Date: Thu, 3 Jun 1999 11:21:56 -0400 (EDT)
From: Williehewes@yahoo.com
Subject: Shooting Romeo

			      Shooting Romeo
 
I was going to do a shoot with some teen-idol, an actor. I don't really
like that kind of work, my art was always more important to me, but
sometimes these teeny-boys are actually quite handsome. And, more
importantly, it's what got me paid, and daddy's allowance was getting a bit
tight for my extravagant lifestyle. So, that's why I accepted it.

As I was going to do it anyway, I decided I should go about this
professionally, so first of all, I had to find out who this guy was. He
played in a recent filmversion of one of Shakespeare's plays. Although I
seriously appreciate Shakespeare, and was sure that this film was just a
horrible modernized rape of the original play, I went out and got the
video. After all, this was what made him popular with all the girls, and I
should see what they had been seeing to be able to portray him in a way
they would like.

On a lost, late night, when I was too tired to go out, and too awake to go
asleep, I shoved it up the VCR, and sat down with a bag of pop-corn to
watch. The first minutes seemed to greet my worst expectations: Capulets
and Montagues fighting each other with guns, and speeding cars and gas
stations going up in the air, I had almost stopped the tape and gone to
bed.

But then, there was Romeo. A slender figure, taken from a distance, and a
half total, as he walked across the sceen with a sideward glance towards
the camera. Something strange seemed to happen in my stomach. I turned up
the volume, and listened closely to an east-coast accent speaking the
ancient lines as if they were crisp and new as the young man himself; made
for each other. I watched closely the way his muscles moved under his open
blue shirt. And couldn't help grinning at his conciously overacted fake
depression. By the end of Act I scene 1, before Juliet had even been
mentioned, I had fallen like a log for Romeo.

I had not expected this, surely he was a good-looking guy, but wasn't I a
little too old to be falling in love with a hollywood star? The scene moved
to Juliet, and I gathered myself up; c'mon, he's just a boy for christ
sake, stop acting like an idiot.

But the film was so much better than I expected. The whole play was given
new life by this fresh aproach, by the stunning young couple, and the
modern, but somehow fitting music. At the end, the familiar disclosure of
the tragedy, I was crying like a madman.

I must have sat there for hours, recovering from the tragedy, staring at my
empty tv screen. My thoughts were just a shapeless blurb, while it vaguely
became clear to me I was going to meet this superman in real life.

In the couple of days that were left before the shoot, I acted like a
perfect idiot. I couln't stop thinking of him. I wanted to hear and know
about him as much as possible. I even bought a couple of those teeny-mags,
that had him on the cover, and read all the interviews, trying to find out
what sort of guy he was. Every now and then I would look up from the trash
I was reading, wondering, what was wrong with me? But the next moment I was
back looking at those pictures, dreaming off like any overweight
thirteen-year-old.

At the morning of the shoot, I woke up a bit nervous. I had gotten myself
all worked up over this guy, how was I going to react if I really met him?
It wasn't as hard as I feared though. He was nice to me, and I had myself
under control, as always. He was a cheerful, energetic lad, and it was a
pleasure just to look at him, through the eye of my camera, zooming in at
places of special interest, while he was posing and moving and and smiling
to get the pictures we wanted. He did everything I asked him to do, which
was tantalizing, and stuck out his tongue at me once or twice, which sent
ripples of pleasure down my spine. Oh, Yes. I loved this guy! I suppose we
did pretty good work, but I'm a real perfectionist, and these scenes are
just never quite right. There wasn't enough time, of course, the make-up
girl didn't really understand what I wanted, and generally there were too
many people around.

My model seemed to notice my annoyance, and asked if there was something
wrong. I told him he was great, of course, (never hurts to suck up), but
that there was just a bit too much pressure for my taste. I hesitated, then
added that I would like to do a shoot with him in a more quiet environment,
so we could get it right, and I could really get the images I had in
mind. I realised he might not take this very well, after all, he was
clearly straight, straight as a line, and I had the strange idea that he
was a bit nervous about gays.

But he didn't take it in that way at all.

"Gosh," he said, "you are really serious about this, aren't you?"
Sincerity sparked in his eyes.

"Well," I answered, "photography is not just work to me, it's art. And, if
I may say so, you really are a great model..." I think I blushed. He made a
joke out of it;

"Of course you may say so, I Love hearing just how Gorgeous I am." He turned
round in a gesture of fake self-indulgence and tossed his hair back in a
delightfully overdone way. I could have kissed him on the spot.

Things were settled soon enough. He would come to my attic, and there we
would take the time to make some really good pictures, just the two of us.

I have my own little studio on the top floor, and that morning, before he
would come, I was busy for hours getting my things ready, changing the
lighting and fumbling around with different cameras, until after a while I
noticed I was not doing this to prepare for the shoot, but because I was
nervous. This was bad. I sat down, and took a few deep breaths. I wasn't
going to allow myself to be nervous, for a shoot, and this idolatory had
really gone far enough. After all, he was simply a goodlooking guy, right?

How wrong I was I realised as soon as I saw him again. He was not just
goodlooking, He was Beautiful. He was the beauty I had been looking for in
my work. Male, but with a sexless grace that seemed able to charm any kind
of person. A dazzeling bright smile, that was surprisingly Real, and big,
deer-like eyes that looked around at the things in my studio as if it were
the garden of Eden. He was the beauty the world had been waiting for. And
he was here, in my home, in my sight, at my command.

I stared at him. He must have noticed, for he turned to me and smiled. I
felt the blood rush to my face, and tried to say something, but it came out
all scrambled. His eye-brows shot up in surprised amusement, and my legs
felt like pulp. It was time to hide behind my camera and catch my breath.

He was wearing a short-sleeved, brightly-coloured shirt, rather like the
one he wore for Romeo and Juliet, and khaki, wide jeans. To loosen him up,
I made him move around a little, dancing to a soft trance-beat. He was
loose enough allready, but I felt like I was going to lose myself. All this
gorgeousness, here, now, and it moved!

We worked for a long time. I spent quite a while trying to recapture that
sideward glance that had made me fall in love originally. I made him do it
again and again until he was crossing his eyes in frustration.

"Ok, it's good enough like this. Take a seat while I reload." He dragged a
chair over and sat down exhaused, while I put a new film in my camera.

"Why don't you unbutton your shirt?", I suggested.

"Why?" he asked with a strange smirk.

"Do you think there's something beneath it?" I answered in an offhand way.

"Well, I think there should be a chest or something?" He didn't answer
immediately, and although I had my back turned at him, I guessed he was
unbuttoning his shirt as I had asked. When he spoke again, I could hear his
dissatisfaction.

"Here, look. No muscles, no tits. Nobody's gonna get excited over a chest
like that." I turned around and looked at it. Incredibly smooth skin, that
seemed almost luminiscent in the blueish lights. Small, pink nipples that
stood erect in the cold airstream and a belly that was perfectly flat, with
a trace of soft blonde hairs leading into his jeans. I gasped. I almost
dropped my camera. What the hell was wrong with me? After a deep breath I
managed to say:

"You are wrong. Everybody's going to get excited over that chest. Muscles
are already going out again. You, my friend, are the perfect example of the
New Ideal. It's e!  xactly as you said: no muscles, no tits, You Are, the
universal, sexless beauty that will appeal both to men and to women all
over the world."

He folded his shirt back, apparently a bit bewildered by my answer. I went
back to my old spot, in front of him, holding my camera like a mask before
my face.

"Now, it is time to put that amazing acting-talent of yours to use." He did
the hair toss again and smiled mockingly.

"This is not a camera," I told him,

"This is a woman. A beautiful woman, sitting across the room, looking at
you. And you can take her home tonight, if you can only get her hot enough.
But don't say anything, use your body."

He understood perfectly what I meant. He was still sitting on that chair,
and now crossed his legs. He leaned back with a look of arrogance. He put
his hands between his thighs and spread his legs, his handpalms open
towards me. And all the while, he kept his eyes on the camera, smiling,
winking, looking at the electric eye and, indirectly, at me.

When I am taking pictures, my camera is more than just a mask for me. It
makes the images I create in front of me seem less real, looking via a
viewfinder is a bit like looking television, it can be arousing, but it is
not real, and therefore, safe.

This is why I could easily keep calm when I noticed the bump of his crotch
was beginning to grow. It was good for the pictures, therefore there could
never be any harm in it. I kept talking to him, reassuring him, coaching
him to be even more explicit, and he started to touch his crotch, rubbing
his hands up and down the fine denim. His eyes were half closed, but still
looking at the camera, and then he opened his legs even more. It was
driving me mad, but I kept talking to him, making my voice sound like I was
going to come myself, which wasn't too far from the truth.

That's when he let out a soft moan, and I realised, for a moment, what was
going on. My worshipped celluloid God was sitting in front of me,
practically masturbating, and he was losing control over himself. I
thought about taking a pause for a moment, to let him catch his breath, but
I was enjoying it too much to stop just yet.

With his eyes turned to the ceiling now, he unbuttoned his fly and put his
hand in his boxershorts to finish what he had started. I had stopped
talking, and was staring in amazement at that wonderful sight, that was
shortly interrupted everytime I pressed my button. My mouth felt dry. All
one could hear now were his sighs, and the mechanical, unpersonal clicking
of the camera. He put his other hand up, stroking his chest and pulling his
own nipples.

He let out another moan, and I realised it wouldn't take much longer. I
could see his muscles tighten, his left hand clenched to a fist, his legs
wrapped around the legs of the chair. He came almost without making a
sound, his face turned upwards, his eyes squeezed shut. His hips made
little spastic thrusts and he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then
finally the tension was released and he gasped for air, relaxing slowly,
panting, remaining in the same position and keeping his eyes closed.

For a long time he just kept sitting there like that, and at last I lowered
my camera. I was shocked to see, suddenly, how close he was to me, how
close I had been to him all this time. Only now I felt the urge to touch
him, and it washed over me like a hot wave out of nowhere. Oh, I just had
to touch him, to kiss his lips and feel those nipples between my teeth, to
hold him and tell him I'd never let go.

But there was still a safety latch somewhere in my brain, crying out: No!
Don't! He's straight, remember? I took a step back. Oh, God, I thought, he
IS straight. That poor boy. He got a bit too exited and he lost control and
now he doesn't know what to do, and he's just sitting there, too embarrased
to even move!

I tried to make it as easy as possible for him, and turned round again to
my desk, trying to calm down and replace the film in the camera. I heard
him get up, and bent my head, waiting for him to speak. But he didn't say
anything, and I turned round. I jumped, as he was right behind me, and I
looked directly into the blue-rimmed pools of black that were his eyes, and
they had a look of panic. He held his hand at shoulder hight, and moved
even closer, looking at me with fear, and a question in his eyes. I saw his
fingers glistened with a wet substance, and before I knew I was going to, I
got hold of his wrist and took his finger in my mouth.

The taste brought back instant memories, of old afternoons spent in bed,
playing the crazy games of love, and my balls cried out in a desire that
was almost pain. But I let go of him, and tried to take a step back,
bumping into the desk, and leaning back, away from him. He was still
standing there, his hand in the air, looking as innocently as
Frankenstein's monster. "I think," I heard myself whisper, "you should go
and ... wash your hands."

Self-Sabotage. He nodded, staring blankly into nothingness, and turned
around and started walking slowly towards the bathroom. Tears filled my
eyes. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. If I had made my move he
probably wouldn't have protested. I sat down, my forehead still wrinkled up
in thought, and waited for him to come back...
  

Story by: Williehewes@yahoo.com, drop me a line if you like it, there might
be a next chapter.