Fic: An Accomplished Photographer (NC-17)
Aug. 16th, 2009 02:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
obstinatrixTitle: An Accomplished Photographer
Pairing: Leonard/Zach (straightforwardly. This is not Pinto or Shatnoy, guys.)
Disclaimer: God, these are SUCH massive lies I hardly know where to look.
Warnings/Notes: Massive lies. Possible ooc-ness. OTP-fuckery. Written for a kinkmeme prompt that specified simply a desire for Leonard to take photographs of Zachary Quinto, nude. Nods were made in the thread to the fanon of the Quinto photographer-fetish. I'm afraid I added the porn myself.
Summary: Leonard takes photographs of Zachary. Zachary likes to be photographed.
This is archived here for completion's sake, like everything else. These random prompt fills are what I do when I'm bored and insomniac.
I'm an accomplished photographer. I've been told so, on a number of occasions, by a number of different people, and I guess I'm willing to accept the compliment in the spirit in which it was intended. I'm an accomplished photographer. I take pictures. And I'm not bad at it.
The thing is, taking pictures of someone you know is - well, a whole other kettle of fish, in more ways than one. For a long, long time, I wasn't keen on taking photographs of people with any focus on their faces. I did a lot of body shots, from weird and interesting angles, all these breasts and stomachs and thighs in stark black and white, with only the occasional side of a brow or anonymous jawline involved. They were good shots, don't get me wrong. But they all both derived from and encouraged the fact of me looking at bodies as if they were things, beautiful things to be admired and displayed to their best advantage. They were respectful photographs, but more often than not, what I was respecting here was the body, not the person it belonged to; and, later, the respect was all for what it represented. I didn't take photographs of people, not really.
All this being the case, I was a little apprehensive about photographing people, real people, people I actually knew to have friends and dogs and funny giggly laughs and all that other crap that comes with knowing someone. Bill asked me if he could 'be in my book' once, a few years ago, and I told him no on the grounds that nobody wanted to see his mug in their coffee table books, thanks, when they could be looking at naked women. He laughed, and called me a dirty old man, and let it go. I guess he was maybe a bit insulted. But the truth was, I had to be that harsh so he'd let the matter drop. I was afraid to take pictures of people I knew, any kind of pictures. I was afraid to do a goddamn portrait of a man I'd known for over forty years, mainly because I really didn't think I could successfully see him as a Thing.
So how I ended up photographing Zachary Quinto, not as a portrait subject, but as an honest-to-God nude, is something I still can't quite figure out. One minute, he was flicking through the book generically known as The Fat Lady Project; the next, he said something about me doing the Skinny Men Project; and before I'd thought of anything amusing to say in response, he'd offered his services.
And before I could refuse, five or six young voices had joined in the clamour and I'd been forced to relent or be deafened.
The Skinny Men project - or, as Zachary rechristened it on the phone to me that Saturday, when he called up to make sure I didn't intend to conveniently 'forget', 'The I-Am-Not-Spock Project' - was not pencilled in, but goddamn embossed.
The whole thing came about with the kind of suddenness that a man my age shouldn't have to deal with. I kept telling him - and Chris, and Karl, and Ms Saldana, who seemed rather more interested in this whole thing than she had any reason to be - that I needed some kind of plan in mind before I could get started. They all shouted me down, of course.
"Be spontaneous, Leonard," said Zachary. "It doesn't have to be a shoot for a book, or anything. Just take a load of pictures. Pose me! I promise I'm excellent at taking direction." And he quirked an eyebrow cheekily.
"You'd better be," I told him, darkly. "Because I mean it, Zachary; I have never taken pictures of anyone I know in any professional context whatsoever, and if you don't do what you're told - "
"I will!" he assured me, hurriedly and with enthusiasm. "I will do exactly what you tell me. Totally."
So, I arranged a date with him, and that, as they say, was that. It was settled. I was going to take a ton of random and spontaneous photographs of Zachary Quinto, for no real reason except that lots of very young and vocal people, whom I liked rather a lot, had demanded that I do so.
I really can be an old pushover, sometimes, especially for that lot.
Anyway. So there I was, waiting with my camera and my various other bits of equipment, scouting out the room for any areas that might possibly do well for natural light shots, when he came in. I looked up; met his eyes.
He was wearing a bathrobe. A blue one, so obviously one of his own, not one of the ones I keep lying around for people to wear in between shots. And it was perfectly obvious that he was completely naked underneath it.
Now, in retrospect, it seems pretty obvious to me that, as the 'Skinny Men Project' was originally proposed as a sort of brother-shoot to the Full Body Project, when Zach offered to pose, of course he was offering to pose naked. Of course. You couldn't have one book full of nudes and then expect people to accept, as its companion, a set of photographs of a clothed Zachary Quinto, however attractive he may be in his generally eclectic garb. Obviously he had expected to be photographed naked.
Thing was, I, for some reason, had not expected this.
He saw my hesitation, obviously, because he said - " - Leonard?" in a worried sort of tone, which immediately made me regretful, and I hastened to pull myself together. Gotta go through with it now, Nimoy.
"Zachary!" I tried my hardest to sound exactly the way I always did when I greeted him, fond and chirpy. Chirpily fond. I think I managed quite well. "Nice to see you. Er...you wanna sit on the couch?"
I indicated the appropriate piece of furniture, and he - after a moment's pause - abruptly untied the belt of the robe, slipped it from his shoulders, and pressed it into my stunned hand. Then he sank down onto the couch and crossed his legs a little self-consciously, awaiting further instruction.
I swallowed. He had the sort of trusting look on his face usually seen only on small children or dogs, and it was making me almost afraid to proceed, because you can't disappoint a face like that, and I didn't want to put a foot wrong. On the other hand, something about it made my own fears seem petty and ridiculous. After all, I wasn't the one naked on the couch, about to display my body like a work of art to be photographed. Thank God.
(Before anybody gets going: nobody wants to see that. Whatever a certain Mr Colbert may think. Trust me.)
I crossed the room to the desk, where I'd left my camera, and retrieved it. Zachary looked at it apprehensively, and I racked my brains for something calming to say. My voice, when it emerged, did sound pretty damn calm, a fact which still shocks me. All I can think is that it was the nerves that did it, ironic as it may sound. That kind of thing's happened to me in the past, after all.
"Okay, Zach. I need you to lift your left knee. Can you do that for me? Put your arm along the back of the couch. That's it - good."
Snap. Snap. Once I got going, it wasn't half so bad, as I'd really kind of suspected would be the case. He was still giving me that trusting look, apparently unconsciously, and I let him do it, because there was something interesting about it, the childlike openness of it in stark contrast to the youthful languor of his body, the innocently sexualised drape of his limbs. Zachary has really, really long legs; and I knew I was happily in The Zone when I realised that I'd just asked him to 'move the left leg up a bit, please'.
The leg. You know you're in Dissociation Central when you lose the ability to correctly apply the possessive pronoun to body parts.
He really did take direction well, and I was just about to congratulate him on this when he interrupted my request that he put the right leg back down with a mumbled " - um. Can I just keep it there for a bit?"
I paused, blinking, to look at him over the top of the camera. His voice, so utterly Zachary, had jolted me out of that space where legs were legs and bodies were bodies, and not bits and pieces of this young man I'd worked with, eaten with, taken to the theatre. Up until now, he'd taken every direction I'd given him in his stride, moving easily and silently in response to my prompts, being, in short, the perfect model. And now he was giving me a wide-eyed, pleading look, and practically cradling his right knee to his chest.
I peered across at him, and - yes. Poor Zachary. It really didn't take a genius to work out why exactly he wanted to keep his leg across his crotch just at that moment.
"Ah," I said, and met his eyes. "No worries, Zach. Take a break."
A slow blush crept into his cheeks. He shifted a little on the couch. I stared at him dumbly for a second, and then, in a rush of realisation, gasped out "Oh," probably sounding like an idiot, and bent to retrieve his robe. I tossed it to him. "Yeah, I guess you'll need this."
"I think so," he returned, with a little smile on his lips, and took the robe from me.
When he draped it around his shoulders, I was surprised to feel a sort of tightening in my chest, a mild regretful twinge at the loss of that objective beauty, his strong young shoulders and his smooth, pale skin. When you get to be my age, that's not something you see, much. Something about looking at a young man like that, rather than a woman, made the whole thing altogether more poignant, reminding me of what I don't see any more when I look in the mirror, don't feel any more when I'm soaping myself up half-awake in the shower. More poignant because, while I could, if I wanted to, probably find some smooth young woman who'd let me run my hands all over her, I could not ever be a smooth young man again.
Somewhere in the middle of this reverie, I'd put my hand on Zachary's shoulder, the robe soft and a little worn under my fingers, as if it had been well-loved. Realising this quite suddenly, I removed it, put both hands behind my back and out of harm's way, and said, "Don't worry about it. Honestly. It happens."
"Does it?" Zach muttered, blushing. Truth is, I had no idea. I haven't photographed enough men to know. Was it cold? Or...
It was pretty damn warm in there, it must be said. And if I thought that, at 78...
"Sure it does," I lied like a trooper. "It happen to you a lot?"
He ran a hand over his face, and he was embarrassed, but there was relief in there, too, like my nonchalance was reassuring him. I felt a twinge of guilt, but mostly I was glad. "Yeah," he said, slowly. "Quite a lot. I dunno, I guess I - like - being photographed?" He paused. "Is that weird?"
"As I say," I responded. "I, um. It's a valid response."
The robe didn't conceal the fact that Zachary was still validly responding to quite an alarming degree.
What was even more alarming was that, somewhere along the way, I'd started validly responding too.
I swear to God, I told them taking photographs of people I knew was a bad idea.
Thing is, it makes you objectify people. As I say, that's the point, really. And obviously, I'd started to objectify Zach, and found that, as an object, he was pleasing. And as an object, he was also - well - horny.
And as a horny object, he was, apparently, shameless. I spared a brief moment to wonder whether he'd been abruptly possessed by some kind of incubus when he looked from my face to my cock and back up again, and then promptly pulled me towards him by the belt-loops.
"Zach!" I protested. "What the hell are you doing?"
He paused, but it was distinctly a pause, not a full stop of any description. He looked up at me with that childlike expression again. It was even more disturbing on this occasion, given his position. He repeated, innocently, "It's a valid response."
And then he smiled, suddenly, cockily. I Am Not Spock seemed at that moment more apt a name than anything for this shoot, because that smile was, oddly enough, all James T. Kirk. I had a brief flash of inspiration, something to do with photographing Zach as everyone I could think of from the Star Trek universe except Spock.
And then he unzipped my pants, and took me in hand with no warning, and the flash kind of died behind my eyes.
Now, I suspected the Quinto boy was gay from the beginning, don't get me wrong. But even still, the speed at which he moved kind of stunned me, here. It was as if the simple act of being photographed had worked on him like an aphrodisiac. After all, I hadn't been doing anything even remotely sexy, gay or not gay. I don't even know if I'm capable of being remotely sexy any more, to a man his age, at least. It had to be some kind of exhibitionist kink or something.
Whatever it was, though, it was driving him, and driving him fast. I had just drawn breath to say something - anything - when he gave me a tentative lick, which made me lose my mental thread; and then swallowed me abruptly, gloriously whole, which nearly made me lose everything goddamn else.
I may or may not have uttered some profanities. I definitely grasped at his hair. Beautiful thick hair, Zachary has, dark and thick and slipping between my fingers as his head moved up and down on me, eager and quick. I looked down at the line of his cheekbone, the arch of his eyebrow, both of them classical, striking, and in no way capable of any sort of anonymity on film.
I could photograph him like this, I thought, if it weren't for the fact that he's recognisable by his eyebrows alone.
That was, if I remember rightly, about the last coherent thought I managed. He started doing some strange flicking thing with his tongue which was positively maddening, and sucked me deeper, a feat I wouldn't have thought possible. I was sure his jaw must have been practically unhinged, but he was making deep moaning sounds around me, gripping me by the hips with both hands and just sucking and licking and -
- I can't believe I'm recounting this, really. It's working on me again in retrospect, and that's - distracting. Bear with me.
Anyway. So there he was on the couch, Zachary Quinto with his black-dark eyes fixed on mine and his slack pink mouth around my cock, leaking at the corners. God, I wish I had taken a photograph of that. It would have topped anything I got in the shoot, and they turned out well.
Under circumstances like that, it was hardly going to take long on an old man like me. These things do not happen every day, not when you're 78 - and indeed, not when I was 28, either, let me tell you. I gripped his hair; I twisted it hard and he made a little appreciative sound that said he didn't mind the pain at all, and if anything, relished the silent order. That undid me. God, but the boy did take direction well. I thrust into his mouth again, again, again; and came, and he swallowed immediately, managing almost all of it, except for an inconsequential dribble that welled at one corner of his mouth when he finally, at length, released me.
Now that part, that part was Spock. Swallowing is logical. Keeps everything clean, saves time, provides protein.
What was most illogical was the fact that he had apparently just come himself without even being touched. When I moved to take hold of him, instinctively, to return the favour, my hand found him wet and sticky and spent. He gave me a sheepish look.
"That was hot," he whispered. His mouth was wet. He looked kind of as if he'd been in a fight, or something, his eyes bright and shining and his lips flushed. "Sorry."
"No problem," I said. It was a stupid thing to say, but I couldn't think of anything else. I rebuttoned myself into my pants and dusted my hands off on my shirt. "Can I - ?"
"I'll just get dressed," Zachary said, hastily. "Send me, um - the prints? If they're any good?"
And he slipped out, leaving me standing there in the middle of the room looking at the traces of dampness on the couch where he had been, and wondering what the hell had just happened.
So. That was the day I established that, yes, my previous thoughts about not taking photographs of people I know had been pretty damn correct. Taking pictures of someone you know is an exercise that makes you look closely at their body, their face, their gestures; it makes you objectify them. You see them as beautiful, even if they're not, really. They are your subject. You have to love them, and make the camera love them too.
I guess that's what happened with Zachary, although of course, he was beautiful already.
We weren't supposed to talk about what happened. When I took him the photographs - which were gorgeous, by the way - he blushed a lot and didn't say much. I called him the next day and told him he'd better not be weird just because I was a dirty old man. He turned up on my doorstep an hour later and told me I wasn't a dirty old man, and that he wasn't going to let me think so.
And, well. Susan and I have always had An Understanding. Suffice it to say that I take quite a few pictures of Zachary, now. I don't think he minds being objectified. In fact, I have quite a lot of evidence to the contrary.
Pictorial. Evidence.
Shame it'll all have to be burned, really. I don't want to ruin his career, but his mouth does look so pretty with my cock in it.
So, er, yes. I think this qualifies as crack.
Pairing: Leonard/Zach (straightforwardly. This is not Pinto or Shatnoy, guys.)
Disclaimer: God, these are SUCH massive lies I hardly know where to look.
Warnings/Notes: Massive lies. Possible ooc-ness. OTP-fuckery. Written for a kinkmeme prompt that specified simply a desire for Leonard to take photographs of Zachary Quinto, nude. Nods were made in the thread to the fanon of the Quinto photographer-fetish. I'm afraid I added the porn myself.
Summary: Leonard takes photographs of Zachary. Zachary likes to be photographed.
This is archived here for completion's sake, like everything else. These random prompt fills are what I do when I'm bored and insomniac.
I'm an accomplished photographer. I've been told so, on a number of occasions, by a number of different people, and I guess I'm willing to accept the compliment in the spirit in which it was intended. I'm an accomplished photographer. I take pictures. And I'm not bad at it.
The thing is, taking pictures of someone you know is - well, a whole other kettle of fish, in more ways than one. For a long, long time, I wasn't keen on taking photographs of people with any focus on their faces. I did a lot of body shots, from weird and interesting angles, all these breasts and stomachs and thighs in stark black and white, with only the occasional side of a brow or anonymous jawline involved. They were good shots, don't get me wrong. But they all both derived from and encouraged the fact of me looking at bodies as if they were things, beautiful things to be admired and displayed to their best advantage. They were respectful photographs, but more often than not, what I was respecting here was the body, not the person it belonged to; and, later, the respect was all for what it represented. I didn't take photographs of people, not really.
All this being the case, I was a little apprehensive about photographing people, real people, people I actually knew to have friends and dogs and funny giggly laughs and all that other crap that comes with knowing someone. Bill asked me if he could 'be in my book' once, a few years ago, and I told him no on the grounds that nobody wanted to see his mug in their coffee table books, thanks, when they could be looking at naked women. He laughed, and called me a dirty old man, and let it go. I guess he was maybe a bit insulted. But the truth was, I had to be that harsh so he'd let the matter drop. I was afraid to take pictures of people I knew, any kind of pictures. I was afraid to do a goddamn portrait of a man I'd known for over forty years, mainly because I really didn't think I could successfully see him as a Thing.
So how I ended up photographing Zachary Quinto, not as a portrait subject, but as an honest-to-God nude, is something I still can't quite figure out. One minute, he was flicking through the book generically known as The Fat Lady Project; the next, he said something about me doing the Skinny Men Project; and before I'd thought of anything amusing to say in response, he'd offered his services.
And before I could refuse, five or six young voices had joined in the clamour and I'd been forced to relent or be deafened.
The Skinny Men project - or, as Zachary rechristened it on the phone to me that Saturday, when he called up to make sure I didn't intend to conveniently 'forget', 'The I-Am-Not-Spock Project' - was not pencilled in, but goddamn embossed.
The whole thing came about with the kind of suddenness that a man my age shouldn't have to deal with. I kept telling him - and Chris, and Karl, and Ms Saldana, who seemed rather more interested in this whole thing than she had any reason to be - that I needed some kind of plan in mind before I could get started. They all shouted me down, of course.
"Be spontaneous, Leonard," said Zachary. "It doesn't have to be a shoot for a book, or anything. Just take a load of pictures. Pose me! I promise I'm excellent at taking direction." And he quirked an eyebrow cheekily.
"You'd better be," I told him, darkly. "Because I mean it, Zachary; I have never taken pictures of anyone I know in any professional context whatsoever, and if you don't do what you're told - "
"I will!" he assured me, hurriedly and with enthusiasm. "I will do exactly what you tell me. Totally."
So, I arranged a date with him, and that, as they say, was that. It was settled. I was going to take a ton of random and spontaneous photographs of Zachary Quinto, for no real reason except that lots of very young and vocal people, whom I liked rather a lot, had demanded that I do so.
I really can be an old pushover, sometimes, especially for that lot.
Anyway. So there I was, waiting with my camera and my various other bits of equipment, scouting out the room for any areas that might possibly do well for natural light shots, when he came in. I looked up; met his eyes.
He was wearing a bathrobe. A blue one, so obviously one of his own, not one of the ones I keep lying around for people to wear in between shots. And it was perfectly obvious that he was completely naked underneath it.
Now, in retrospect, it seems pretty obvious to me that, as the 'Skinny Men Project' was originally proposed as a sort of brother-shoot to the Full Body Project, when Zach offered to pose, of course he was offering to pose naked. Of course. You couldn't have one book full of nudes and then expect people to accept, as its companion, a set of photographs of a clothed Zachary Quinto, however attractive he may be in his generally eclectic garb. Obviously he had expected to be photographed naked.
Thing was, I, for some reason, had not expected this.
He saw my hesitation, obviously, because he said - " - Leonard?" in a worried sort of tone, which immediately made me regretful, and I hastened to pull myself together. Gotta go through with it now, Nimoy.
"Zachary!" I tried my hardest to sound exactly the way I always did when I greeted him, fond and chirpy. Chirpily fond. I think I managed quite well. "Nice to see you. Er...you wanna sit on the couch?"
I indicated the appropriate piece of furniture, and he - after a moment's pause - abruptly untied the belt of the robe, slipped it from his shoulders, and pressed it into my stunned hand. Then he sank down onto the couch and crossed his legs a little self-consciously, awaiting further instruction.
I swallowed. He had the sort of trusting look on his face usually seen only on small children or dogs, and it was making me almost afraid to proceed, because you can't disappoint a face like that, and I didn't want to put a foot wrong. On the other hand, something about it made my own fears seem petty and ridiculous. After all, I wasn't the one naked on the couch, about to display my body like a work of art to be photographed. Thank God.
(Before anybody gets going: nobody wants to see that. Whatever a certain Mr Colbert may think. Trust me.)
I crossed the room to the desk, where I'd left my camera, and retrieved it. Zachary looked at it apprehensively, and I racked my brains for something calming to say. My voice, when it emerged, did sound pretty damn calm, a fact which still shocks me. All I can think is that it was the nerves that did it, ironic as it may sound. That kind of thing's happened to me in the past, after all.
"Okay, Zach. I need you to lift your left knee. Can you do that for me? Put your arm along the back of the couch. That's it - good."
Snap. Snap. Once I got going, it wasn't half so bad, as I'd really kind of suspected would be the case. He was still giving me that trusting look, apparently unconsciously, and I let him do it, because there was something interesting about it, the childlike openness of it in stark contrast to the youthful languor of his body, the innocently sexualised drape of his limbs. Zachary has really, really long legs; and I knew I was happily in The Zone when I realised that I'd just asked him to 'move the left leg up a bit, please'.
The leg. You know you're in Dissociation Central when you lose the ability to correctly apply the possessive pronoun to body parts.
He really did take direction well, and I was just about to congratulate him on this when he interrupted my request that he put the right leg back down with a mumbled " - um. Can I just keep it there for a bit?"
I paused, blinking, to look at him over the top of the camera. His voice, so utterly Zachary, had jolted me out of that space where legs were legs and bodies were bodies, and not bits and pieces of this young man I'd worked with, eaten with, taken to the theatre. Up until now, he'd taken every direction I'd given him in his stride, moving easily and silently in response to my prompts, being, in short, the perfect model. And now he was giving me a wide-eyed, pleading look, and practically cradling his right knee to his chest.
I peered across at him, and - yes. Poor Zachary. It really didn't take a genius to work out why exactly he wanted to keep his leg across his crotch just at that moment.
"Ah," I said, and met his eyes. "No worries, Zach. Take a break."
A slow blush crept into his cheeks. He shifted a little on the couch. I stared at him dumbly for a second, and then, in a rush of realisation, gasped out "Oh," probably sounding like an idiot, and bent to retrieve his robe. I tossed it to him. "Yeah, I guess you'll need this."
"I think so," he returned, with a little smile on his lips, and took the robe from me.
When he draped it around his shoulders, I was surprised to feel a sort of tightening in my chest, a mild regretful twinge at the loss of that objective beauty, his strong young shoulders and his smooth, pale skin. When you get to be my age, that's not something you see, much. Something about looking at a young man like that, rather than a woman, made the whole thing altogether more poignant, reminding me of what I don't see any more when I look in the mirror, don't feel any more when I'm soaping myself up half-awake in the shower. More poignant because, while I could, if I wanted to, probably find some smooth young woman who'd let me run my hands all over her, I could not ever be a smooth young man again.
Somewhere in the middle of this reverie, I'd put my hand on Zachary's shoulder, the robe soft and a little worn under my fingers, as if it had been well-loved. Realising this quite suddenly, I removed it, put both hands behind my back and out of harm's way, and said, "Don't worry about it. Honestly. It happens."
"Does it?" Zach muttered, blushing. Truth is, I had no idea. I haven't photographed enough men to know. Was it cold? Or...
It was pretty damn warm in there, it must be said. And if I thought that, at 78...
"Sure it does," I lied like a trooper. "It happen to you a lot?"
He ran a hand over his face, and he was embarrassed, but there was relief in there, too, like my nonchalance was reassuring him. I felt a twinge of guilt, but mostly I was glad. "Yeah," he said, slowly. "Quite a lot. I dunno, I guess I - like - being photographed?" He paused. "Is that weird?"
"As I say," I responded. "I, um. It's a valid response."
The robe didn't conceal the fact that Zachary was still validly responding to quite an alarming degree.
What was even more alarming was that, somewhere along the way, I'd started validly responding too.
I swear to God, I told them taking photographs of people I knew was a bad idea.
Thing is, it makes you objectify people. As I say, that's the point, really. And obviously, I'd started to objectify Zach, and found that, as an object, he was pleasing. And as an object, he was also - well - horny.
And as a horny object, he was, apparently, shameless. I spared a brief moment to wonder whether he'd been abruptly possessed by some kind of incubus when he looked from my face to my cock and back up again, and then promptly pulled me towards him by the belt-loops.
"Zach!" I protested. "What the hell are you doing?"
He paused, but it was distinctly a pause, not a full stop of any description. He looked up at me with that childlike expression again. It was even more disturbing on this occasion, given his position. He repeated, innocently, "It's a valid response."
And then he smiled, suddenly, cockily. I Am Not Spock seemed at that moment more apt a name than anything for this shoot, because that smile was, oddly enough, all James T. Kirk. I had a brief flash of inspiration, something to do with photographing Zach as everyone I could think of from the Star Trek universe except Spock.
And then he unzipped my pants, and took me in hand with no warning, and the flash kind of died behind my eyes.
Now, I suspected the Quinto boy was gay from the beginning, don't get me wrong. But even still, the speed at which he moved kind of stunned me, here. It was as if the simple act of being photographed had worked on him like an aphrodisiac. After all, I hadn't been doing anything even remotely sexy, gay or not gay. I don't even know if I'm capable of being remotely sexy any more, to a man his age, at least. It had to be some kind of exhibitionist kink or something.
Whatever it was, though, it was driving him, and driving him fast. I had just drawn breath to say something - anything - when he gave me a tentative lick, which made me lose my mental thread; and then swallowed me abruptly, gloriously whole, which nearly made me lose everything goddamn else.
I may or may not have uttered some profanities. I definitely grasped at his hair. Beautiful thick hair, Zachary has, dark and thick and slipping between my fingers as his head moved up and down on me, eager and quick. I looked down at the line of his cheekbone, the arch of his eyebrow, both of them classical, striking, and in no way capable of any sort of anonymity on film.
I could photograph him like this, I thought, if it weren't for the fact that he's recognisable by his eyebrows alone.
That was, if I remember rightly, about the last coherent thought I managed. He started doing some strange flicking thing with his tongue which was positively maddening, and sucked me deeper, a feat I wouldn't have thought possible. I was sure his jaw must have been practically unhinged, but he was making deep moaning sounds around me, gripping me by the hips with both hands and just sucking and licking and -
- I can't believe I'm recounting this, really. It's working on me again in retrospect, and that's - distracting. Bear with me.
Anyway. So there he was on the couch, Zachary Quinto with his black-dark eyes fixed on mine and his slack pink mouth around my cock, leaking at the corners. God, I wish I had taken a photograph of that. It would have topped anything I got in the shoot, and they turned out well.
Under circumstances like that, it was hardly going to take long on an old man like me. These things do not happen every day, not when you're 78 - and indeed, not when I was 28, either, let me tell you. I gripped his hair; I twisted it hard and he made a little appreciative sound that said he didn't mind the pain at all, and if anything, relished the silent order. That undid me. God, but the boy did take direction well. I thrust into his mouth again, again, again; and came, and he swallowed immediately, managing almost all of it, except for an inconsequential dribble that welled at one corner of his mouth when he finally, at length, released me.
Now that part, that part was Spock. Swallowing is logical. Keeps everything clean, saves time, provides protein.
What was most illogical was the fact that he had apparently just come himself without even being touched. When I moved to take hold of him, instinctively, to return the favour, my hand found him wet and sticky and spent. He gave me a sheepish look.
"That was hot," he whispered. His mouth was wet. He looked kind of as if he'd been in a fight, or something, his eyes bright and shining and his lips flushed. "Sorry."
"No problem," I said. It was a stupid thing to say, but I couldn't think of anything else. I rebuttoned myself into my pants and dusted my hands off on my shirt. "Can I - ?"
"I'll just get dressed," Zachary said, hastily. "Send me, um - the prints? If they're any good?"
And he slipped out, leaving me standing there in the middle of the room looking at the traces of dampness on the couch where he had been, and wondering what the hell had just happened.
So. That was the day I established that, yes, my previous thoughts about not taking photographs of people I know had been pretty damn correct. Taking pictures of someone you know is an exercise that makes you look closely at their body, their face, their gestures; it makes you objectify them. You see them as beautiful, even if they're not, really. They are your subject. You have to love them, and make the camera love them too.
I guess that's what happened with Zachary, although of course, he was beautiful already.
We weren't supposed to talk about what happened. When I took him the photographs - which were gorgeous, by the way - he blushed a lot and didn't say much. I called him the next day and told him he'd better not be weird just because I was a dirty old man. He turned up on my doorstep an hour later and told me I wasn't a dirty old man, and that he wasn't going to let me think so.
And, well. Susan and I have always had An Understanding. Suffice it to say that I take quite a few pictures of Zachary, now. I don't think he minds being objectified. In fact, I have quite a lot of evidence to the contrary.
Pictorial. Evidence.
Shame it'll all have to be burned, really. I don't want to ruin his career, but his mouth does look so pretty with my cock in it.
So, er, yes. I think this qualifies as crack.
