Camera Shy: Chapter 2

“Mrs. Mattley,” I call out from across the room, “can you arch your back and stick your butt out a little more, or will that be bothersome for your arthritis?”

My assistant, Lennox, blinks at me as I lower my Canon, peeling my eyes away from the LCD screen. I roll my eyes at her. “Yeah, I heard it,” I mutter under my breath.

“Weird sentence, man. Just weird.” Lennox lets out a breathy chuckle.

There is a seventy-year-old woman kneeling next to a large wooden-framed bed, trying her best to squeeze her breasts together and form some semblance of cleavage. I groan.

This isn’t working.

“She looks so uncomfortable,” Lennox says as she bumps her elbow against mine. “I feel bad for her. We need to start putting an age cap on these photo shoots.”

“Hush. She’s elderly, not deaf,” I say in a low tone. “This is really fucking brave of her. Be supportive and hope you’re this cool when you’re in your seventies.” I shoot her a warning look. “Go get me the really big red pillows from the main living room.”

Lennox stalls, her brows furrowing. She staged this set meticulously, down to the antique jewelry box sitting on the mirrored dresser. She even sanded and stained the wooden saloon doors because they weren’t the exact right shade for the photo shoot.

This set is the only reason my business is somewhat afloat. Not every woman wants their boudoir photographer to be male, which I understand. I really think I’m the best in the business. I know how to make a woman feel comfortable, respected, and championed, but they have to take a chance and actually hire me to understand that. But the Western set Lennox designed sways enough business our way. We have a lot riding on the fact that apparently every woman wants to be photographed as a sexy cowgirl.

Lennox is very particular about the set and I just asked her to bring in impromptu props that she did not approve. Tough. Deal with it. I’m the boss. She designed the set, but I run the shoot. I handle the clients when it matters most. It takes a very special personality to run a boudoir photography business—zero snark, snickers, and judgment allowed. “Hustle, girl.” Shooing Lennox off the set, I grab a mini bottle of water off the break table toward the back of the room.

“Here you go, Mrs. Mattley.” I hand her the water bottle after I twist off the cap. “You’re doing really great. How about a little break?” Holding her elbow firmly, I help her off her knees and guide her to sit. “There. Better?”

She nods and rubs her aching knees.

Poor thing. I really didn’t take into consideration how difficult some of these positions could be on her body. Even the tops of her bare feet are red from pressing against the wooden floorboards for so long. I can touch up the photos and remove the angry red pigment, but while I’ll mess with lighting and background blurring all day, I try not to touch up the models too much and disturb their authentic beauty. That’s the point of all this. Natural.

Sitting down next to her, I rest my back against the bed’s wooden footboard.

“They don’t look good, do they? The pictures? Can I see?”

Turning my head, I look into her steel-blue eyes with wrinkles around the corners. Even at seventy, I recognize the vulnerability. Most of the women I shoot are at least topless. Some, fully nude. Of course, not Mrs. Mattley. She’s more on the modest side, so the sexiest outfit we planned for her was a cap sleeve leather catsuit with a very low-cut V-neck for a little edge.

“You know the rules.” I give her a little wink. I never let my clients see their photos until the shoot is over. Insecurity is evil. It creeps into their minds and poisons the entire shoot. They either become too shy or overcompensate by contorting their bodies into weird positions, trying to hide the bits they’re most ashamed of. The secret to this kind of photography is bold confidence. They can see the photos after I’ve worked my magic. “But for your peace of mind, you are by far the most beautiful woman I’ve photographed on this set.” I give her a dashing smile and she snorts out loud.

Patting my cheek with her dainty hand that’s a little too cool to the touch, she says, “Finn, sweetheart, you are such a sweet young boy…and so fucking full of shit.”

Now I snort in laughter. “Mrs. Mattley! Language,” I say, pretending to clutch my pearls. “I thought you were a classy broad. But I mean it. You look great.” I pat her knee reassuringly.

She shoots me a teasing smile. “My goodness, Finn. Are you flirting with me?”

Sucking in my lips, I level a stare right into her eyes. “Now, we both know Mr. Mattley would descend from above and kick my sorry ass for making a move on his lovely widow.” I wink.

Mrs. Mattley presses against her chest like her cackling hurts. “Ascend, honey.”

“What’s that?”

“Ascend.” She points down. “It’s sweet that you think Mr. Mattley is in heaven. That old grumpy fart is looking up at us as we speak.”

I can’t help but join in her playful laughter.

“But he was my grumpy man. His entire company hated him for being such a hard-ass, but he treated me like a princess. I was his soft spot.”

Mrs. Mattley booked the luxury package. Her late husband was a very successful investment banker, so she has all kinds of money she doesn’t know what to do with. So, for eight thousand dollars, over the course of three months, we’ve spent ample time together as we measured for her wardrobes for three different sets and had numerous meetings about her vision for the photographs. We hand-picked the final packaging—which for Mrs. Mattley will be a custom, white, Italian leather-bound photo book and three giant canvases. It’s been a genuine pleasure getting to know her over the past few months. I’d go as far as calling her a friend at this point. It’s nice. I never knew my grandmother. I sincerely hope she was half as delightful as Mrs. Mattley.

“What do you think he’d say about all this?”

She’s quiet for a moment, a touch of sadness coating her eyes. I can’t imagine how lonely she is. Her only daughter lives in New York. Mrs. Mattley is terrified of flying, so seeing her daughter Rose and her granddaughter is a rare treat when she can pull herself away from the office and fly out to Las Vegas.

She squeezes my shoulder and her lips spread into a devilish smile. “He’d tell me to take my top off.”

We both burst into laughter as Lennox walks back into the room holding two red velvet pillows, so large, they nearly hide her entire body.

“There we go!” I hop to my feet to relieve Lennox of one pillow.

“What are we laughing about?” Lennox asks.

“Oh, Mrs. Mattley was just telling me she’d like to try the second half of the shoot topless.”

Lennox’s jaw drops and she turns beet red. Still laughing like a loon, Mrs. Mattley waves her hand in our direction. “Oh, calm down, honey.” She winks at Lennox. “If I took my top off, Finny here wouldn’t be able to control himself, and it’s very unprofessional to get randy with your boudoir photographer.” She blows a kiss in my direction as I salute her.

“That’s right. Duty first. All professional here.”

Lennox chuckles. “I think you’re in the clear, Mrs. Mattley.” Lennox flashes me a half-smile with a conniving expression. “He can’t have sex.”

“What?” Mrs. Mattley asks as I pat the floor, instructing her to lie down. I prop her elbow up on one of the red pillows and fluff her white hair that has been fixed into soft, full waves. “You’re celibate? I thought that was a tradition that’s dying with my generation.”

Rolling my eyes, I grumble. “I’m not celibate. I’m abstinent. Here, slide your elbow forward just a bit.”

She adjusts and I’m satisfied.

“Good. Where do you feel the tension?”

“My back.”

I grab the other pillow from Lennox and tuck it behind her back. “How’s that feel?”

She sighs with a smile. “So comfortable, I could take a nap.”

“Good. You look great.” In this position, Mrs. Mattley looks relaxed, meaning her face won’t be pinched in torture as I take pictures. “Now pop that back knee up for me and let’s get back to it.”

“Wait, wait,” Mrs. Mattley protests, “why are you abstinent? That won’t do. You’re ruining my whole plan, Finny. I was trying to set you up with my daughter when she comes to visit next month. Do you like kids?”

I screw up my face as I adjust my camera settings. Distracted, I ask, “Isn’t your daughter married?”

“Separated. Soon to be divorced.”

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Mrs. Mattley snorts. “I’m not. Her husband, like mine, is a grumpy asshole, except he has no soft spot. He treats my Rosie like garbage. If he didn’t treat my grandbaby so well, I’d fly out there and beat him with a crowbar myself.”

“So you’d finally brave a flight to beat a man up?”

She curls up her lips in a snarl. “Desperate times, desperate measures.”

I laugh at her feistiness. “Well, I sincerely hope the best for Rose and your granddaughter…what’s her name?”

“Arielle.”

“Pretty name,” I say. “And I do like children, but I’m taking a break from dating at the moment.”

“Why’s that?”

I pull my eyes from my camera settings to blink at Mrs. Mattley. “Well, isn’t someone a nosey little bird, today?”

She shrugs. “I’m seventy-four, Finny. I’m allowed to be nosey.”

Much to my annoyance, Lennox jumps in on my behalf to explain. “Finn had a psycho ex—super controlling, jealous, and”—she glances at my irritated expression—“I’m just going to say it—rageful. Anyway, they had an extremely toxic, volatile relationship for a long time and when he finally broke it off about eight months ago, he went a little buck wild.”

“Buck wild?” Mrs. Mattley asks as I flush in embarrassment.

Lennox, ignoring my red cheeks, continues, “One morning he was late for a shoot and when I checked on him, I found not one, but two naked women in his bed.”

“Oh my.” Mrs. Mattley covers her mouth.

Lennox’s smile grows wider if it’s even possible. “Oh, but he wasn’t in bed, Mrs. Mattley. He was in the shower…with the third woman who spent the night.”

“Lennox!” I snap in irritation. I hold up one palm in a what-the-fuck motion. “For the love of God.”

“What?” She shrugs innocently. “She asked.”

Lennox is my assistant, but she’s also my cousin and best friend since childhood, so basically, she lives to give me shit.

“What she’s trying to say,” I explain, still glaring at Lennox, “is that I felt a little lost after my breakup and admittedly had a little too much fun, so I’m taking a break. Like a palate cleanser if you will.”

It’s the absolute most tame way to explain myself. After Nora and I broke up, I’d lose myself for days at a time. All the things she accused me of while we were together, that I never did—I dove right into out of spite. I live just off the Las Vegas Strip and I took full advantage. I went on benders for days straight. I partied, binge-drank, and fucked. I fucked so much, I stopped feeling my orgasms. The only real evidence of my climax was the mess I’d leave behind. I was numb…my heart was completely numb.

It had to stop. After months of pressing the self-destruct button, I needed to stop.

“Finn, honey,” Mrs. Mattley says, pressing her palm against my cheek. “May I give you some advice, dear? From your elder.”

I nod into her hand. “Of course you can.”

“You are young, dashingly handsome, and have a body fit enough to captain a ship.”

I glance at Lennox from the corner of my eyes. Her perplexed expression tells me I’m not the only one who finds that compliment odd.

Mrs. Mattley continues, “You’re going to blink and be an old, withered mess like me. So, while you have the stamina that you do”—she flashes me a devilish smile—“stick your thing in everything you want. I mean, use a condom for goodness’ sake, but have fun, Finny.”

Lennox bursts out laughing. She wraps her arms around her ribs to try to control her heaving.

My dry mouth falls open. “Mrs. Mattley—”

“I’m serious, Finn. As long as you’re safe, what’s wrong with making as many connections as you can? You only get one life.”

Nothing, I suppose. But what happens when sex no longer feels like connecting?

“You know, I think I’ve learned more about you in this one session than I’ve learned in months of knowing you.”

Mrs. Mattley flicks her hair with sass, causing Lennox to fall into a fit of laughter, tears beginning to form at the corner of her eyes. “I…love…her…” she says between gasping chuckles.

“This is what happens when you put me in skin-tight leather,” she explains. “You get the devil.”

“All right, you randy little minx, save some of that energy, would you?” Rising, I tap my camera gently. This camera is worth half a year of car payments. I squint at the LCD display to confirm we still have the perfect lighting pouring in from the large windowpanes to the right of the studio. Then I get bossy. “All right, tilt your chin like I showed you—ah! No, stop that.”

“Stop what?” Mrs. Mattley freezes in place, startled, like I told her there was a giant spider on her head.

“What are you doing with your mouth?” I ask, watching her try to pucker her thin lips awkwardly.

“I’m told it’s called duckface. It’s supposed to be flattering.”

Palming my forehead, I shake my head adamantly. “It is not and stop that. Natural,” I remind her. “That’s what looks best. Don’t try so hard.”

“Well, are you going to fix these pictures with all your Photoshop magic when I look like a wilted, decrepit, old widow?”

Groaning, I abandon my perfect positioning and squat down so I’m level with her eyes. Without looking, I jut my thumb over my shoulder at the giant sign on the back of the studio wall. “Read it.”

Mrs. Mattley blinks at me, unimpressed.

“Out loud,” I demand. The sign is an eight-by-four-foot white canvas, with simple words scrawled in black calligraphy. It’s mounted to the back of the studio wall so that no matter where you are on the set, the client can read it clear as day. A constant reminder…

“You’re beautiful. You’re worthy,” she mumbles.

“Mhm,” I say, looking into her blue eyes. “Nowhere on that sign does it say ‘wilted’ and I’m certain I’ve never uttered the word ‘decrepit’ in here.” I brush my thumb against her cheek that’s tinted with a perfect blush, thanks to the makeup artist who was here not two hours ago. “You are beautiful. You are worthy. So act like it, Mrs. Mattley.” Standing again, I back away a few paces and raise my camera once more. “Just stare over my shoulder at that sign and give me a simple smile.”

Once her shoulder relaxes and she’s mastering the flattering poses without distorting her body, the camera becomes obsessed. I click away furiously, capturing her energy that’s growing bolder by the minute.

This is the reason I work so hard at my job. The reward is seeing a woman believe in her own magic. This certainly isn’t sex…

But it’s most definitely connecting.