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I stand transfixed by the scene unfolding across the street. A tall prostitute has left her window booth, prompted by a Dutch tourist with a rental bike. He’s asking for directions to the Rijksmuseum, and the woman is showing him the way on a large map unfolded on top of the bike’s handlebars. She’s leaning forward, pointing out the shortest route among the city’s many canals, bridges, and one way streets.
She’s wearing black high heels, which add to her towering stature, and the thinnest of G-strings. Apart from that, she’s completely naked. I’m the only one startled by this apparition, as the few people passing by don’t even turn their heads.
Her large breasts come to rest on the young man’s forearm. Yet like a true gentleman, he keeps his eyes level with her face as he folds up the map and thanks her for her friendly help.
“No problem,” she assures him, and seconds later he’s off, pedaling towards the art exhibition he’s asked about.
I wish I could have photographed the moment. It could very well have been what I’m searching for. My professional DSLR is slung over my shoulder, but I’ve concealed the camera bag with my jacket, because I know it’s forbidden to take pictures in Amsterdam’s infamous red light district. Large signs at the entrance to these narrow streets lined with red lit window booths alert the unsuspecting tourists. Photographing the main attraction here will not only draw the wrath of the women working the windows, but is even subject to a hefty fine should they press charges.
I’ve come as a photographer, not a client. I’m still hunting for the centerpiece of my final art school photography project so I can graduate. I’d hoped the exotic and erotic red light district might provide me with suitable subject matter.
After strolling up and down these streets in the afternoon when there are fewer customers than at nightfall, the average height of Dutch women intimidates me. My tentative plan has been to circle back to a smaller woman a few windows down when I caught this scene.
Now this Bruin Afrikaner woman taller than two meters is looking over. About to return inside, she stops to flash me a smile, her white teeth luminous in the settling dusk. I’m already thinking ahead and consider which type of film would best bring out her skin in black and white. I take a deep breath and push myself away from the wall against which I have been leaning, lurking in the shadows, and cross the street over to her.
* * *
When it comes to the comfort of nudity, I’m self-taught. Now I’m at my most comfortable when I’m strutting around naked. But for a long time, I didn’t feel at home in my own skin. Nudity intimidated me. I didn’t associate being naked with being at ease, and by extension, I didn’t take comfort in my own sexuality. I didn’t think of myself as a sexual being.
Yet at the same time, everyday life was super-charged with sex for me. I saw phallic symbols everywhere. The cloud formations towering in the sky looked like giant penises to me. I couldn’t eat a whole banana in front of other people, I had to cut it up into little pieces. Otherwise the association with a blowjob was too overpowering in my mind as the fruit went into my mouth, making me flustered, my cheeks blushing crimson red. I looked at pictures of phallic architecture for pleasure. Photographs of the Washington Monument in D.C., Torre Agbar in Barcelona, or even the Leaning Tower of Pisa all aroused me. On a school field trip to Paris, seeing the Vendôme Column up close gave me a precursor to my first orgasm.
Coming of age, things began to look a bit clearer for me. Gym class left me breathless. Not for the exercise, but for the chance before and after in the girls locker room to see my classmates in various states of undress. Hiding my arousal and my hard nipples as best as I could, I stole furtive glances under the shower at tits and asses and sprouting pubic hair.
A major formative event for me was seeing the movie “Betty Blue” based on the erotic novel by French writer Philippe Djian. The sex scenes between the two main characters, who consummated their love whenever or wherever they felt like it, entranced all the girls at school. But where my peers substituted themselves for Betty in their imagination and fantasized about making love with the male lead, I fell in love with the actress instead. I wanted to be with her, do it with her.
My aunt was another great influence on me. She sensed I had a different perspective on things and was the first to suggest in thinly-veiled hints that it was okay if I liked girls.
“It’s more complicated than that,” I wanted to scream.
I’d never lost my attraction to phallic objects, the longer and thicker the better, especially when it came to aiding masturbation. I shoved cucumbers and squash up my pussy for blissful orgasms.
My aunt introduced me to a different phallus. Seeing that I was such a visual person, she let me borrow her camera. The pictures I started capturing on film were things that turned me on. kuşadası escort Not all were as sexual as the two ladybugs I photographed copulating—in my mind, my first picture ever of two ladies in the act.
Many of my shots instilled arousal only by how I framed them. The invisible parts cropped out were often more suggestive and seductive than what was in the shot. At times, though, my first attempts at art were voyeuristic. Sitting behind a woman lying on her back on a towel, I captured a beach scene. Her skimpy bikini top would have allowed for a close-up of her ample breasts spilling out. But I photographed her bikini bridge instead. The fabric of her swimsuit bottom spanning between her protruding hip bones rose from her flat stomach. The shadow underneath tempted the viewer with the slightest hint of a triangle of pubic hair.
Developing a role of film and making prints together, my aunt and I held our breaths as my shot of a side boob of a woman on the subway began to take shape. Instinctively, we clutched at each other as the lines of her dress began to form on the paper in the bath of chemicals. In the red light of the dark room, the supple curve of the stranger’s breast appeared. I pressed my crotch against my aunt’s leg in excitement and anticipation. There it was, the perfect circle of a nipple standing out. Standing at the right angle, camera ready, I had caught it in the precious inch her dress had fallen away from her skin.
In the dark room, I creamed my panties, and my aunt shuddered in a faint echo of my first real orgasm, the hair on her neck standing up in excitement.
She cleared her throat and said, her eyes still fixed on the picture: “Cara, you have a gift. An artistic vision. Please, promise me to never give it up.”
And promise I did. How could I give up this feeling—the camera equipped me with my own phallus, the majestic objective. I acquired the habit of wielding the camera like a weapon, or like a penis, I thought. My right hand held the body with my index finger perched on the shutter or trigger, my left hand bore the heft of the lens and made rapid aperture adjustments.
Point-and-shoot excursions became my favorite pastime, hunting for subject matter and shooting it before moving on, like a predator. My sex life had not yet acquired the same characteristics as these outings. But when it came to lenses, same as with my earlier fruit and vegetables for masturbation, the long and big ones excited me most. I acquired expertise in handling heavy telephoto equipment, which allowed me to take pictures of things far away, behind bedroom windows, on backyard terraces or on presumed private beaches. I staked out these locations to shoot couples who deemed themselves unobserved.
At my aunt’s insistence, I applied to art school. I got in thanks to my portfolio of voyeurism and chance carnality. But I had yet to undergo another transformation.
When I graduated from high school, my class still viewed me as a flat-chested, asexual, uptight prude because I hid my body and my sexuality from them. Art school made the veil still draped over my sexuality drop like the skirt of a rock’n’roll groupie on amyl nitrate.
I was positive that I was bisexual and always would be, but I was still not confident and straightforward in pursuing my sexual pleasure, sublimating my desires through my photography.
A professor asked me why I didn’t take nude studies. I was perplexed—how would I find models willing to pose for me?
“How about asking them?” was his reply.
Baffled and ashamed by this simplicity, I tried it out to immediate success.
My flier “Will you pose nude for me?” received several replies, and I scheduled a full day of shooting. The last one was a shy freshman who was confused whether or not he should have an erection. He was as much ashamed by not getting it up at first as he was by his hard cock once it stood to attention.
“Relax,” I told him to no avail.
I remembered the look in his eyes all too well from my gym class locker room experiences.
“You know,” he said, “this would be a lot more natural for me if you were naked, too.”
Of course, why hadn’t that occurred to me before? I finished the rest of the session in the nude myself and got some great shots of him eyeing me behind the camera. I found that being naked only enhanced the feeling of empowerment the camera with its phallic lens gave me.
Thus enlightened, I had no trouble trouble finding subject matter for my act photography. Participation followed as the next logical step. On a dare, a couple haltingly started having sex at a dorm party. I was there to document the half-drunk awkwardness, the platitudes of pleasure performed pro forma in the presence of peers. Pity motivated me as much as my love for photography when I joined in. I coaxed both into abandoning their inhibition, reaching theretofore unknown levels of satisfaction. I caught them on film basking in each other’s shining afterglow.
Taking kocaeli escort nudes after sex became the subject of a whole new series for me: people lost in the moment after lust. It was also easier to get girls in front of the camera that way. They associated nudity with vulnerability, as I had earlier in my life when I had not been comfortable in my own body. Intimacy, sharing pleasure and having sex established a bond trusting enough that more often than not they allowed me to bring out the camera.
The resulting series showed young art students brimming with their potential, reaching to pluck the proverbial fruit of fulfillment from the tree they considered their craft. I thus captured a male musician at the piano, naked torso hunched over the keys, a drop of sweat standing out above his ass crack and his limp dick still dribbling between fleshy thighs. A female painter, her nakedness half-hidden behind easel and canvas, brushes stuck behind her ear, twirling the tip of a brush between her stained lips to achieve the perfect point, the print of my hand standing out in green on her breast. A post-coital couple sharing a hand-rolled cigarette on a window sill to narrow to contain both of their bodies at once, their limbs stuck out at angles reminiscent of the Kama Sutra, the room behind them reeking of red wine, pheromones and stale clothes.
With my productivity matching my promiscuity, I’d found an equilibrium. For a brief period, I enjoyed a state of being myself, but before long, it all tipped again. Not everyone enjoyed my work, both in the bedroom and on the wall of the school’s gallery space. What I did made people uncomfortable, so once more I re-centered my work and concentrated more on my own body.
I taught myself how to use tripods and timers to take self-portraits in the nude. I substituted the live sex with porn and photographed myself masturbating to it, or ignoring the screen and trying to concoct a feverish fantasy scene of my own in my head, the camera catching my eyelids aflutter. The images I produced were stark and enthralling, yet depressing: once more, I felt limited and very much in the closet.
So I went outside, alone into nature. It was frustrating, because I realized I couldn’t explore attraction that way. If I was all by myself in the shot, there was only the theoretical attraction of the viewer to my body. I didn’t want to tumble down the rabbit hole of theory. If there was to be an exchange of ideas, a back and forth over concepts, a negotiation, it should happen within my pictures. Not in private, but in public.
I took up my habit of urban excursions again—naked. I captured my reflection in dressing room mirrors, in shop window fronts, and mirrored sunglasses.
The color of my hair was fickle and changed with the sun, varying in intensity from flaming Cajun spice to golden tequila glow until it reached a washed-out carrot blonde. My pubes were curled spools of light copper, forming a wiry underbrush. The freckles covering my face reached all the way to my chest before fizzling out above my breasts. Tits was a better word for them: short, firm, compact. They were simply too small to sag with gravity.
If I remained in one place long enough, someone would eventually approach me and address me in a hushed voice. Requests to put on some clothes or leave, threats to call the police and questions if I was okay—my reply was always the same: I propositioned sex.
“What do you have in mind?”
“What do YOU have in mind,” I’d ask back, but no one ever opened up.
People hurried away with side-way glances, hoping to remain unrecognized. But their unspoken sexual thoughts echoed in their skulls like the bouncing screams of a bat trapped in a cave, forever banished to the nocturnal.
The attention I drew came with a whole new set of labels for me. Same as in high school, they sought to attach shame to me, but whereas before the lexicon had centered around my perceived frigidity and lack of sexuality, the labels now expressed an excessiveness of it.
“Easy lay.”
“Tramp.”
“Slut.”
“Whore.”
“Sleazy scumming cum bucket.”
“Bonin’ bitch.”
“Bona fide butch cunt.”
The same professor who had suggested act photography to me before now called me in again, presumably to put an end to this.
“You didn’t have to go full exhibitionist,” he said, his tone expressing more regret than judgment.
“I thought all artists want to exhibit. Doesn’t this school encourage exhibiting?” I asked.
“Yes, art,” he replied, “not yourself.”
“But they’re inseparable,” I protested, “my work equals myself. I am my portfolio.”
“I can see that,” he said, flipping through the pages.
He sighed. I posed an inconvenience for the school.
“Come up with a theme for your final project, something to structure this excessive material,” he said, gesturing at my pictures, “and we’ll let you graduate prematurely. You’re good, Cara. But we won’t tolerate another semester of konya escort this libertine debauchery.”
“Is this an ultimatum?”
“It is.”
I gathered my things and left without a word, but he stuck his head out of his office door to call after me in a more conciliatory voice: “Go get some counseling.”
To defy him, I almost didn’t. But after three fruitless nights of staring at my pictures, trying to come up with a leitmotif to tie them all together, I gave up. I made an appointment with the school’s woman counselor.
It took a couple sessions to explain my current predicament, to talk through the evolution of my sexuality and my photography at the same time.
“I’m lost,” I admitted.
“How so?” she urged me on.
“Without my camera, I’m truly naked. And it’s scaring me. To graduate, I have to add to my body of work without taking too many new pictures. I have to give it another dimension.”
“What are you scared of, exactly?”
I took a deep breath.
“To lose my sense of self again. It took me longer than others to feel comfortable within my body. My surroundings shamed me for not being sexual enough. Now it’s too much. When I express and show my comfort the only way I know how, everyone around me is uncomfortable with it, calling me an exhibitionist and worse.”
“Which would feel worse to you,” she asked, “losing your art, your photography, your ability to pursue it, or your sexuality, the comfort you describe?”
I could only repeat what I’d already told my professor: “They’re one and the same to me.”
She nodded, scribbling on her notepad.
“But did it never occur to you that people might think or feel you’re using them? When you seek out someone as both sexual partner and subject matter, they might feel objectified. Don’t you think your pursuit of sex and art might be transactional?”
I blinked.
“Of course sex was transactional,” I wanted to shout: you give pleasure, you receive pleasure! There’s your transaction. I thought my pictures were doubling my appreciation of others, not diminishing it.
But her question was all the breakthrough I needed. I had my leitmotif.
* * *
“I’ve had my first real orgasm in a dark room,” I say.
When I see her puzzled look, I add, “A photography dark room, not a sex club one. The red light reminded me of it,” and I point to the lantern illuminating the prostitute’s window booth.
The whole room is submerged in an ember glow. Reminiscent of how close I felt to my aunt in this light, the fondness extends to the woman in front of me.
“I’m Cara,” I say.
“I’m Andrea,” she answers, adding, “what brings you here?”
My story comes spilling out of me, from my high school graduation to my counseling sessions.
“For my portfolio, I’m looking to document an element of transaction in nudity, sexuality, love-making. And I thought there’s no better place to encounter transactional sex than the red light district of Amsterdam.”
The look on Andrea’s face is one of bewilderment and fascination as she crosses her arms in front of her ample breasts. Her heels clack loudly on the floor as she takes a half-step back to study my face.
“I don’t understand,” she says, her voice as gentle as her face, “you want to have sex with me, or take pictures?”
“Both,” I want to blurt out. I catch sight of her in a full-length mirror on the wall behind her. Her G-string disappears between her round ass cheeks. I want to smack and grab these brown mounds of flesh as they slap into me while she rides me. I want her breasts smothering me.
My eyes take in her face, which is topped by a ballooning, poufy Afro, forming a luxuriant crown. She’s painted her full lips bright red, and I want her to stoop down and kiss me on the mouth before taking my face into her hands, guiding me down towards her pussy. She’s so tall I could eat her out standing up. I smile at my own joke.
Outside, twilight has settled, darkening the windows in the booth, making them reflective. Anyone standing there is visible to people passing by, but from inside, the window is another huge mirror. That’s how I want to photograph her, standing in the window, looking at the camera. It’s an intimate scene that implies the presence of another person, who plays more than one role: the prostitute looking at the photographer, the customer, the viewer.
But my idea is immediately replaced by another one, and before I can have any second thoughts, I act on it. I begin to peel off my clothes.
“I have money,” I say, “I can pay you, whatever you want. But you photograph me, please.”
I shove the camera bag at her.
Andrea is curious now.
“You want pictures of you, standing in the window? Naked?”
“Yes! Like this.”
I explain the setup and angle to her, then run her through the steps of how to operate the camera. Hunched together over the equipment, I can feel the warmth radiating from her body. My nipples are hardening with the excitement of the photo shoot and the sexual tension in the room.
I have zero experience with prostitutes, and part of me wonders why I have never explored this before. Did I let myself prejudge prostitution? Beyond the transaction of trading sex for money, is attraction ever part of the experience for her?
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