The romantic pornographer
We walked through the isles of the grocery store, taking turns pushing the cart. We picked out all the ingredients needed to make the things that’s we’d discussed before leaving the house, checking things off of our list as me made our way through the store.
“How are you doing” I asked Mina and she knew without needing any reminder what I was asking about.
“It took a little getting used to, because it’s been so long since I’ve worn it”, she answered as a faint flush of color rose to her cheeks.
When we came to Amsterdam, we gave ourselves three months to make it all work. Visas, jobs, a long term place to stay. We allowed for the possibility of a fourth month if things look promising enough. I thought about this as I studied the contrast of black tiles on the wall to the white porcelain tub. My hair (which has gotten long again) is cold against my skin so I slip all the way under the hot water. My face brakes the surface and I lay still, thinking about what I need to do.
My chest rises toward the surface with each deep breath; my body sinks again when I exhale. The room is cold enough that you can see steam rolling off of the water, and you can see something like it just outside of the window. I sip occasionally from the cup of tea that I’d placed on the ledge behind me. Music played from the next room and I considered carefully all the things that we need to do in order to make Amsterdam work.
Once upon a time, I lived in this house. It’s the longest roof I’ve ever lived under consecutively, as a matter of fact. I was brought home from the hospital to this little yellow house and it was my home until I was three. That’s how old I was when my parents divorced and I spent the rest of my childhood bouncing between them every six months as they changed jobs and homes and lives. As an adult, I’ve always felt like a gypsy or a nomad and while I’d like to say that people who claim their childhood has that much of an impact on their lives as adults are exaggerating, I felt a bit of undeniable truth in the notion as I stood outside of what’s left of this place.
I went home over the weekend, or rather; I went back to where I’m from. I hadn’t been back to the Detroit area in three years, when I’d gone back for my grandmothers funeral. I drove with Mina past the houses on the block that this one was on and took note that nearly one in three was boarded up. In comparison, the garbage bag covered windows and the collapsing fence made this house seem like a hardened survivalist.
I visited the elementary school that I’d attended and Mina was shocked when I told her that the neighborhood that I’d grown up in meant that it’s doors were always locked except for when we would line up to enter the building in the morning and the principal would hold them open for us. She told me that if she’d arrived early in her little Texas town, she’d just go to the cafeteria or the library. She had no idea what it meant to be bussed past three closer schools for the sake of desegregation.
We walked across the graffitied asphalt to the playground, where I hung from the monkey bars and she swung on the swings while I tried to figure out how much effect time had on my memory of the place and if it was greater than it had on the place itself. Had the paint on every surface always been so stripped, faded?
I slid on to my bed, burying my face into the pillow that she’d slept on. I could still smell her there and it made me not want to wash the sheets until I couldn’t any more. She’d only been gone for a few hours and so something of her lingered. I kept half-expecting to find her sitting on my couch when I walked into the next room.
The night before, we’d been wrapped up in each other. She’d looked at me like I’d looked at her; without reservation. We smiled at each other when our eyes met during their sweep of each others faces. I held her hand and her legs were tangled in mine. We’d shaken off the blankets, both of us generating enough body heat that it rolled off of the bed and so even in the coldest hours before dawn we didn’t need them. Our lips met from time to time, punctuating the smiles that were so constant they made my cheeks ache in the best possible way.
Every time my fingers brushed her skin, it reminded us of how constantly, almost dangerously, we were turned on by one another. I’d kissed, bitten, tasted, touched, smelled, licked and lingered on nearly every inch of her beautiful body and I still wanted more and more and more. She made me feel ravenous and when I told her as much, she smiled and said that ravenous was a good word.
I was taking her photograph, but not professionally. It was just a hobby all those years ago, well before I ever made a living at it. She was looking up at the white fabric canopy that covered the top of my wrought iron bed as I meticulously wrapped her limbs in rope.
We’d been seeing one another, but not exclusively. I’d called an end to it because she was seeing someone else as well and I knew they were getting serious. We hadn’t stopped being friends though and she’d agreed to help me with my photography portfolio.
She pushed my buttons as I approached her with the gag, knowing it’d be the last chance before I silenced her. We argued playfully but I had the last word after she told me not to tease her and I slipped the fabric between her lips taking away her ability to answer me back when I said “you can tell me later if I was just a tease”.
I watched the little bumps come to the surface of her skin, saw the little hairs stand on end. She liked the feeling of being bound and I liked to bind her. We had chemistry still, despite the fact that it was over and I can assure you, she’s been the hardest habit I’ve ever had to break.
I ran my fingertips gently along her limbs, checking the security of the ropes and she shivered, inhaled deeply. My fingertips traced the edge of her panties and I knew without her having to tell me that she was already wet. I withdrew my hands from her body and her eyes snapped open with a little bit of a glare that said she’d been right; I was just a tease.
I snapped a few pictures and spoke to her as I circled the bed. I told her that I liked having her that way; that there was very little she could do, except beg me not to have my way with her. I snapped a few more shots and put the camera down.
“Well? Are you going to beg me not to?” I asked as I pressed my lips to the thin fabric between her legs. She closed her eyes, but she didn’t beg.
I traced my fingers over her hips and along the edges of her panties and she moaned, but she still didn’t object. I slipped them underneath the lace trim, lifting them just a little and she opened her eyes, stared at me, but still didn’t tell me to stop.
I kissed her again and she lifted her hips just a little to meet my lips. I used the space she’d created beneath her and pulled her panties to her knees, which was as far as they could go with her ankles bound to the spreader bar.
It’s been a very productive trip back to Las Vegas, including two days of shooting that I’m very, very happy with! I shot Selena, who I haven’t shot in almost a year and I shot with Aaliyah Love, who I haven’t shot in considerably longer. I’ll post some samples of the shoots in the next few days; some for my familiar projects and some sneak-peeks at a new project I’m working on.
On set: Day two w/Aaliyah Love as she gets ready
I’m excited to get back home so I can start editing. I’m excited to get back home in general…
I’m an innately kinky person. I know this about myself, recognize the little things that make my pulse race, make the hairs on my arms stand on end, are not the same things that do that for everyone else. Would you like to know how I can be so certain of this?
I know this because for me, dominance and submission is much more intimate than sex. I’m not talking about old-fashioned physical dominance mind you, because that’s as easy as mechanical sex; anyone can do it so long as they have the working parts. For me, dominating someone is really about knowing them, knowing what’ll get the right response from someone, knowing what’ll evoke a reaction before you ever lay a finger on them. To me, dominance requires knowledge of a person that you can’t ever have just by running a hand between their legs.
I’ve come to realize that for me, knowing I’m going to sleep with someone isn’t as thrilling as the realization that I know how to dominate them. The moment when I get that spark of knowledge about what it would take to dominate someone in just the right way is so very appealing to me. Knowing that a certain touch or word or action will move them is intoxicating.
Knowing that I’ll sleep with someone has its own appeal, but knowing that I know how to give them something rare and harder to come by is better than any drug I’ve tried and I am certain that when I come to that realization you can see a flicker in my eyes.
I don’t need dominance in order to get off. I don’t need submission to get turned on. I don’t need these things, so they aren’t technically a fetish…but I certainly do enjoy them.
“So, we looked up your website” said the waitress as she brought my bill. She’d seen the name of the company on my card before and had asked what it was that I did. I’d told her, being honest but sparing the details.
“Which one?”, I asked.
“There were two girls tied together!” she said. “We were surprised, because you look so normal!”, she told me excitedly, starting to blush at her own choice of words. There wasn’t any disappointment in her voice; quite to the contrary.
I told her how many scenes I’d done and her eyes grew wide. She took my card and came back with the bill, her cheeks pinks. I wonder if she’ll blush every time she see’s me now.
