Page 11 of The Photo
My shorts tent as my hardness swells with an excruciating throb. This is irrational and one hell of a turn on.
Then without thinking, I close the image before I take it one step too far and jerk off on the spot. I’ll save that for the shower because it will be an almighty release after this.
Maybe it’s the lack of sex that’s driving me to distraction. Perhaps if other women turned me on the way she does, then this whole Rowan thing could be easily forgotten.
I could possibly cure my obsession with a one night hook up. To test the theory, I select a few messages below hers. They’re mostly contrived pictures of hot women with strategically squished boobs, colorful lollipops dipping in and out of their mouths, dirty text talk and—boring.
Rowan’s message was simple. She’s not trying to win me over with that cute smile of hers or offer me any contrived incentive to fuck her.
That’s what I’m used to. I’m more than just an image on a billboard; I’m a person with opinions and have more to offer than the visual aspect of my being. I guess that’s the price to pay for fame and fortune.
I wonder how I’d react if she sent me a sexy selfie with daring fingers placed between her thighs. Wow, blood rush. My head spins. I grip the counter as my pulse jumps. I’m so contrary. Rowan has me questioning this shit. My dirty imagination hurts my dick.
The instinct to browse her account takes over. I’m standing before my unwashed reflection wearing black sports shorts, with a bare chest and full-blown hard on, stalking Rowan’s life over the past few months. I can tell she’s a talented photographer. Most of the images are landscapes with modifications to alter the saturation and contrast. The scenery in Ireland is like something from “Game of Thrones,” but it’s not half as impressive as the image I keep revisiting.
Her face.
I study the features of the woman who’s naively grinning back at me. It’s like she’s happy to see me and fully aware I’m smiling back at her.What the actual fuck?I’m grinning at a photo like a goofy teen. One thing’s for sure, whoever took that picture of her is one lucky fucker.
Then it hits me, I’ll send her another selfie. To Rowan, no one else. I’m curious to note her reply—like a test of some sort. I get myself prepared to retake the shot, only this time I drop my shorts, grab the mother of all seashells and use it to cover my pulsating dick. The naughty joke unfurls in my stomach, thrilling me with a jolt. I don’t care that I’m not standing in the perfect ab clenching pose, or that I’m smiling instead of acting professional. It’s liberating.
N Adams:
No seahorse’s in Rio, only big fucking shells.
Then I tap send and set it free.
Six
I’m still in shock that my Giant’s Causeway photograph from North of Ireland was selected for the event. The day I took that picture, the lighting was at its best, and the rain held off long enough to let sunlight twinkle over the choppy water surrounding the cylindrical stones. It was also sheer luck that a rainbow bent across the sky at the exact second the shutter clicked. Even if I say so myself, that image is one of my all-time favorites. It deserves to hang on a bright white wall in an artsy gallery.
We touch down in London, Ontario, and my heart skips more than one beat. I’ve never been this far from home, and the blue sky beyond the small airplane window is so inviting and welcoming.
“Everyone, wait inside at arrivals. There’s a minibus waiting to take us to the hotel.” Mr. Potato Skull claps his hands bidding for our attention.
Chelsea is engrossed in her mini mirror, blotting powder and applying her signature lip gloss. Traveling economy has its pitfalls, like the cramped legroom and elbow wars. They had held me captive in the middle seat with chatty Chelsea to my left and a big bearded man to my right. It wasn’t his unkempt curly facial hair that turned my stomach, more so the way it filled with crumbs after he ate. I could have forgiven him for that, but then his phlegm grunts and snorts as he slept like a baby had me considering how much jail time I’d do for holding a pillow over his face. After a mini can of beer and equally small packet of salty snacks, my mood simmered.
I didn’t sleep. It was impossible to get comfy sitting upright like a sardine. Not that I’m complaining, at all. This is an adventure of a lifetime, and I’ll be roaming the same piece of land that Noah calls home.
We finally burst free of the fish tin and hit Canadian territory. Inside the massive arrivals lounge, I search for a trolley and park it at the luggage carousel. I switch my phone back on, ready to post a picture of the airport to my social media profile.
This is the most exciting destination I’ve ever been to. The world needs an announcement. I also need to text my parents and tell them I’m safely back on land. The phone beeps to life with a few messages. Who knew I was so popular?
An email alert arrives first. The new tripod I ordered was delivered to my parent’s house. I saved for a year to get the one I wanted. Then there’s a text message from my mother reminding me to call her when I’ve landed, and last of all, a private message notification from—N Adams. Oh, my fucking life.
I inhale a gulp of Canadian air. It fills my lungs the same way the air at home would, but this deep breath feels more satisfying.
Chelsea mingles with the rest of our party by the rotating conveyor belt. I have as much privacy as anyone can have in an airport filled with eyes. I slink backwards and press into a baggage allowance sign. My pulse trips and staggers a few beats. That unsteady rhythm makes me woozy and breathless. Noah messaged me. I mute a squeal, and a whimper squeaks out instead. If my knickers could physically knot, they’d be excruciatingly tight. The suspense jitters through me.
I hesitate, purposely delaying the big reveal. Boisterous butterflies chase my excitement, and I take a beat to appreciate the unread message from Noah Adams. He thought about me enough to send whatever is contained in this message. Be calm, my hopeful little heart.
My eyes squeeze shut, and then after a count of three, I peer through slitted lids and pat the screen.
WOW!
He sent me a reflection selfie of his tanned ripped stomach, all the way from Rio, with a massive seashell hiding his dick. Oh holy fuck, my heartbeat doubles—he’s naked.
I’m speechless. Dumbstruck. My lips move as I mouth the message with eyes so wide, they blur. Seahorses. Big fucking shells.
