He stands on the old clawfoot bathtub’s rim, towering above her. His camera lens aimed into the soup of her. Strands of her hair undulate in the water; her face and breasts breach the surface. She’s a mermaid with almond eyes that sparkle through the vapour. Droplets flare on her skin. Her obscene lips parted as if in invitation. But she won’t take off the damn bathing suit. The gulf between the acquiescence of her gaze and her obstinate modesty is unreasonable and unfathomable. He makes myths there because he must, because the camera will not cooperate without them.
Her eyes are stained the colour of olive groves. He reads discomfort in them. Flotsam caught in the grating, gyring, slowing the flow. Until he sees that it is the detritus of her hesitation is the only picture worth taking.
It is her hesitation that saves him from the fall, that keep him on the leash. Had she been a different woman he would have drowned in the shame of what he could not refuse.
This is how he learned to consume with his eyes: to devour without touching, to own and to master without permission. Taker of likenesses. Eater of the specular. Drinker of light and shadow, of colour and texture.
He has captured her soul in a box and her skin on paper. What more could a man want?
What a lovely accompaniment to my morning coffee and computer time ritual! Also… hot! Thank you. 🙂
The reinforces my aggrivation of the others of my female sex
What holds him back? Why did this piece not move to the non-con arena? Because the photographer has a slippery grip on reality, he knows he will have his way with her within the bounds of the medium, for now.
RG, i would like her undying love and submission.
Ah, well, we all want that, don’t we?
Yes!