A Girl Walks into a Bar

by Helena S. Paige

  The rest of the lights stutter on, revealing a huge open-plan area with high ceilings. Off to one side are retro leather-and-wood chairs and a settee. The armchairs are solid, 1960s-style, with armrests that curl into small built-in side tables.

  The studio also contains several small rooms off to the back, with what looks like an office, a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a darkroom. One entire wall is a white infinity curve stretching up to the ceiling.

  As you prowl around, you spot a Harley-Davidson vintage chopper parked in a shadowy corner. All black and chrome, more worn than shiny.

  You point to the bike. “Is that yours? It’s gorgeous.”

  Jan looks up from where he’s busy at a counter covered with photographic equipment: light meters, lenses, plugs, cables, and memory cards, along with several cameras. “It’s just a prop,” he says.

  You keep wandering around the studio, trying to take your mind off what’s ahead. You come across a desk with stacks of photographs and contact sheets piled on it. You flick through a couple. They show a group of huge, tattooed Hells Angels surrounding a tall, beautiful woman who’s lounging on the bike. The same bike you were just admiring. She looks familiar. Very familiar . . . “Holy smoke!” you blurt out. “Is that Alex Khan?”

  “Yes. It’s for the cover of The Face.” He doesn’t sound like he’s bragging. “They’re okay, but if I could do that shoot again, there are a few things I would do differently.”

  “Wow. What’s she like?”

  “She’s a dream to work with. A real pro.”

  You nod, your heart still beating a mile a minute. A real pro. Of course she is. And here’s you. Who is most assuredly not a pro. What have you gotten yourself into? How can you live up to Alex Khan? Next he’ll be telling you he’s best friends with Anna Wintour.

  Jan flicks a remote, and a mellow but funky track fills the studio.

  “Wine?” he asks.

  “Oh god, yes please.”

  He disappears into the kitchen, and you hear a cork pop. Seconds later he’s back, carrying two half-full glasses of red wine.

  You tap glasses and take a sip. It’s good. Tastes expensive.

  He steps over to his workstation and selects a bulky camera that looks old-fashioned, especially compared to all the technology surrounding it.

  “I was thinking we should go old-school,” he says. “Forget digital, I’m talking real film. Black and white. Large format.”

  You take another gulp of wine. “So how does this work?”

  “Well, there are a couple of robes in the cupboard in the bathroom, if you still want to do this. Of course, we don’t have to shoot anything you’re not comfortable with.”

  You chew a finger, hesitating. This is your chance to be photographed by someone who’s shot some of the most spectacular models in the world. But you’re no model—maybe you should head back to the gallery and tell Mac you’re not cut out to be a photographer’s muse. Or perhaps, after all this excitement, you need a quiet drink back at the bar.

  If you stick around and go for it, click here.

  If you decide this is not for you and head back to the gallery, click here.

  If you go back to the bar, click here.

  You stick around and go for it

  LIKE THE REST OF the studio, the bathroom is spacious and beautifully styled. There’s a leather chaise longue against one wall, as well as a shower, a toilet, a sink, and a retro cabinet. An elegant black chandelier hangs from the ceiling, the only non-white object in the room. You’ve always wanted a chandelier in your bathroom.

  Inside the cabinet you find towels and a couple of folded white robes. You pull one out, and when you hold it to your nose the immensely soft fabric smells fresh and clean, with a hint of the ocean.

  You pull your dress off over your head and unclasp your bra. Then you face the mirror and cover your breasts with both arms, trying to decide how you feel about this. And you realize that you’re not only nervous and excited, but a little turned on. The thought of being photographed like this by a near-stranger is strangely sexy. Maybe it’s because it’s so completely out of character for you that the thought of it is so racy, so daring. Plus the guy has shot some of the most iconic women in the world. You cannot wait to tell Melissa about this.

  You take a deep breath. Then you assess your body in the mirror again, trying to look past the flaws you see in yourself. You remember that what made the photos of Mac so erotic was her sheer confidence, the way she opened her whole self to the camera.

  Emboldened, you slip off your purple lacy G-string and slip the robe on over your shoulders, the fabric so light it feels like it’s barely there. Jan doesn’t need to know that you’re entirely naked under it. You like the idea of having a little secret. You tie the belt loosely around your waist, then glance down at your stiletto heels, deciding that they will be the only things you leave on.

  Back in the studio, Jan has set up a couple of lights on the infinity curve and is busy adjusting the camera with long, ringed fingers. You walk over to him slowly, feeling jittery. This must be what second thoughts feel like.

  Jan looks up and smiles warmly at you. “I’ll be ready in a second. Make yourself comfortable.”

  You approach the black leather bar stool he’s placed in the middle of the infinity curve and hover for a second before climbing on, pulling the robe down over your knees and clutching it closed at your chest.

  Once he’s ready, Jan walks over to you. “I thought we’d just start with a couple of photos of your neck, from here to here.” He indicates the area between the top of his chest and his chin.

  You nod, trying to act professional.

  Jan gives you a few quiet instructions and helps you settle into place, your neck extended as far as it will go and your chin jutting out at what feels like an awkward angle, although he assures you that the camera reads it as normal.

  He takes little steps, moving around you like a hairdresser, clicking off a couple of shots on a digital camera first, so he can see how the lighting’s working.

  “Here, take a look. What do you think?” he says, bending down beside you and scrolling through some of the shots. They’re all in black and white, most of them super close-up. There are a few that make you gulp a bit, but on the whole you can’t believe how artful they are. There’s the curve of your clavicle in one, the round hill of your shoulder in another. He’s right, even the underside of a chin can be sexy if it’s framed and shot in a certain way.

  His body brushes against yours and your thoughts scatter. Fortunately he’s so focused on his work that he doesn’t seem to notice the effect he’s having on you. Perhaps it’s the secret fact that you’re naked under your robe that’s making you a little hot and wet. You squeeze your knees together to hide the fact that they’re shaking slightly.

  In the pictures you’ve seen so far, the collar of your robe is showing on your shoulders, so you hold it chastely closed between your breasts, then let it slip off your shoulders a little so that it won’t appear in the shots.

  Jan snaps off a couple more pictures with the digital camera and then makes some adjustments to the lighting. You watch him moving around the studio, deft and quick. The photographer is focused, you think, stifling a giggle.

  When he’s finally satisfied, he changes over to the old-fashioned camera, and you go into serious pose mode. Keeping your knees together, you hook your heels on the bottom rung of the stool. Every time he shoots a picture, you hear the light popping and the click of the camera. It’s warm under the lights, but pleasantly so, and after the first few shots you settle into your role as model, taking his direction, turning your neck farther to one side, shifting the angle of your chin. The camera acts as a barrier, and it feels less like he’s staring at you, more like he’s capturing you. With the mellow background music and the pop of the lights, it’s easy to relax, and you begin to feel more comfortable in your own skin.

  Plus there’s something exciting about being the focus of s
uch obvious skill. His attention is intimate yet distant at the same time.

  At one point, Jan stops what he’s doing and holds the camera away from himself, scrutinizing you. Then he comes over and strokes your hair away from your face. You sit up straighter and hold your breath as he touches you. As his fingers graze the side of your face, your nipples harden. You press your thighs together again, feeling your pussy moisten. You can’t help wondering if he had the same effect on Alex Khan and Angel Dean.

  Then he steps back and raises the camera again. With a sudden rush of courage, you let go of the robe and drop your arms to your sides. The fabric falls away from you, taking the loosely tied belt with it, and you feel it skim your skin as it flutters to the ground and pools at your feet. On the way down, it brushes your nipples, making them even harder.

  Jan continues shooting as if nothing has changed, although the blood is rushing through your ears so loudly, you doubt you’d hear anything he might say. Growing bolder, you shift position, parting your legs, but with both hands placed on the front of the stool, shielding yourself from the eye of the camera.

  The lights carry on flaring with every shot. You swallow hard, take a deep breath and remove your hands. You place them behind you and arch your back, leaving yourself completely bared to him. You’re sure the camera can see how wet you are. And the thought of it makes you even wetter.

  You have no idea how long you remain there like that, shifting by degrees into minutely different poses. Time stretches.

  “THAT’S THE ROLL,” JAN says, bending to collect the gown and hand it to you. You slip it back on and climb off the stool.

  “We got some really fine shots,” he says, looking pleased. “The camera loves you.”

  You’re not sure how to respond. You have so much adrenaline pumping through your veins, you can’t even speak.

  “So, how was that for you?” he asks.

  You struggle to get yourself under control. “Incredible,” you manage.

  “Not as bad as you thought?”

  “Nowhere near.”

  “Would you like to see how they came out?”

  “Sure, but how?”

  “I’ve got a darkroom, so we can develop them right now. Unless you’re in a hurry to get out of here?”

  You think for a minute. Do you really want to see how the photos came out? You’re momentarily seized with doubt and embarrassment. You can’t believe how brazen you were, dropping your gown like that and flaunting your naked self. It might be better if you never saw the pictures. But the thought of going into a small darkroom with Jan is an enticing one.

  Wait: the whole experience has been so unreal, you never actually thought about there being real, live, naked photographs of you, out there in the world. Oh god, what if people see them? You consider snatching the camera and dashing for the exit. Grand larceny is a bit extreme, though, as is the idea of making a getaway dressed only in a stolen gown and high heels. Surely if you’re unhappy with the pictures, you could try to persuade Jan to give you the negatives, or, better still, shred them. He seems like a reasonable guy.

  Maybe it’s better to take a look at the pictures first and then figure out how to deal with the situation—or is ignorance bliss? In which case, perhaps you’d better get your clothes back on and go back to the gallery, where you can look to your heart’s content, but not be seen. But what are you going to do about the head of steam you’ve built up? There’s always your Rabbit vibrator waiting for you back at home . . .

  If you stay and see how the pictures turn out, click here.

  If you head back to the exhibition, click here.

  If you want to go home to your Rabbit, click here.

  You’ve decided to stay and see how the pictures turn out

  THE TINY DARKROOM AT the back of the studio smells sharply of chemicals. Two of the walls have waist-height countertops lined with developing equipment, trays, and bottles. A wire is strung between two walls, peppered with pegs for the newly developed prints.

  You and Jan stand side by side as he handles big plastic bottles and containers with the confidence of long familiarity, pouring different chemicals into a series of three trays. If you compare his relaxed body language now with his discomfort earlier on in the gallery, when he was being forced to be social, it’s like being with a completely different man.

  “Each tray is for a different step in the process,” he explains. “The first one is the developer, this second one is a stop bath, and the last one is the fixer. The whole trick with photography is the lighting,” he says as he works. “When you’re taking the shots, the lighting needs to be just right, and then when you’re developing them, there can’t be any light at all. If any light gets in while we’re developing these negatives, it’s a total disaster.”

  Finishing his prep, he reaches for the wall and flips a switch. Everything goes black, and then a safety light comes on, bathing the room in a soft red glow.

  There’s a large machine on the other side of the counter and you watch as he feeds the roll of negatives through it. Once the negative has been processed, he takes out a pack of photographic paper and carefully removes a sheet. His face is intent, and the red light gives him a mysterious quality.

  There’s no music in the vault-like room, and all you can hear is breathing. His is slow and steady, and yours is slightly faster.

  Jan slides the sheet of photographic paper into the developer fluid, gently rocking the tray, tipping up first the one end and then the other. He constantly checks the giant digital clock on the wall, the fluorescent numbers flashing as the seconds tick by. He looks sideways at you and smiles.

  “Look,” he whispers.

  You lean across him and stare into the tray as the image forms slowly on the page. You suck in your breath as you see it taking shape. It’s an extreme close-up in black and white of one of your breasts. You recognize the small freckle to the right of your nipple, which is hard and pointed, the areola slightly goose-bumped.

  You feel both your nipples instantly mirroring the image on the page in front of you. You can’t help yourself—you grab his arm and squeeze it.

  “Oh my god,” you say. “That’s me.”

  He smiles again. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  When it’s ready, he pulls the paper out of the developer fluid with a pair of tongs, and after letting it drip and drain for a couple of seconds, he slides it into the second tray, tipping that as well to ensure the page is evenly covered by the solution, always keeping one eye on the clock.

  Finally he pulls the paper out of the last tray, washes the print, and then hangs it up on the wire, clipping both corners with pegs.

  You can’t take your eyes off the print. You’ve only ever seen your breasts in a mirror or looking down on them, never like this, in such artistic detail. It’s slightly surreal, particularly bathed in the low, red light.

  While you’re still examining the first print, Jan prepares the next negative, and then repeats the process over the three trays. Again the only sound in the darkroom is the both of you breathing, and you might be imagining it, but you think his breath is coming a little faster.

  When the second image reveals itself, you gasp. This time it’s a close-up of your neck. Your collarbone sweeps across at an angle, and there’s a small bead of sweat in the dip below it. Then your neck arches up, long and regal, with just the curve of your chin going off the edge of the print at the top.

  “To me, this is the most sensual part of your body,” he says, watching you watching the image take shape on the page in the tray.

  You touch your neck, running your fingers over the hot, pulsing skin. “Really?”

  “Absolutely,” he says, placing a tentative hand on your chest, running his ringed thumb over the swell of your collarbone and into the dip beyond it. “Right here.”

  You drop your hands, letting the sides of your gown fall apart, so you’re standing next to him in the red-dark in nothing but your heels and an open robe. With a
dream-like motion, he runs his hand farther down and then sideways, gently brushing over one of your breasts, barely touching it.

  “Shit, my print!” he says, glancing at the timer and whipping back to his trays. He shifts the almost overexposed print to the next tray. Eventually, after rinsing, he clips it up beside the image of your breast.

  “That was close,” he says. He turns back to his work, and as much as you’re disappointed that he’s no longer touching you, you’re keen to see how the rest of the pictures come out. He develops three or four more in quick succession. You watch in silence, fascinated by the process and the lottery of the images, never knowing which part of your body is going to appear out of the liquid next. The smell of the chemicals is overwhelming, but you’re sure it’s overpowered by the scent of your body.

  There’s an image of your ankle and the turn of your foot in its stiletto floating in the first tray, and another extreme close-up, this one of the nape of your neck, in the second tray. He slips it into the third tray and moves each picture along, one step in the system.

  You’re astonished by how sensual they are, even the ones of just a foot or an elbow.

  And then he slips a piece of the paper into the first tray, and a picture of your pussy blooms slowly out of the liquid. Even in the safe light of the darkroom, you can see every intimate detail. It glistens, wet on the page.

  You blurt out without thinking: “God, I’m wet!”

  Jan abandons the prints swimming in the trays and grabs you, pushing you up against a wall. Your gown is still hanging open, and he snakes his arms around your waist, pulling you into him, hands warm on your back. You can feel him hard against you as he kisses you, his lips hot against yours and then his tongue eagerly exploring your mouth. You let your body crush into his, and run your fingers around the back of his head, up into his hair, gripping him closer.