The Photoshoot

“I don’t understand why you want any man at all.” my friend says to me over a cappuccino. “If I had the option to like girls, I would never date or fuck a man again. Men are horrible. Why don’t you just get a girlfriend?”

Hmm. Well, the answer is simple: it’s because there’s a horny little devil who lives in my brain, and he makes most of my decisions by spinning a carnival wheel while laughing at me (To be fair, I’m generally laughing along with him.). Plus, I think it’s cliché to hate men, though they do sometimes behave badly. But isn’t it pathological, and unkind to one’s self, to profess disdain for a type of person yet repeatedly seek out and engage with them anyways? 

Still, of course I’ve considered only dating other girls. It’s been a while since I was with one. I roll the word across my tongue- a girlfriend. I imagine a girlfriend spread out across my bed. I imagine buying her bouquets and giving her massages. I imagine forgetting about men. Sure, okay, let’s give it a try.

It’s important to start off new ventures on the right foot. So I hit up my go-to girl. “Let’s spend some time alone together.” She is a sweet, crazed thing.

Wine, a movie, cuddling. She’s curled her body into mine like a puzzle piece. I’m lazily tracing patterns on her skin. We are, in on-brand absurdity, watching American Beauty. I’ve never seen it before, and she wanted to show it to me.

I’m feeling sleepy after the movie when she turns to me with these wide, shy eyes. She has this way of acting innocent yet smutty at the same time, and she knows it. “Would you maybe… take some photos of me? Nude? I would really like it…” 

I smile at her, and suddenly am no longer sleepy. What a polite request. I get out of bed and light some candles, a lot of candles, flick on a low lamp. I gesture for her to go lay on the couch, while I sit on a chair facing it with my camera in hand.

She strips in front of me. Our bodies are similar, though she’s a little taller than me. Slender darling, nice hips. She’s making a show out of this, holding eye contact with me the whole time. I’m amused. Her movements are fluid. Yet there is a slight hesitation and awkwardness, like a newborn fawn. She drapes herself across the couch. Legs playfully spread. 

I’ve seen her naked before. I’ve had sex with her before. Nothing is forbidden. But why does this situation feel so pornographic, so dirty? I am clothed, she is not. Why is my face red, why am I so aroused? She looks pretty flustered too. My eyes take in every part of her, unhurried. You should never rush when enjoying a meal. Then I sincerely take some nice photos. Moody, lustful. Still have them somewhere. 

Pretty tipsy, so I can’t remember the exact moment I set aside the camera in favor of taking a lit candle and dribbling hot wax across her thighs. But I do remember her surprised, shrieking moan, the way that further excited me, and the way she called out my name. I remember making out with her while caressing her pert, soft breasts, and exploring the familiar curves of her body. Then I remember pressing her hips down and diving between her legs like I was starving. What a little exhibitionist, she was already soaked. 

A wickedly good idea sparks in my mind. I take an unlit candle- a long dinner candle- and push it deep into her slick pussy. I fuck her slowly with it, two fingers eventually added and massaging inside for good measure. My tongue is still lapping around her clit. When she comes, she practically screams. She’s a loud one – I should really invest in some proper sex toys, but, student budget, food, wine, you know?

We move from the couch back to the bed and the sex goes on for a couple hours or so. That candle continually proves very useful. But I’ll leave out the rest of the details, because I’m sure you’re not interested in hearing them, right, dear reader? Yes, there are various events I will always keep under lock, even from you. But in short, we may as well have just watched Below Her Mouth instead (please don’t watch it for the plot).

The scene over breakfast: I make her a plate of rich, buttery scrambled eggs, with a side of fruit and toast. I serve it to her with coffee and affectionately ruffle her hair. 

My mind is starting to wander off from her, onto other insatiable paths, when she pulls me back with a serious business proposal: “What if we have a threesome with my ex?” She pipes up, proudly setting the suggestion at my feet like a cat sets a dead bird.

A smirk and consideration from me, my hand on my hip. “Come on, you know I think he’s awful. You keep better men on call. Let’s choose a different one.” Well, who am I to pass up the opportunities that fall into my lap? And if I had a guy to help me out with her…? Teamwork, of course, is a valuable interpersonal skill, worthy of cultivation.

Oh, fuck, I’d already forgotten my absolutely brilliant plan to pretend to be a gold star lesbian. Pfff, nevermind. Was definitely not going to work, who was I kidding? You know, sometimes I have no idea what’s happening in my life.