Shooting Romeo
I was going to do a shoot with some teen-idol, an actor. I don't really like that kind of work, my art was always more important to me, but sometimes these teeny-boys are actually quite handsome. And, more importantly, it's what got me paid, and daddy's allowance was getting a bit tight for my extravagant lifestyle. So, that's why I accepted it.
As I was going to do it anyway, I decided I should go about this professionally, so first of all, I had to find out who this guy was. He played in a recent filmversion of one of Shakespeare's plays. Although I seriously appreciate Shakespeare, and was sure that this film was just a horrible modernized rape of the original play, I went out and got the video. After all, this was what made him popular with all the girls, and I should see what they had been seeing to be able to portray him in a way they would like.
On a lost, late night, when I was too tired to go out, and too awake to go asleep, I shoved it up the VCR, and sat down with a bag of pop-corn to watch. The first minutes seemed to greet my worst expectations: Capulets and Montagues fighting each other with guns, and speeding cars and gas stations going up in the air, I had almost stopped the tape and gone to bed.
But then, there was Romeo. A slender figure, taken from a distance, and a half total, as he walked across the sceen with a sideward glance towards the camera. Something strange seemed to happen in my stomach. I turned up the volume, and listened closely to an east-coast accent speaking the ancient lines as if they were crisp and new as the young man himself; made for each other. I watched closely the way his muscles moved under his open blue shirt. And couldn't help grinning at his conciously overacted fake depression. By the end of Act I scene 1, before Juliet had even been mentioned, I had fallen like a log for Romeo.
I had not expected this, surely he was a good-looking guy, but wasn't I a little too old to be falling in love with a hollywood star? The scene moved to Juliet, and I gathered myself up; c'mon, he's just a boy for christ sake, stop acting like an idiot.
But the film was so much better than I expected. The whole play was given new life by this fresh aproach, by the stunning young couple, and the modern, but somehow fitting music. At the end, the familiar disclosure of the tragedy, I was crying like a madman.
I must have sat there for hours, recovering from the tragedy, staring at my empty tv screen. My thoughts were just a shapeless blurb, while it vaguely became clear to me I was going to meet this superman in real life.
In the couple of days that were left before the shoot, I acted like a perfect idiot. I couln't stop thinking of him. I wanted to hear and know about him as much as possible. I even bought a couple of those teeny-mags, that had him on the cover, and read all the interviews, trying to find out what sort of guy he was. Every now and then I would look up from the trash I was reading, wondering, what was wrong with me? But the next moment I was back looking at those pictures, dreaming off like any overweight thirteen-year-old.
At the morning of the shoot, I woke up a bit nervous. I had gotten myself all worked up over this guy, how was I going to react if I really met him? It wasn't as hard as I feared though. He was nice to me, and I had myself under control, as always. He was a cheerful, energetic lad, and it was a pleasure just to look at him, through the eye of my camera, zooming in at places of special interest, while he was posing and moving and and smiling to get the pictures we wanted. He did everything I asked him to do, which was tantalizing, and stuck out his tongue at me once or twice, which sent ripples of pleasure down my spine. Oh, Yes. I loved this guy! I suppose we did pretty good work, but I'm a real perfectionist, and these scenes are just never quite right. There wasn't enough time, of course, the make-up girl didn't really understand what I wanted, and generally there were too many people around.
My model seemed to notice my annoyance, and asked if there was something wrong. I told him he was great, of course, (never hurts to suck up), but that there was just a bit too much pressure for my taste. I hesitated, then added that I would like to do a shoot with him in a more quiet environment, so we could get it right, and I could really get the images I had in mind. I realised he might not take this very well, after all, he was clearly straight, straight as a line, and I had the strange idea that he was a bit nervous about gays.
But he didn't take it in that way at all.
"Gosh," he said, "you are really serious about this, aren't you?" Sincerity sparked in his eyes.
"Well," I answered, "photography is not just work to me, it's art. And, if I may say so, you really are a great model..." I think I blushed. He made a joke out of it;
"Of course you may say so, I Love hearing just how Gorgeous I am." He turned round in a gesture of fake self-indulgence and tossed his hair back in a delightfully overdone way. I could have kissed him on the spot.
Things were settled soon enough. He would come to my attic, and there we would take the time to make some really good pictures, just the two of us.
I have my own little studio on the top floor, and that morning, before he would come, I was busy for hours getting my things ready, changing the lighting and fumbling around with different cameras, until after a while I noticed I was not doing this to prepare for the shoot, but because I was nervous. This was bad. I sat down, and took a few deep breaths. I wasn't going to allow myself to be nervous, for a shoot, and this idolatory had really gone far enough. After all, he was simply a goodlooking guy, right?
How wrong I was I realised as soon as I saw him again. He was not just goodlooking, He was Beautiful. He was the beauty I had been looking for in my work. Male, but with a sexless grace that seemed able to charm any kind of person. A dazzeling bright smile, that was surprisingly Real, and big, deer-like eyes that looked around at the things in my studio as if it were the garden of Eden. He was the beauty the world had been waiting for. And he was here, in my home, in my sight, at my command.
I stared at him. He must have noticed, for he turned to me and smiled. I felt the blood rush to my face, and tried to say something, but it came out all scrambled. His eye-brows shot up in surprised amusement, and my legs felt like pulp. It was time to hide behind my camera and catch my breath.
He was wearing a short-sleeved, brightly-coloured shirt, rather like the one he wore for Romeo and Juliet, and khaki, wide jeans. To loosen him up, I made him move around a little, dancing to a soft trance-beat. He was loose enough allready, but I felt like I was going to lose myself. All this gorgeousness, here, now, and it moved!
We worked for a long time. I spent quite a while trying to recapture that sideward glance that had made me fall in love originally. I made him do it again and again until he was crossing his eyes in frustration.
"Ok, it's good enough like this. Take a seat while I reload." He dragged a chair over and sat down exhaused, while I put a new film in my camera.
"Why don't you unbutton your shirt?", I suggested.
"Why?" he asked with a strange smirk.
"Do you think there's something beneath it?" I answered in an offhand way.
"Well, I think there should be a chest or something?" He didn't answer immediately, and although I had my back turned at him, I guessed he was unbuttoning his shirt as I had asked. When he spoke again, I could hear his dissatisfaction.
"Here, look. No muscles, no tits. Nobody's gonna get excited over a chest like that." I turned around and looked at it. Incredibly smooth skin, that seemed almost luminiscent in the blueish lights. Small, pink nipples that stood erect in the cold airstream and a belly that was perfectly flat, with a trace of soft blonde hairs leading into his jeans. I gasped. I almost dropped my camera. What the hell was wrong with me? After a deep breath I managed to say:
"You are wrong. Everybody's going to get excited over that chest. Muscles are already going out again. You, my friend, are the perfect example of the New Ideal. It's e! xactly as you said: no muscles, no tits, You Are, the universal, sexless beauty that will appeal both to men and to women all over the world."
He folded his shirt back, apparently a bit bewildered by my answer. I went back to my old spot, in front of him, holding my camera like a mask before my face.
"Now, it is time to put that amazing acting-talent of yours to use." He did the hair toss again and smiled mockingly.
"This is not a camera," I told him,
"This is a woman. A beautiful woman, sitting across the room, looking at you. And you can take her home tonight, if you can only get her hot enough. But don't say anything, use your body."
He understood perfectly what I meant. He was still sitting on that chair, and now crossed his legs. He leaned back with a look of arrogance. He put his hands between his thighs and spread his legs, his handpalms open towards me. And all the while, he kept his eyes on the camera, smiling, winking, looking at the electric eye and, indirectly, at me.
When I am taking pictures, my camera is more than just a mask for me. It makes the images I create in front of me seem less real, looking via a viewfinder is a bit like looking television, it can be arousing, but it is not real, and therefore, safe.
This is why I could easily keep calm when I noticed the bump of his crotch was beginning to grow. It was good for the pictures, therefore there could never be any harm in it. I kept talking to him, reassuring him, coaching him to be even more explicit, and he started to touch his crotch, rubbing his hands up and down the fine denim. His eyes were half closed, but still looking at the camera, and then he opened his legs even more. It was driving me mad, but I kept talking to him, making my voice sound like I was going to come myself, which wasn't too far from the truth.
That's when he let out a soft moan, and I realised, for a moment, what was going on. My worshipped celluloid God was sitting in front of me, practically masturbating, and he was losing control over himself. I thought about taking a pause for a moment, to let him catch his breath, but I was enjoying it too much to stop just yet.
With his eyes turned to the ceiling now, he unbuttoned his fly and put his hand in his boxershorts to finish what he had started. I had stopped talking, and was staring in amazement at that wonderful sight, that was shortly interrupted everytime I pressed my button. My mouth felt dry. All one could hear now were his sighs, and the mechanical, unpersonal clicking of the camera. He put his other hand up, stroking his chest and pulling his own nipples.
He let out another moan, and I realised it wouldn't take much longer. I could see his muscles tighten, his left hand clenched to a fist, his legs wrapped around the legs of the chair. He came almost without making a sound, his face turned upwards, his eyes squeezed shut. His hips made little spastic thrusts and he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then finally the tension was released and he gasped for air, relaxing slowly, panting, remaining in the same position and keeping his eyes closed.
For a long time he just kept sitting there like that, and at last I lowered my camera. I was shocked to see, suddenly, how close he was to me, how close I had been to him all this time. Only now I felt the urge to touch him, and it washed over me like a hot wave out of nowhere. Oh, I just had to touch him, to kiss his lips and feel those nipples between my teeth, to hold him and tell him I'd never let go.
But there was still a safety latch somewhere in my brain, crying out: No! Don't! He's straight, remember? I took a step back. Oh, God, I thought, he IS straight. That poor boy. He got a bit too exited and he lost control and now he doesn't know what to do, and he's just sitting there, too embarrased to even move!
I tried to make it as easy as possible for him, and turned round again to my desk, trying to calm down and replace the film in the camera. I heard him get up, and bent my head, waiting for him to speak. But he didn't say anything, and I turned round. I jumped, as he was right behind me, and I looked directly into the blue-rimmed pools of black that were his eyes, and they had a look of panic. He held his hand at shoulder hight, and moved even closer, looking at me with fear, and a question in his eyes. I saw his fingers glistened with a wet substance, and before I knew I was going to, I got hold of his wrist and took his finger in my mouth.
The taste brought back instant memories, of old afternoons spent in bed, playing the crazy games of love, and my balls cried out in a desire that was almost pain. But I let go of him, and tried to take a step back, bumping into the desk, and leaning back, away from him. He was still standing there, his hand in the air, looking as innocently as Frankenstein's monster. "I think," I heard myself whisper, "you should go and ... wash your hands."
Self-Sabotage. He nodded, staring blankly into nothingness, and turned around and started walking slowly towards the bathroom. Tears filled my eyes. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. If I had made my move he probably wouldn't have protested. I sat down, my forehead still wrinkled up in thought, and waited for him to come back...
Story by: Williehewes@yahoo.com, drop me a line if you like it, there might be a next chapter.