Now my costume is complete. We scatter the leftovers across the bed, I drizzle some on my stomach to hide a paunch. The iPod plays Justin’s “FutureSex/LoveSounds.”
In “American Beauty,” Mena Suvari’s character lies surrounded by vivid scarlet rose petals, arms grazing their velvety fibers, breasts artfully clothed, a bush sprouting from her lap. She’s a waif Venus, staring down at her admirer from his bedroom ceiling.
My photographer starts with the same long shot. He steps onto the mattress, pulling back his head and camera, straddling my body to get a bird eye’s view. His legs jiggle the mattress, his hand is uneven. I drag a cheap fake rose across my stomach and pray he doesn’t lose his balance.
The snap of the camera has a mechanical strength, punctuating the music with cacophonous beats. A light flashes. I blink. I’m combing my brain for an alluring pose, the right angle for my best hip. Is it sexy to smile? I clutch at the rose like a spear. He snaps.
He dismounts, reviews his pictures. He pulls the camera away, the Nikon strap straining against his neck as he reads the LCD. He doesn’t need to direct me–I can see all the command in his body, the scrutinizing face wrinkled in consternation, the skintight hipster jeans, the European sneakers, a simple polo stretched across a belly of only a true beer connoisseurs. Gray hairs brush through his thick black hair (which he’ll later claim indignantly is dark brown).
He comes back to the scene, turning to the head of the bed. Pressing his knees against the thin plywood bedframe, he scoots the bed with me on top a foot or two away from the wall. I look up at him, my irises threatening to ogle my brain. Snap. A smile curls my Kewpie doll lips. Snap. He climbs atop the bed, and I’m staring at the crotch of his jeans. I bend my knees, point my toes. The camera chatters. I pull my brown hair. I am giving face. Staring into the layers of glass. Squinted eyes, pursed lips, chin up.
He lies down beside me. I turn my head to keep the gaze. “I’m going to get in your face.,” he says. “This is going to look great.” The lens is inches away from my nose. I hold my breath, afraid to fog up the glass.
He captures all the minuscule movements of my face, from the twitch of my magenta lips, the bat of my mascaraed lashes, the rosy flush blooming on the apples of my cheeks and spreading down to the tops of my breasts. All of it, snapped. I bend my elbow, cup my hand, thumb at my bedside cheek, fingertips at temples. My eyes look searchingly. This is the moneyshot.
He is done. He reviews the photos again, all 86. I turn off the music, pass my clothes on the floor. Crawling onto the bed still in flower top and bottom, I peer over his shoulder. It is only through his eyes, no, his lens that I see myself. Here is a woman, alabaster skin, hellenistic stretch of nose, curious and questioning eyes lost in widened pupils.
He brings the beauty out in me. I ask him when I’ll see him again.
