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Authors: Erika Masten
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had done
or not done or what anyone had known or seen so much as what I had done. My slip. And my choice to
keep descending that dangerously steep slope, even now, moment by moment. That
was zero percent Cheri and not even half Beal. It was me, and I guessed I just
needed to be here and feel this to know… to know why I craved these old
addictions again. Was it just the uncertainty of my life as it was? Or the
introduction of familiar habits with a handsome new face? This man?
“This is my favorite.”
“Hm?” I asked, rising
from my private thoughts to see Nolan pointing out one photograph in
particular.
“I like this one the
best.”
I remembered the shot,
the pose, and the moment in perfect sensory detail. I had just drawn my legs up
and put the heels of those amazing lavender and silver stilettos on the cushion
of the loveseat. With my knees pressed together and my ankles spread, I had
folded my hands so pretty and prim showing off my French manicure and the
smooth bare skin of my thighs and my silk
panties for the camera. Nolan had cropped the photograph in a way I
wouldn’t have expected, so that the bottom of the frame stopped at mid-calf and
my underwear didn’t show at all. The composition was all about those delicate
nails and my hands folded over my bare knees, the suggestion of a smile and the
way it seeped up into the look in my eyes, past the gray silk mask.
“Why?” I asked. “Why
that one? Like that?”
He slipped me a subtle
little smile that disturbed me with how much I wanted to run my tongue along
it. Would he taste like rum again? Make me feel drunk with kisses again?
“Because you’re not
wearing your mask in that one,” he answered.
Which made no sense,
because the mask was clearly visible in the shot.
Nolan must have seen my
confusion, because he breathed out an amused, “Doesn’t matter, Iva. We have a
new story to tell and new photographs to take tonight.” And he glanced
pointedly toward the vanity, then nodded in the opposite direction, toward a
doorway I hadn’t been in a position to see when I was here before. “The clothes
I picked out for you are in the bathroom.”
They weren’t what I
expected. Not lingerie or a slinky, revealing gown. It was another LBD—a little
black dress—with a vintage 1960’s couture feel to it, fitted and structured
somewhat like a slip. And high black stilettos, of course, with pointed toes
and sharp heels and a femme fatale rating off the scale. I almost felt
flattered—that Nolan saw me this way, or wanted to see me dressed like this,
imagined me as a sort of Jackie O sophisticate with an ultra-sexy streak
running down her naked and arched spine. That was, I was flattered until I
remembered that most fashion models were just hangers and that artists models
were little more than outlines on a canvas in the artist’s eye. Meaning and
substance didn’t enter the picture until later, when the models were gone and
artistic technique and staging brought the actual composition together.
Whatever Beal saw in his mind’s eye, it wasn’t me.
Nolan had one of his
cameras in hand and all the white commercial lights warmed up and focused on
the dressing table when I shuffled anxiously out of the bathroom. Despite the
number of lights, they didn’t so much glare as glow, adding a hazy depth
instead of flattening everything with harsh contrast. The man really did excel
at conjuring the active elements of retro glamour that threw time as well as
place into question.
“Sit down at the
vanity,” he told me. I did, peering at myself in the mirror and then at his
reflection where he stood behind me. It made the hair at the nape of my neck
bristle and stand on end, the awkward anticipation of seeing the man studying
me from behind, like two people caught watching one another surreptitiously.
“Do what you would normally do sitting at a dressing table, Iva. Brush your
hair. Put on your makeup for the evening.”
While he watched.
Again, that
or not done or what anyone had known or seen so much as what I had done. My slip. And my choice to
keep descending that dangerously steep slope, even now, moment by moment. That
was zero percent Cheri and not even half Beal. It was me, and I guessed I just
needed to be here and feel this to know… to know why I craved these old
addictions again. Was it just the uncertainty of my life as it was? Or the
introduction of familiar habits with a handsome new face? This man?
“This is my favorite.”
“Hm?” I asked, rising
from my private thoughts to see Nolan pointing out one photograph in
particular.
“I like this one the
best.”
I remembered the shot,
the pose, and the moment in perfect sensory detail. I had just drawn my legs up
and put the heels of those amazing lavender and silver stilettos on the cushion
of the loveseat. With my knees pressed together and my ankles spread, I had
folded my hands so pretty and prim showing off my French manicure and the
smooth bare skin of my thighs and my silk
panties for the camera. Nolan had cropped the photograph in a way I
wouldn’t have expected, so that the bottom of the frame stopped at mid-calf and
my underwear didn’t show at all. The composition was all about those delicate
nails and my hands folded over my bare knees, the suggestion of a smile and the
way it seeped up into the look in my eyes, past the gray silk mask.
“Why?” I asked. “Why
that one? Like that?”
He slipped me a subtle
little smile that disturbed me with how much I wanted to run my tongue along
it. Would he taste like rum again? Make me feel drunk with kisses again?
“Because you’re not
wearing your mask in that one,” he answered.
Which made no sense,
because the mask was clearly visible in the shot.
Nolan must have seen my
confusion, because he breathed out an amused, “Doesn’t matter, Iva. We have a
new story to tell and new photographs to take tonight.” And he glanced
pointedly toward the vanity, then nodded in the opposite direction, toward a
doorway I hadn’t been in a position to see when I was here before. “The clothes
I picked out for you are in the bathroom.”
They weren’t what I
expected. Not lingerie or a slinky, revealing gown. It was another LBD—a little
black dress—with a vintage 1960’s couture feel to it, fitted and structured
somewhat like a slip. And high black stilettos, of course, with pointed toes
and sharp heels and a femme fatale rating off the scale. I almost felt
flattered—that Nolan saw me this way, or wanted to see me dressed like this,
imagined me as a sort of Jackie O sophisticate with an ultra-sexy streak
running down her naked and arched spine. That was, I was flattered until I
remembered that most fashion models were just hangers and that artists models
were little more than outlines on a canvas in the artist’s eye. Meaning and
substance didn’t enter the picture until later, when the models were gone and
artistic technique and staging brought the actual composition together.
Whatever Beal saw in his mind’s eye, it wasn’t me.
Nolan had one of his
cameras in hand and all the white commercial lights warmed up and focused on
the dressing table when I shuffled anxiously out of the bathroom. Despite the
number of lights, they didn’t so much glare as glow, adding a hazy depth
instead of flattening everything with harsh contrast. The man really did excel
at conjuring the active elements of retro glamour that threw time as well as
place into question.
“Sit down at the
vanity,” he told me. I did, peering at myself in the mirror and then at his
reflection where he stood behind me. It made the hair at the nape of my neck
bristle and stand on end, the awkward anticipation of seeing the man studying
me from behind, like two people caught watching one another surreptitiously.
“Do what you would normally do sitting at a dressing table, Iva. Brush your
hair. Put on your makeup for the evening.”
While he watched.
Again, that
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