Page 27 of Washed Up
“Let’s go next door.”
“Iris.” He grabs my hand. “Let’s stay here.” He backs me up against the door, and holding me by the chin, kisses me in a flighty way that barely allows our lips to touch. “Ever had sex in a swing before?”
“Um, no.”
“Want to?”
I do, now he’s suggested it. I always loved the sensation in my belly flying back and forth used to produce. I realise now, it was a form of arousal.
“Are we talking about the string contraption over there?”
“It’s secure, I promise. I’ve tested it. A lot.”
“How would that work?”
He cocks his head. Gives the hanging chair an assessing glance. “You swinging, me standing, I think.”
“You think.” I’m busy trying to envisage this pose. I can. All too well, if I’m honest. Me tilted backwards, my legs pulled up into a W shape but also splayed apart. Reid’s hands around my hips. His cock perfectly aligned. The damn chair even looks as if it’s hanging at precisely the right height.
“You’ll be able to sit back and enjoy and let me do all the work.” He winks. “Hell, you’ll probably have your hands free enough to snap the before, during, and aftermath.”
“Photograph you while we’re fucking?” I blurt it, even as the idea wraps itself around my synapses and my inner muscles clench. More than anything, I realise, even more than the notion of the swing, I’m obsessed with the idea.
Such an intimate moment, but will the camera make it clinical, or will it become an extension of my desire for this man? This beautiful, unruly, joker of a man, with his hair that determinedly curls at the ends, his scruff-covered jaw, and chiselled Adonis belt.
“Do you really want that much of yourself out in the world?”
“Why not? I can’t be with a thousand, ten thousand, a million fans, but I can give them fantasy fodder that maybe makes their days a little brighter.”
That seems very generous of him. “You don’t mind being objectified like that?”
“Why the hell wouldn’t I want people to look at images of me and think, Fuck! I really want to fuck that man? It’s the ultimate compliment.”
I can follow his logic, even if I don’t entirely agree. I guess that’s why I like being the one holding the camera, rather than the object of its focus.
“So, a few photos to get us warmed up?” Reid steps back a few paces, giving me room to focus the camera. He pulls his T-shirt off, tugging from the neck in the way that guys do, only he does it in slow motion. It’s hard to say if he’s giving me time to capture the moment, or if it’s because he’s a monumental tease. Either way, I eat it up. His body is all lines and shadows, and strategically placed ink. I love the way his muscles make a patchwork of his lower torso. A thin trail of hair, a lighter toneto that on his head, forms a marker between left and right that compels the gaze downwards.
“Fly?” he teases, finger and thumb coyly curled to his softly parted lips. I realise I don’t just want to capture him here. I want to see him sprayed with sea surf, sand clinging to the backs of his thighs and his bare arse. I want to see him stretched across a rumpled bed, clutching his guitar, and more… Scenario after scenario floods my mind, even as I capture him in the here and now.
Watching him undress is like being taken on a journey. The way he rolls off his socks. The way he takes one leg out of his jeans before the other and shields his assets from my view with a carefully positioned arm and hand after shedding his boxer briefs.
He turns, flashing me an arse that’s the equal of his abs. I’m obsessed with the divot right at the top of his cleft.
Reid, reaches back, inviting me to follow, and we shuffle over to the chair, where he demonstrates how I should recline in it. I take pictures from every angle. Pictures of bits of him that the public have never seen and probably shouldn’t. Some of these images, I’ve already decided, will be just for me. Mine to remember him by when this time is over. There’s already a clock ticking down on our time left together.
This is not the real world. It’s time out from that.
I pause, while I figure out what comes next. Where to pitch my hopes and dreams.
“Let me hold the camera for you a moment while you undress.”
“You’re not going to do it?”
“Uh-uh! I peeled you free of sodden things when you first washed up. Now I want to watch you get naked for me.”
I’m only wary because he’s holding a camera in his hand, and my skin is still a patchwork of yellows, browns, purples, andgreens. The bruises don’t hurt per se, but some areas are still tender when they’re touched.
“It’s okay, Ariel. I won’t love you through the lens. I’d rather do that without any filters between us.”
