The whole thing started —as these things are wont to do— with an email.

“Hey, man. Jake here. You still at <insert soulless corporate behemoth here>?. I’ve been working on some performance art sessions for the people at the divey goth bar downtown. The one with the cage. Anyway, we’re planning a photo shoot. We want to put together an S&M photography exhibit. Nothing too hardcore. I’ve already got two female models lined up. So, I’ve been looking for a photographer to take on the job. Do you know of anyone? Would you be interested?”

I tried to frame this proposal in my head. Put it in perspective. Slice it and dice it. Punctiliously ruminate it. You know. Be professional. My thought process went something like this:

• BOOBIES!!
• On second thought… say wha?
• …
• It’s not everyday that I’m offered to be a porn photographer…
• I also know next to nothing about setting up anything that bears even a passing resemblance to a professional photo shoot…
• I can barely bullshit my way through a discussion of the law of thirds.
• So, on one hand, I have no idea what I’m doing.
• On the other hand, that has never stopped me before.
• …
• BOOBIES!!

When the day came, we were ready with all of our professional implements: An apartment, a digital camera, a tripod, a lightbulb mounted on a handheld enclosure and an endless supply of white russians.

As Jake arrived from picking Alice up at her place, I was still questioning the wisdom of my decision (this is something I do a lot, even though it never leads to anything). He introduced me as the photographer. She leaned in close and sniffed me.

- Well, at least he smells good. — Then she smiled.

I had no idea what to make of that, so I kept my poker face going. My poker face, incidentally, looks like something that would agonizingly crawl out of a murky swamp in the middle of death throes at the epilogue of a B-movie. Except red. And it quivers slightly.

One hour (and a few mixed drinks) later, I was shooting photographs of the two very attractive, half naked girls as they made out on the couch, and doing my best to keep up the appearance that a) I knew what I was doing and b) I wasn’t turned on. As you may anticipate, I failed miserably in both respects.

I think the first giveaway was my painful erection as I crouched next to them to shoot close ups.

The second giveaway was that I spent five more minutes in that position (trying to think of football), even though we were done with that part of the shoot.

The girls were great sports, though, and we got some great shots. As we worked, I kept telling myself that the whole “photographer ends up in bed with the model” scenario only happens in the most hackneyed of movies, and it was certainly not going to happen here.

You’re not re-enacting a penthouse letter. This is not your fantasy life. You have to get the models to sign a release. Control yourself.”

This, coupled with closing my eyes, breathing deeply, and exhaling slowly through my mouth, did… absolutely nothing.

I repeated this personal mantra when Alice started talking about how hot it was getting in the apartment.

I repeated it again as she asked me to loosen her bra and rub ice cubes on her nipples (she was tied at that point, so she couldn’t do it herself)

I repeated it one last time when she bumped against me as she looked over my shoulder while I downloaded the photos from the camera to my laptop. I recoiled slightly. She moved away and faced me.

- I’m sorry — she smiled.
- No worries… I mean… feel free… I mean… go ahead. If you want to…

She grinned.

As she kissed me, one phrase kept repeating over and over in my head:

My life is nothing but a never-ending stream of daisy-chained cliches”

— sergio on June 27, 2006