attracted and repelled by him. He was much too old for me—I was only 22 at the time—and although he was polite and serious in all our interactions, his adult good looks and mature masculinity frightened me.
“After several months, he asked whether I would like to work one of the evening shoots. These occasional night shoots were mysterious events, signaled by the photographer sending me home earlier than normal. Although he always paid me for the full shift, I felt a dull jealousy. I wanted to be indispensable. I wanted him to acknowledge me as a professional, as a partner, not dismiss me like hired help.
“He said this shoot would be for a very particular client, a wealthy man whose tastes were unusual. He eyed me closely, and said, ‘The models may be nude.’
“I blushed but said I could use the extra hours.
“The truth was, I was dying of curiosity, and thrilled to be included.
“The afternoon of the special shoot brought a group of stylists who unloaded covered clothing racks, large locked cases and huge suitcases on wheels from a plain panel van. The photographer kept me busy setting up lights and snaking cables around a large platform that w as ultimately covered in fluffy white sheepskin rugs against a stark background.
“When the models arrived, they disappeared behind the racks and cases, where we had earlier arranged two futons piled with soft wraps and pillows. The studio was cavernous and chilly except under the lights, so I had assembled a beverage station with an electric kettle, an assortment of teas and some mugs I’d fished from a dusty storeroom cupboard. I could hear the occasional clink of a spoon against ceramic and low murmurs from behind the stack of gear. Once, I heard the pop of a cork, and giggles.
“Models in the studio always meant music. The photographer and I worked in silence normally. He was very reserved, and I had learned to relish the quiet atmosphere. That night, though, we listened to instrumental music that somehow made me think of firelight, and the velvety night sky over the Sahara. The music leapt and circled, winding through odd percussive rhythms and minor chord changes. I had never heard anything like it, and to this day, I don’t know what it was. It was a long, continuous flow of music, a river of sound.
“Finally, he called for the models.
“I hadn’t known what to expect, but then I was a naïve young person. This was years before the photography of Robert Mapplethorpe caused such a stir, and before episodes of prime-time police procedurals would feature accidental deaths in secret sex clubs. I had never seen anyone dressed in fetish gear before, because I wasn’t aware that fetishes existed. I’m sure my mouth was literally hanging open at the sight of the costumes.
“Of the three models, two were tall, very slender and small-breasted. They could have been twins, sealed in matching black latex body suits that covered their entire bodies and heads, while the face mask with its small eye slits revealed only the lower half of the face. Their twin full pouts were coated in shiny gloss.
“The most startling feature of the suits was the stylized male genitalia: two firm, ovoid plums hung beneath a slender, curving erection. They were beautifully sculpted in shiny ebony. As startled as I was, I was still able to admire the artistry that had gone into the design of these costumes.
“The third model was a blonde whose taut, creamy, and curvy body was draped in simple, skin-colored lingerie. The filmy material floated over the tips of her pointed breasts and softly skirted her rounded hips. Her body appeared pale and powdery under the lights, in contrast to the sleek black latex.
“To this day, I can’t imagine a more erotic tableau.
“The photographer arranged the three figures on the platform and took photo after photo. He positioned the feminine blonde standing alone, back to the camera, and her face in shadow while the light gleamed along
“After several months, he asked whether I would like to work one of the evening shoots. These occasional night shoots were mysterious events, signaled by the photographer sending me home earlier than normal. Although he always paid me for the full shift, I felt a dull jealousy. I wanted to be indispensable. I wanted him to acknowledge me as a professional, as a partner, not dismiss me like hired help.
“He said this shoot would be for a very particular client, a wealthy man whose tastes were unusual. He eyed me closely, and said, ‘The models may be nude.’
“I blushed but said I could use the extra hours.
“The truth was, I was dying of curiosity, and thrilled to be included.
“The afternoon of the special shoot brought a group of stylists who unloaded covered clothing racks, large locked cases and huge suitcases on wheels from a plain panel van. The photographer kept me busy setting up lights and snaking cables around a large platform that w as ultimately covered in fluffy white sheepskin rugs against a stark background.
“When the models arrived, they disappeared behind the racks and cases, where we had earlier arranged two futons piled with soft wraps and pillows. The studio was cavernous and chilly except under the lights, so I had assembled a beverage station with an electric kettle, an assortment of teas and some mugs I’d fished from a dusty storeroom cupboard. I could hear the occasional clink of a spoon against ceramic and low murmurs from behind the stack of gear. Once, I heard the pop of a cork, and giggles.
“Models in the studio always meant music. The photographer and I worked in silence normally. He was very reserved, and I had learned to relish the quiet atmosphere. That night, though, we listened to instrumental music that somehow made me think of firelight, and the velvety night sky over the Sahara. The music leapt and circled, winding through odd percussive rhythms and minor chord changes. I had never heard anything like it, and to this day, I don’t know what it was. It was a long, continuous flow of music, a river of sound.
“Finally, he called for the models.
“I hadn’t known what to expect, but then I was a naïve young person. This was years before the photography of Robert Mapplethorpe caused such a stir, and before episodes of prime-time police procedurals would feature accidental deaths in secret sex clubs. I had never seen anyone dressed in fetish gear before, because I wasn’t aware that fetishes existed. I’m sure my mouth was literally hanging open at the sight of the costumes.
“Of the three models, two were tall, very slender and small-breasted. They could have been twins, sealed in matching black latex body suits that covered their entire bodies and heads, while the face mask with its small eye slits revealed only the lower half of the face. Their twin full pouts were coated in shiny gloss.
“The most startling feature of the suits was the stylized male genitalia: two firm, ovoid plums hung beneath a slender, curving erection. They were beautifully sculpted in shiny ebony. As startled as I was, I was still able to admire the artistry that had gone into the design of these costumes.
“The third model was a blonde whose taut, creamy, and curvy body was draped in simple, skin-colored lingerie. The filmy material floated over the tips of her pointed breasts and softly skirted her rounded hips. Her body appeared pale and powdery under the lights, in contrast to the sleek black latex.
“To this day, I can’t imagine a more erotic tableau.
“The photographer arranged the three figures on the platform and took photo after photo. He positioned the feminine blonde standing alone, back to the camera, and her face in shadow while the light gleamed along
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