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And most of the celebrity talent I work with appreciate that. In a way, it’s empathetic. We each feel trapped for our own reasons and while the bottle is my escape, my lens seems to be theirs.It is Wednesday, I think. The days all start to blend together. I am staring blankly at my reflection in the vanity mirror. My palms press against the cool granite supporting most of my weight while my world is spinning. ‘Who am I?’ Below the exterior, below that dim glow of my pale skin, below the success. ‘Why can’t I fucking see you?’I squint at the mess of purple ombre hair on my head and then down to my bare chest, skipping my face altogether. Tits barely big enough to fill an A-cup. Pinkish red areolae dotting my blanched canvas. I change the angle, cocking my head to one side and wonder, ‘What time is it?’My phone buzzes and breaks the trance; a text. The banner notification on the lock screen reads, Robert M. Robert is a two-time Oscar-winner that I photographed years ago. My mind. ‘I’ve always toyed with the idea of boudoir photos of myself…’ she said coyly, giving him another opening. She shook her hair, pushing a tussled bang off her eye, and dared him to judge her. ‘Oh yeah? Well in that case, why don’t I show you my boudoir?’ *** Christina’s lips were soft and hot. Not two steps into the room and Derek couldn’t wait a moment longer. He didn’t even wait for her to fully turn to face him. She’d stopped, half-twisted to say, ‘Cleaner than I thought,’ and they were kissing. He kept his hands on all the appropriate places — for now — resting one on the warm swell of her hip, and the other grazing along the exposed sweep of her neck. Swooning back into him, Derek felt Christina open. He slid his tongue past her lips and found her own, waiting playfully to twist and swirl. The hand on her throat drifted lower, tickling across her collarbone. He flirted with the dropped opening of her blouse before sliding over her right breast. She arched into his palm, her.
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