Travel Thursday: NOO YAWK

For all of those who love Noo Yawk, as well as all people who live in Noo Yawk, this may come as a shock.
I hate Noo Yawk.
So what? most people are saying right now. You’ve always been a bit weird about things like that. Check out your disdain for women who aren’t “Natural.” What is up with that?
As for Noo Yawkers, it’s awhl raght for us ta badmouth awr city, but strangers ain’t allowed, so take a flyin’ leap off the friggin’ Brooklyn Bridge, ya bastard. What, you maybe wants a little sympathy cuz yer not in yer sunny, laid-back, lotus-eatin’ land? FUHGEDDABOUTIT!
Don’t have the time to explain what a lotus is, or why you would eat it. Read a book, people.
Especially those of you in Noo Yawk. . .

Anyway, I wasn’t very happy about being in Noo Yawk. . . er, excuse me, NEW YORK, either, especially now with the elevator not working properly in one of the seemingly millions of nondescript high-rises in Manhattan. Somehow, probably as a prank, the elevator would not come down to the bottom, or indeed anywhere below the fifth floor. I hate stairs as much as I hate New York, and my backpack was feeling heavier by the step. And my laptop kept banging against my knee every other step, which was sure not to be good. . . for my knee.
Luckily I had an assistant to puff his way up with the heavy stuff, yet the guy was still walking faster up the damn stairs. Whatever, I groused, wondering if today’s model was going to be as hot as her pictures led me to believe.
I thought back to just a few minutes ago, getting on the dreaded subway. “Just in time!” the driver cackled as I reached the door.
“Timing is everything.”
“Sure is.”
Who said New Yorkers weren’t friendly?
Well, I did, but that’s beside the point. I remember a tourist in El Lay I’d been actively pursuing, who’d told me “Wow, the people here awr actually quite nice!” The Suthin’ gal had said it with so much surprise I’d given up on her right then and there, before I could make any Alabamy jokes, so it was probably for the best.
That reminiscence got me through the rest of the walk up without having to think about the damn stairs.
When I got to the fifth, the assistant was hacking while holding the door to the elevator, like any good toady should. . . hacking as in coughing, by the way, just to set things straight. I didn’t thank him as I got in, not wanting to spoil the toadyness the guy had worked so long to develop, but I still couldn’t help my own nice nature as a feminine voice asked me to wait for her. . . wait the elevator, that is.
It looked like the woman had run up the stairs, though I couldn’t tell how I knew; she didn’t seem to be panting. She had one of those rare bodies that looked in-shape and curvy at the same time, I noticed almost automatically; some reflexes are more fun than others.
“Thanks!” she beamed at both of us, obviously used to guys not looking at her face. . . well, not at first, anyway. She was beautiful enough that we’d get around to it. Eventually.
She suddenly looked down at my waist. “Your flap’s open.”
I grinned at her, to cover up my embarrassment. “Thanks for noticing.” I reached for my zipper, only to realize it was shut tight.
“Not that!” the big girl laughed. “On your laptop! Good way to break the keys.”
“Oh, that!” Luckily the light bulb went on as I peered at her face, seeing it for the first time devoid of makeup, as well as in person. “I sure hope you’re the new model.”
She looked surprised, but pleased too. “That’d be me,” she agreed, then seemed to startle at the way the assistant started to drool on cue.
The silence was comfortable as the elevator did the job it was supposed to do higher than the fifth floor. Everyone seemed to be grinning, but in different degrees and for different reasons.
Once inside the better lighting of the studio, I checked her out more carefully; as the photographer, I felt I was within his rights to do this. She simply stood there and smiled, apparently agreeing. “Glad you’re a model who can follow instructions. I want to shoot you just like that to begin.”
She looked down at herself, having wondered why I wanted her in jeans, white t-shirt, and sneakers, no makeup; if it wasn’t for her curves, she’d look about fourteen. When she was done inspecting herself, she dumped her stuff to the side, next to the unlit and unused makeup table, and moved to stand between the main lights, looking at me.
“Take your time,” I soothed. “You are literally the only lady in the place till after lunch. No rush.”
“Are you always this patient?” She gave me a wink for emphasis.
Hmmm, she worked faster than I did. Maybe it was time to play it cool with a new chick, for once. “Always make sure the model is comfortable. That’s rule #1.”
She tried not to grin too broadly. “I thought rule #1 was make sure the lens cap is off.”
“I’m talking about the advanced course rule #1.”
“You’re thinking of the beginner’s course. It’s like not having to remind yourself to breathe. . . or stare at a beautiful woman.”
“Well said. Don’t stop flirting.”
I tried to frown. “Haven’t started yet. You’ll know it when I do.”
“Mmmm, can’t wait.”
“Want classes in patience?”
“Well, that came around to bite me a lot sooner than expected! But some other time. Right now I like the rising tension.”
“As long as you don’t show it to the camera.”
“Then let’s get started while you’re still smiling. We’ll do five to ten of you doing whatever poses you want. Go ahead.”
She seemed surprised, but happily so.
And we were off. . .

It didn’t take long for me to realize she wasn’t shy about showing off her curves. It was one thing to thrust them out in a tight t-shirt, even if it wasn’t wet, and to wear painted-on jeans, but to pull them off so easily–especially those tight jeans–and yet make it into a sensual striptease that I hoped the camera was capable of catching. . .
Usually I looked at a model as more of a mannequin through the camera, if only to keep me from committing professional suicide by coming on to her, but not this one. She was too spectacular, overwhelming my usual sense of competence. Not that I would do anything about it during the shoot, but this was a rare one I’d like to know better later. She seemed like a smart cookie, personable, but right now I concentrated on the fact she was naked. {In the original version I wrote quite a few paragraphs about what an amazing body she had, but obviously there’s no need for that here; you’re welcome.} Suffice to say this was a most mouthwatering ensemble of young femininity.
“Like my bod?” she winked.
“Stupidest question ever.”
“More curves than a. . .?” she prompted, just to see what would happen.
“Give me a day, I’ll come up with hundreds,” I grinned, not playing her game. “For now, show them to the camera.”
“Yes sir,” she replied meekly, though seemingly not discouraged that her plan hadn’t worked. I was right about patience after all. “You’re not worried about me being so different than the typical model?”
“One of my mottos is ‘I enjoy being different.’ I’ll save the other one for a better occasion.”
“Okaaay. Still, I’m a curvy girl among sticks. There’s a body fascism practiced by photog–”
“Not true! It’s the people who pay the photogs who demand what type of model to use.”
“Nice try,” she smirked.
“Considering I chose to shoot you–”
“Sorry! Sorry sorry sorry!”
“I don’t accept apologies,” I replied as primly as I could. “One of my other mottos is ‘get it right the first time.’ So think before you leap, model.”
“You remind me of a guy I met on the subway. He offered me a lot of money to make a big spread for him.”
“And did he want to photograph you too?”
She gave me a slight grin for that one, then went on with her story. She seemed pleasantly surprised to find me actually listening, making appropriate comments at the right time, all while shooting her. She’d said she’d never had an intelligent conversation during a shoot before.
Well, as long as the surprises were pleasant, she’d enjoy being different every once in a while too. . .

{to be continued}



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