“Wait, what? You … you’re a porn photographer?”
“What I said, yes, and videographer. Among other things. Does that shock you?”
She was rocked by this; of course it shocked her! Why … how … did … would he … yes. yes he would … judge her … consider her as unsophisticated if …
But, no, it was too much. She was shocked. Shocked and horrified, to be honest, and she couldn’t hide it if she wanted to, because she could feel her cheeks getting hot, which meant that they were colouring, going pink, and worse, she was going to …
“ohhhh!”
… embarrass herself by being unable to control her expression or her mouth.
She felt physically sick, actually; she had met him an hour before at some public lecture she’s been made to go to by her housemates— all serious medical students— a tall, somewhat handsome man, casually dressed and slightly scruffy, although the clothes were of high quality; an unassuming mien, with nevertheless an air of great confidence and ease, and— what was rare about him, he didn’t even seem to acknowledge her looks.
She had always — ever since she could remember, been called ‘incredibly beautiful’. She had been a child model, a dancer, a local star of amateur drama, appearing as Juliet at fourteen in the local rep and getting rave reviews, fending off model scouts, all the time wishing, just wishing that she was normal, that she could have friends normally.
It had got worse when her breasts grew out and she had gained a couple of inches— mainly in the length of her legs, and her dancing meant that her bum was taut and her waist was thin and she didn’t care, didn’t care about any of that stuff, except that she was a dancer, and she did move well, and she did look after herself, and she did have good taste in clothes. It wasn’t her fault that, even dressed plainly, with her quiet, immaculate style, all the other girls seemed to hate her, or want to be her friend so that they could show off about that.
She was so lonely.
It was worse at university; boys mostly gawky and intimidated, the confident ones arrogant and crass; the girls stand-offish, the staff also, with the addition of that type of entitled older man who seemed to think she would look at them as if they were god’s gift because they were ‘important’. The fact that she was studying pure mathematics and philosophy did not do anything to help.
She tried; she really did, and she talked to people, and socialised, but… in the end, she could see in all their eyes that they were thinking about her as a beauty, and not as her.
And this man — a decade older than her, yes, not overtly sexually interested, just, really, straightforward, clever without being boring, experienced without boasting, chatty without being inconsequential, had been making her feel so much better, so much more hopeful.
And she’d agreed to take him to the tiny Korean place she’d ended up telling him about after he’d told her about his adventures in Korea, and there had been nothing, nothing at all weird about it, no sense that it was a date, no awkwardness. Just two friends going to have a nice meal.
And then she’d asked the fatal question, and he’d answered— presumably honestly, without hesitation or embarrassment, and…
She was staring at him. She couldn’t help it. It was too weird. He COULDN’T be!
And yet he seemed unabashed, smiling just a little, relaxed, had leaned back in his chair;
“You don’t like it?”
She was flabbergasted. Why did he even need to ask? She was a normal, decent, intelligent girl. Of course she hated the idea of young women degrading themselves for money so that old men could wank over pictures of them. It was awful, horrendous, disgusting, immoral, degrading, perpetuated … oh , why did she even need to be here?
She stood up, desperately trying to salvage some calm, when inside her the loss of this hopeful friendship with a sensible, intelligent, educated and experienced man who was not intimidated by her stupid looks was hurting her so badly;
“No. No! Of course I don’t. You … you’re disgusting.”
And she walked out, tears stinging her eyes, refusing, fighting herself, refusing to let him see her crumple, stumbling around the first corner she came to before slumping against a wall and letting it out.
He had found her there, a couple of minutes later. She had felt something, her eyes closed, her arms wrapped around herself, biting her lip to keep from making a noise.
She had opened her eyes for a second, to see what her body was warning her of, and realised it was him.
Her heart had lurched. He was caring; interested!
He was a vile pornographer. A degrader of women.
She closed her eyes again, thinking to ignore him.
It was immediately impossible.
“Go away. Please.”
“Go away”
She sounded weak; very weak. She tried again;
“GO AWAY. I mean it”
Then ruined it with;
“Please?”
He didn’t go, in any case, and she began to really cry then, unable to stop herself, sobbing, her nose running, everything.
And then he had taken care of her. Gently, but irresistibly, slowly, carefully, masterfully, wonderfully; his hand, first, at the side of her head, palm open, gentle, just a reassuring warmth and steadiness, until, after a very short time, she lost her stiffness and let herself lean into him, and then it was sealed— although she had been jumpy, and jittery, startling a few times, but he had been calm, and patient, and slow, and hardly spoken, been very still, always waiting for her to move before making a further offer, and somehow, then, she was in his arms, and holding onto him as if her were a lifebelt in a storm and crying, really crying into his shoulder, getting snot on his jacket, and he was making soothing sounds; deep and soft, though he said nothing at all, and holding her just right; not tentative, but not too hard, nothing sexual in it and she felt calm creeping up on her, and was still at last. And still he held her, still he was quiet, until, at last, she became embarrassed, and stood back a little; just a little— she needed him, she felt it strongly, but she had to thank him, make it clear that she was not completely, utterly pathetic.
He had smiled, said almost nothing, brushed her gratitude away, asked her simply, if she was feeling better, and then, very straightforwardly and calmly, he had gotten her home; asked her for her street name but not her house number, called a cab, shushed her when she tried to speak, told her everything was fine, put her in the cab, gave the driver money over her weak protests. He had tapped his number into her phone but not done the missed call thing, had made sure she was in the right place, and then said goodnight; asked the driver to take him home.
He had let her go, sent her away; in the most gentle, but determined way possible.
She had his number, but he didn’t have hers. A perfect gentleman; except that he was a pornographer, and thus repugnant.
She had called him the next day, asked if he could meet. She couldn’t bear that he didn’t understand her. She couldn’t bear the idea of never seeing him again, of it having ended like that. She couldn’t bear the idea of him not ever holding her like that again. She couldn’t bear the idea that he was a a pornographer.
But mostly, she wanted to see him again.
He didn’t reply immediately, and she was in agonies.
She didn’t get an answer for two days, during which time she had, weakly, sent a couple of obviously insecure, nervous, apologetic messages. She’d reread them and yearned to delete them, but hadn’t dared.
And then he replied
“Was on location. Remote, bad signal, long days. Sure, we can talk, if you need to.”
It was a hard, cold answer to read— although she couldn’t get angry— it wasn’t in the least rude; just, straight., and it took her an hour to come up with a pathetic answer, which again, she immediately wanted to delete.
“Thank you! Sorry! Yes. Please. You choose?”
His answer had been immediate, which was good, but named an upmarket bar that she had never been to, was intimidated just by the idea of.
But she said yes immediately, and wore the only dress that wouldn’t have her feeling insecure in such a swanky environment, and she was there early, meekly at the bar until he arrived and took her to his table. He was rather casually dressed, not at all smart, although he seemed perfectly at ease and fit right in, and she felt stupid all over again.
There was some little small talk, but he didn’t seem interested in it— though he was looking at her. He was hard to read; friendly enough, certainly; really looking at her, at her face, at her mouth, at her eyes, at her hands, just not giving anything away, and she found herself blurting out.
“That was so … so stupid of me; running away, crying, being rude … I … I … Will you … Can … Can we start over?”
A long silence, and then a smile that made her almost cry, a real friendly smile; he reached out and took her hands in his.
“I’d rather not start over. I’d rather carry on. It’s interesting. You’re interesting. Complicated. A crazy mixed up kid in the body of a gorgeous young woman.”
It was the first time he’d ever referred to her looks, and he did it perfectly— matter-of-fact; straightforward in a way that no-one had ever been. She was considered beautiful, it was real. But it wasn’t a definition of her, just an attribute.
And the night had ended up good.
… and the one after, and the one after that. They didn’t talk much. She just wanted to be with him, and he seemed content to chat in a relaxed way, long silences seemed unproblematic for him— though less so for her— she found herself getting girlishly embarrassed— a feeling she was unused to— mostly it was those around her who were awkward.
On the fifth evening, when she decided it was time to go home, she found she didn’t want to. In the end, she had to ask him;
“Will … will you … do … do you want to … take … take me home, please?”
“You want me to fuck you?” He was gentle, soft, thoughtful— checking, looking into her eyes. she just about managed a nod, suddenly overcome with nerves. What if he said ’no’?
“Really? Let the dirty, disgusting pornographer see you naked, put his hands on you, his cock in you?”
He said the harsh words softly, smiling at her, making a joke of it, really asking her if she was sure, giving her a chance to back out, checking she was certain.
And that made her want him more, and suddenly she was not shy;
“Yes. Yes Mr dirty old man, Mr sexist pig, mister degrader of women, I want you, please, to do those things to me. And … and … I … I want you to … to promise me that … that you’ll tell me what you want; what you’re used to, from …”
“From my whores?” He was still smiling, letting her off the hook, letting her fears play out, encouraging her to be honest, but demanding she face up to this, and she got bolder.
“I … I don’t know if … I don’t … We call them sex-workers, you know? It’s … its the business that … that degrades them, and and the history, but … bit we don’t judge them. They … they’re just … just workers.”
“We?”
“Femin … feminists.”
He smiled at her; “Oh! Of course. Big of you— not to disapprove of them. Very good. Well done.”
He was teasing her, but there was a little edge to it, and she felt its bite; what she had just said had been ridiculous. Pompous, know-nothing woke-ness; it was so obvious now he had pointed it out.
“You … you know what I mean…”
She had said, weakly, mollifying.
He was having none of it.
“No. sorry, but no. The women I photograph are much more complex than you have ever bothered to imagine. They are as complex as you. More so, most of them— because they are honest with themselves about their complexity, their mixed-upness, their confusion— rather than covering it up with a load of parroted opinions so that they don’t have to think.”
She had become frightened then. He wasn’t angry, wasn’t picking a fight, calmly smiling at her; but he was also serious, she could see, and she felt as she had that afternoon when she had first found out. Felt like running off, finding a hole and crawling into it, to cry, to bawl her self-pity in secret, full of shame and fear that she was going to lose him over this silliness.
And it seemed she might, because when she tried to back down, tell him he had changed her mind, he was silent, looking at her, not speaking, but waiting, until she had become properly frightened and blurted out;
“OK, OK, I talked shit and I don’t know and I … I do thin … think it’s awful that they … they have to … to let that happen to them, in … in … on film, it makes me feel all…”
She had dried up then, as he grinned at her, warm, friendly, but also laughing at her, and she realised she had just done it; made it clear that it was her own feelings she was talking about, not the girls she said she was concerned for.
Her pulse was racing now; she was feeling as if she could quite easily have hysterics. How could this have happened? How could she have got herself so wrapped up in knots, have ruined the evening, with such stupidity?
Tears threatened, but this time she wasn’t feeling like running away but like kneeling in front of him and just asking him, please, to tell her what to say, what to think, even, if it would make everything alright again, if only he would take her to bed and fuck her., then hold her afterwards, then …
Well then, frankly, he could do anything he wanted with her, afterwards, as long as he wanted her. It was that bad; that hard, the need inside her.
It wasn’t love. She didn’t love him; he certainly was not lover-like with her.
She was tongue tied,
“Actually, I’m off on a shoot tomorrow; getting an early flight; so couldn’t oblige you in any case.”
She had to swallow this. It was hard, but she made herself keep quiet, keep still, at least seem calm. She was going to drive him away, it was clear, if she couldn’t sort herself out. and now he was, he was. Going away.
Away on a shoot. Away with … with … whores. Tarts, sluts.
Questions jostled on her lips, demanding to be asked; she couldn’t ask any of them.
He hadn’t said whether he would have said yes if he had been able to.
The evening was broken, and, after being unable to get any other topic started in the face of his smiling silence, his steady eyes, she made up some bullshit about a headache which he let her get away with, even though they both knew it was a lie, he had again, just like that first time, made sure she was home safe, and left her.
Alone.
