ready for this. He nods enthusiastically.  

“Tell me what you see.”

You laugh, uncomfortable, then stare back at your own brown eyes. “Brown eyes. I hate them.”

“Why?”

“So common. Everyone has brown eyes. I wish they were blue.”

The photographer moves the camera away from his face. You notice that he’s got eyes just as deep and brown as your own. You shrug, but gloat internally. Return to your reflection.  “I dunno. A boy. Dark shaggy hair. He’s skinny… too small. Like a bird.”

“Like a boy.” The photographer fires off a few more shots. You figure he knows what he’s talking about. “That’s what I like about the Japanese. You will always look like a boy.”

“Pedophile.” You smile at him, then turn it back on the guy in the mirror. He’s not bad. If you did rice, you’d fuck him.

“Why don’t you take off your shoes? Relax.” He drops the camera and watches you from six feet away. You wish he would move closer.

 “Trying to get me naked?” You squat and untie your sneakers, fumbling to arrange your hard-on without him noticing. Flushing from your neck up, like fireworks.

“That’s what we’re here for.” He smiles abstractly.

You slip off your sneakers, tuck the socks within. Place your sneakers to the side of the room, out of the shot. Wonder if your feet smell. You return to the window and watch the light play across the cars, enjoying the warm wood beneath your naked feet.

“Would you like it if the people on the street could see you?” The gentle click of the camera counts off a series of shots.

 “I dunno.” You tilt your head into the glass, stare down at the pedestrians, imagine yourself naked on the fire escape outside.  “Maybe. I might like it.”

“You should.”

You turn back to him, stare into the big eye of the camera, feel the heat of its attention. “So,” clearing your throat, “what would you like me to do?”

“What do you want to do?” Click. Pause. The camera loads the film with a mechanical whirr.

“Uh…” you laugh. “ Get naked and fuck, I guess. Yeah, I could do that.”

“Why don’t you start with the shirt?”

You lift your polo shirt, baring your thin torso and the sprinkle of hair around your belly button. You ease it over your head as the steady pulse of the camera fills the room. You toss your shirt at him with a warm smile. “Aren’t you getting naked too?”

“Why don’t you stand over there, by the lamp.” You saunter over to the tall lamp with the globe top and prop yourself next to it. You undo the top button of your jeans, exposing the waistband of your briefs, thrust your hips forward. You study him as he shoots you, his face intense and focused. You smile. His jeans are tenting.

You clear your throat, pause, afraid of distracting him. “So, like, how many guys have you shot? Like this?”

“A few.” He sounds distant. The photographer moves closer, you tilt into his approach. “Look at me. Give me your eyes.” You stare into the camera, eyes wide and hopeful. You wet your lips and pout like you’ve seen in the porn movies, but he reminds you to be natural. He makes a joke about your obvious erection and you laugh. A volley of shots capture your image. “Good, that’s what I want.”

You run your hands down your chest, stopping to finger a nipple, then graze the waistband of your jeans. “You want me to take these off?”

“Whatever you feel comfortable with.” He reloads the camera, the soft whirr of film fills the room.

You toy with your jeans, not sure if you are ready, but your hands are already moving full speed ahead. You edge the denim down your thighs, letting it pool at your ankles. The camera clicks. You step out of your jeans on unsteady feet, falling against the wall as you stumble. Red stripes flush your cheeks. “Duh!”

Your white briefs barely cover you, your dick straining the fabric. You realign your erection, making it diagonal against your pelvis. You look in the mirror, watch yourself being photographed, constantly aware of the man watching you.

“That’s nice.”

A few more shots click off as your cock inches up and out of the waistband. You finger the head and flick the pre-cum off the slit. You turn around, inching your briefs down to expose the soft mound of your ass. “You like it?”

The camera agrees with a series of clicks. “Turn around,” he says. His voice is deep and commanding. You comply, covering your erection. You stare down at your body, memories of beating off burning in your head. You’re not naked, but feel exposed, raw, excited.

You pull down the front of your briefs, trapping your thighs with the fabric. Your cock springs into your hand and you keep it covered, feeling its heat singe your palm. “Move your hand,” he says. You stand with your back against the wall, dropping your hands to your sides, a dare in your eyes.

He moves in closer, the room filled with the sounds of your mingled breath, the soft click of the camera marking thrumming seconds. You step out of your briefs, spread your legs, expose yourself.

The whirr of the camera announces the end of the roll. “Okay, I think we’re done.”

You wait for something else to happen, your dick begging for it. The photographer pushes back into the living room, putting the rolls of film into black canisters, his camera back into the bag. You wait for something to happen, really need it to. “I uh…I thought we were going to…”

“It’s okay. Get dressed and we can schedule another shoot. You’ve got great architecture.”

You stroke your cock, look at him longingly. He watches. “I need to, you know.”

He nods, keeps his eyes on you. You stroke yourself, moving to the center of the room, bridging the distance, one, two three steps, a drizzle of pre-come puddles on the floor. You slick the head of your cock, watch him watching you, having never jerked off in front of someone else before, your skin singing with his attention. “You want to help me?” A froggy-throated request.

“You are doing fine on your own.” He sits in the chair as you turn to the mirror, look at that boy in the mirror, the lean tight boy with the shaggy hair, pumping his cock, inching himself quickly, tweaking a nipple and biting down on his lip, jerking off to you. You explode, pounding yourself into submission, legs weak, mouth dry, heaving sperm onto the floor and the mirror.

A tense silence, your breath, the traffic outside, a jackhammer in the distance. “See, I told you it was white,” he says, pointing at the river of sperm sliding down the mirror. He hands you a towel and you clean off, slip into your clothes while he watches.

“Email me and we’ll set up another session.” Back to business. He escorts you back to the door, barely an hour in, encouraging you to come back for the second round, telling you that the proofs from today will be ready by then. You’ll get a free print, your choice. You can barely hear him, your body zinging in a hundred directions. You bound back out into the day, thinking of surprising your boyfriend at work, and fucking him into next week. Hell no, fucking him all week.

 

© 2009 Jimmy Hamada

Jimmy Hamada lives, loves and learns in New York City. He experiments with blending reality and fiction, as if there's a difference. "fifteen minutes naked" is based on an actual session with a famous New York photographer. He has published in several small venues you have never heard of.