Her friends called to her from the top of the lookout, and she hurriedly said goodbye and bounded back over the sand to the steps. I watched the jiggle, then looked around selfconsciously. The photographer had his handheld camera out and was pointing my way. When he saw me looking, he subtly moved his focus as if he was photographing the waves behind me. But I’d seen.
I towelled down and thought about him. I wondered if his interest in me was sexual. Trying to keep a straight face, I pushed my wetsuit down further. I didn’t wear anything underneath. I yanked at it until the hair from my pubic bush was just peeking out. Then I put the towel up to my face and peeked around.
Oh, yes. He was interested in me. His camera was click click clicking away in my direction. I turned my back to him and yanked down my suit, flashing my buttocks before pulling the towel around my waist and sitting on the sand to get the wetsuit off me. I chuckled to myself as I wondered if he’d managed to get that bit on film.
I was involved in getting the neoprene off my bloody huge feet when a shadow fell over me. I glanced up, expecting Katrina or Brodhi, only to find myself staring into light brown eyes that had the slightest slant to them. My photographer had come to talk.
‘Hi,’ he offered somewhat nervously, but with a determined smile.
‘Wassup?’ I replied, in my best impression of a dumb surfer. It’s what a lot of tourists expected and it saved a lot of time.
‘I’m Sam,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watching you and your mates surf. You’re really good, you know.’
Well, that answered the question about whether he was Australian or not. His accent was 100% ocker, with no trace of any foreign inflections. I glanced at his face again and wondered. He may’ve been a quarter Chinese, I supposed.
‘Thanks,’ I said and stood up. He’d been standing over me, which meant that now I was on my feet, we were rather close to each other. I’m sure he was aware that I had nothing on under my towel. Without conscious thought, I noted we were about the same height, which always made me think of easily kissing the other person. Nothing is worse than a bad case of giraffe-neck to kiss someone. His skin had a golden tinge to it, which was only a little lighter than my suntan, and I glanced at his arms, wondering if the tan was all over. My arse was lily-white with a definite demarcation line to show where I wore my shorts. I hated it. I preferred guys who were the same all over. I had a vision of Sam lying naked on a bed while I explored him. Visions like that were not good practice while standing on a public beach, wrapped only in a towel.
‘Do you live locally?’ he asked and I frowned. If this was a pickup line, then it was rather bold.
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘I wanted to show you something. I was hoping I could come to your place for you to see?’
His voice was a little nervous. I wondered how old he was. Mid-twenties maybe? Probably only a year or so older than me. Because that really was a bad pickup line and he needed to find a new repertoire fast or never get laid.
I bent over and collected my board and suit, shuffling into my thongs as I prepared to leave. ‘I’m busy today, mate. You should try The Settlers tavern in Margaret River if you want some action.’
I walked away as he said, ‘What? What do you-? Oh, no. I didn’t mean���’
I ignored him, trudged up the steps to the top of the lookout, and strolled across to my car. My surfboard fitted neatly on the tray of my ute, its fins facing up above the cab. I slung the occy strap over to make sure it didn’t slide around while I was driving, then turned, only to find Sam standing near my car, his hands nervously clenching.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ he told me decisively. ‘I meant I had some photographs I wanted to show you.’
I shrugged, unconcerned at just what he wanted to show me. ‘Oh. Sorry. But I have to get to work now, so maybe another day, huh?’ I didn’t really mean it. It was just to get him to go away. He was cute, but a little sleazy. What sort of guy took photographs of people on the beach? I opened the door and slid into the ute.
‘Tomorrow?’ he pressed.
‘Maybe,’ I said and started the engine. He nodded as if he understood that I was brushing him off. I drove away and didn’t give him another thought.
The following day, the ocean calmed and the surfing was lame. I came in from the ocean earlier than usual, thinking that maybe I could get an early start on my chores at home. There was a yellow envelope stuck under the windscreen wiper on my car and I frowned at it in puzzlement. I stowed my gear and grabbed the item, opening the flap to look inside. There were three photographs printed on high quality paper. They weren’t the photos you got from the local department store after a thirty minute wait. No, this was good stuff - enlarged and printed in sepia. The photographs were of me.
In the first, I was grinning down at Katrina, a photo taken yesterday as we chatted. The picture showed our torsos and heads, but nothing else, the background a fuzzy blur of pale brown and white. You could almost feel the spark of attraction between the two of us. It was amazing that the emotion of the moment could be felt from a single piece of paper.
The second photo was from a couple of weeks previous - I could tell because I had a beard in the photo. I’d shaved it off since then. It was an action scene, and the photographer had captured the moment I had made a turn on the top of a wave. My face was one of concentration as I swung the board around in the whitewash of the water.
The third photo was from the day before as well. I laughed. Sam had managed to capture the moment of my bare buttocks. In the picture, I was in the act of swinging the towel around my waist. The wind was fluttering my hair as well as the towel, but there was a glimpse of my lily-white arse. Even in sepia the whiteness of my skin was blinding.
I looked up and searched the car park. Sam was nowhere to be seen. Then I noticed some writing on the envelope. I want to pay you for some modelling. Call me. Sam.
A mobile number followed and I snorted. Me, model?
I showed Katrina the photos the following morning, after she slept over.
‘They’re really good,’ she enthused. ‘I love this one of you surfing. You should ring him and see how much he wants to pay you.’ I scoffed at her comment, because all I could imagine was makeup and hot lights, but she whacked me gently on the back of the head for my stupidity. ‘Idiot. He probably wants you to surf for him. Not all models are for fashion.’
I stewed on this piece of information as I dropped Katrina at her house and drove to the beach. It was my routine to come down every morning, even when I’d only managed a couple of hours sleep. I was later than usual, and the sun was already up. I left my board in the ute and decided to just swim today instead.
The water was refreshing as I swam, carefully avoiding the area where the surfers were coming in. I stayed for ten minutes, then waded out. Sam was standing, waiting for me.
‘You didn’t call,’ he said as I trudged up the sand to where he was standing over my gear.
‘I was busy,’ I hedged as I grabbed my towel.
‘I was serious,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll pay you if you allow me to take some pictures of you. Here on the beach, or maybe up in the forest if the light is good.’
‘I don’t need the money,’ I replied in all truthfulness.
He scowled. ‘What do you need then? Because I really like your look. You have the blond sun-kissed aura around you that a lot of people want. I’m a professional photographer, if that makes you feel at ease. I take photos and then sell them - some as prints to put on the wall as art, but mostly for people who want photos for their magazines, or ads, or even book covers.’
I rolled my eyes at the “blond sun-kissed” comment. Yes, I was blond, and the sun bleached it even further until it was almost platinum. My hair was a pain, and when it got long enough (like now) it curled at the ends, giving me a woolly sheep appearance. Every so often I would take to it with the clippers, but keeping it short meant cutting it weekly, and I couldn’t be bothered. I glanced at Sam’s de
ad straight hair with envy. I loved the feel of silky, straight hair running through my fingers.
‘Please?’ he begged. ‘Let me come back to your place and I’ll show you my website and examples.’
I hesitated.
‘How about if I pay you by getting some great surfing shots and framing them for you?’
Damn. He’d chanced upon my weakness there. I threw the towel over my shoulder and glanced in his direction. ‘Fine. Follow me.’
He smiled like I’d just given him the best present ever. He pointed out his car and then trailed me back home. I lived a fifteen minute drive from Prevelly, in the middle of vineyard country. The roads wound around the tall forest trees, and then would suddenly clear for a view of green grass and rows upon rows of grapes. Then just as suddenly, the trees would be back.
I turned down my street, checking to make sure he’d seen my indicator, and drove up the hill to my house. My driveway was hidden between the tall karri trees, only flagged by a small green sign that all the driveways had and marked the distance of the driveway from the main road. The signs were put out by the State Emergency Service, so houses could be located easily by emergency vehicles. Bushfires were the greatest fear up this way.
My home was nestled at the end of a long, winding driveway that halted at the edge of the trees. I loved my house, since I’d been instrumental in getting it there. It was made of natural materials like mud bricks, and had high ceilings and fans for ventilation, solar panels for power, and used the orientation of the sun for most of its heating. Behind the house was a hundred acres of natural, unspoilt bushland. To the front of the house were two hundred acres of farming land. The main house where my parents lived was over on the next hill, but my own personal retreat was this end of the property.
‘Oh, wow,’ Sam enthused as he got out of his car. I smiled, because I knew it was pretty. To the north were the rows of grapes that made the land famous, with sheep grazing between the vines. The southern end of the property was pastures where there were cows. And Stuart.
‘C’mon in,’ I invited and entered the house. I watched furtively as Sam retrieved a folder from his car, and then followed me in. I placed two glasses of water out for us and sat down to listen to his spiel. It wasn’t so much a lot of bullshit, rather a tiered contract of this and this and this. Sam wanted me to pose for some photos - on the beach and in the water, but now he’d seen my house he was thinking of bush photos too - and then he’d offer them for sale. If people liked my look, he’d be back for more photos, maybe even a series. I would get paid per day I worked for him, but he’d offer me a bonus if a certain photo was particularly profitable to him.
‘You make money from this?’ I asked at one stage. He pulled a face and told me that there wasn’t a lot of money in it. He worked freelance at several other locations and this was his fill-in job.
‘It pays the bills. Just,’ he said with a selfconscious shrug.
I let it slide, thinking that he had a right to make his way however he wanted. I watched his face as he spoke about his work and could see that he really enjoyed it. His eyes lit up with excitement and his hands waved around as he described the scene he wanted.
I sighed. It really wasn’t my thing, but I supposed I could give him a day of my time. ‘Okay, when?’ I asked.
My quick agreement startled him and he stopped to think about it. ‘Well, I’m off for the next two days. So how about tomorrow?’
‘I’ve got something special on tomorrow,’ I told him. ‘The next day?’
We agreed, although Sam told me that it would depend on the weather. At my query, he said that he lived in Busselton, a forty-five minute car trip from my house, so he would come first thing in the morning. ‘Then I’ll be a week up north before I’m back home for a couple of days.’
‘I’ll be at the beach before six,’ I told him. He nodded and started scribbling on some papers. He looked up at me.
‘What’s your name?’
I chuckled. ‘This sounds like a one-night stand. We get all the important stuff out of the way, and then get around to asking names.’
I could see him flush, but I didn’t call him on it. ‘I already told you I’m Sam. Sam Carstairs.’
‘Moe,’ I introduced myself as. ‘Are you Chinese? Carstairs isn’t an Asian name.’ It was a little personal to be asking him about his heritage, but it was bugging me. Maybe if I knew for sure, then this attraction I was feeling would disappear.
His face froze into a mask. ‘Moe? Like from the Simpsons? And no, Carstairs isn’t an Asian name. How clever of you to notice.’
I kept my grin to myself. Someone was a little touchy about his name. ‘Yes, Moe like the Simpsons. So are you Chinese somewhere along the way? Or have I offended you for picking the wrong Asian country?’
Despite his colouring, I could see a flush rise on his cheeks. I wondered if he’d get huffy with me, or say something witty to cut me down. I held my breath in anticipation. His words were ground out at me. ‘I’ll need a first name and a last name for the contract. The name of ‘Moe’ will not stand up in a court. And yes, I have Chinese in my background. Somewhere.’
I pushed him a little further, deliberately sidestepping his query about my name. ‘Oh. I love a mystery. Just “somewhere”?’
He hesitated, and I wondered if he was formulating a lie, but I think he realised I wasn’t going to drop the subject. His tone was ice as he told me, ‘I’m descended from the Chinese pearl divers who worked in Broome over a hundred years ago. My family has been Australian for probably longer than yours unless you’re part-Aboriginal. Name?’
I cocked an eyebrow as the light dawned. He wasn’t touchy about his name, he was touchy about being considered foreign in our multicultural country. ‘Joe Mitchell. Joseph. And that’s so cool. I love Broome. How wonderful to think that your family helped build that?’ I received a cutting glare as if he didn’t believe me. I rushed on to reassure him. ‘I was actually envying you your hair. I hate curls. I totally wish I had Asian hair that just was dead straight.’ I pushed my mop out of my eyes for the tenth time.
I sensed a thaw of his attitude. ‘I’d love something other than dead straight hair,’ he said with a small smile. I took it to assume that I was forgiven for any offense I’d caused, so I quit while I was ahead.
‘I need to get to work now, Sam. I’ll see you Tuesday morning at the beach then?’
He asked for my mobile number and I gave it. ‘I’ll text you if something comes up or if the weather looks bad.’ I nodded and he left. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t looking forward to Tuesday. I’m never good at lying.
No text arrived, so Tuesday I headed to the beach as usual. The swell was decent and I lost myself in the feel of the water, the isolation of being a dot in the ocean and the excitement of catching a wave. I’d been surfing for about an hour when I finally remembered Sam. I looked for him and spotted him on the beach with his telescopic lens out. It was pointed straight at me.
I waved and hoped he saw the gesture. He was supposed to be paying me for the day, and here I was wasting the hours surfing. I caught the next wave in, jogged up the beach and apologised to him sincerely.
‘No, no,’ he told me. ‘This is what I want. Just go out and surf for a bit more. Although if you could just try and keep this line in front of the camera, it would be helpful. And try to keep your face turned forward.’
I shrugged agreeably and waded back out. I was a good morning for surfing, and enjoyed myself. Finally he called me in and we spent an hour on the sand. He had me pose in my wetsuit several times, but then asked if I had some other clothes.
‘Shit - not really,’ I told him. ‘Just those.’ I pointed to some ratty old shorts, feeling stupid.
‘No problem. I brought some gear for you, just in case. I thought you would look good in blue.’
He pulled out some new boardshorts with the tags still attached. I grinned and grabbed them, slinging the towel around my waist and shoving the neopr
ene wetsuit to my ankles, stripping down like I had done a million times before. It was only when I realised Sam hadn’t commented that I thought to look up for his reaction. This time there was a definite flush across his cheekbones. I filed the information away in my sneaky brain and decided to find out later if it was an embarrassed flush or sexual arousal.
I will have to say this one thing - modelling can be boring. Sam had me sit, stand, jog, run, lay, roll and do virtually everything apart from a cartwheel. I did offer to do a handstand at one stage, and I think he got the message, because he chuckled at me.
‘Five more minutes, I promise.’
I sighed and went back to looking like I was having a marvellous time, even though I was dying for some caffeine.
Eventually we packed up and drove back to my place. I made us both coffee and took it out to the patio where Sam was. The patio was surrounded by lush greenery that merged into the forest at the back of my house. It was my favourite spot. I found Sam with his camera out, photographing shadows on the trunk of a nearby tree.
‘Coffee,’ I called, and he turned to me with a smile.
‘I’m coming.’
It was the smile and the comment about coming that got me. Sexual thoughts moved right into my brain and got stuck. I was almost certain that he would be up for some man-on-man action. He had a particular look in his eye when he stared at me at times, and then there was the time I told him to go to the pub if he was looking for a pick up. Most straight men would’ve immediately returned with “I’m not gay” as a protest.
I wondered how to get Sam naked. He was supposed to be paying me for a day’s worth of modelling, and that usually meant doing actual work, but I was allowed a lunch break, wasn’t I?
Okay, so it was not even ten in the morning. Maybe Sam would be open to extended lunches.
Queermance Anthology, Volume 2 Page 14