Nude Descending a Screen

Why I began taking nude photos, why I stopped sending them.

by Chris Wiewiora

On my couch, my girlfriend Lauren puts her ankles on my shoulders. We call this position “laidback-reverse-cowgirl.” She can contort her body, because she’s flexible from following along with yoga DVDs at home, almost an hour’s drive away from me.

I didn’t know I could do this until I was with Lauren, but I’m able to get another erection right after coming and we can go again. We call this “round two.” Sometimes, Lauren doesn’t want “round two,” because round one was so much thrusting that she needs a break.

Recently, at the restaurant where I work, I’ve told my buddy José that I’ve never had this great of sex with a girl before. He asked me if it’s great because it’s wild or because it’s love. José is a romantic, but he never seems satisfied in his relationships. He confides in me about cheating on his girlfriend with girls from work.

Once a new girl named Kalli invited José over to her dorm to watch a movie. He didn’t feel attracted to her, but he went anyway. After, he unzipped his pants and asked for and then got a blowjob. He did nothing for Kalli. José said he had wanted something and got it. I didn’t like hearing José's story.

When I finish I don’t force Lauren for another round. I’ve told her I love her. She hasn’t yet told me she loves me. She’s told me that she’s never told anyone that she loves them.

I slide out of Lauren and kiss her. I taste dinner from her tongue. Lauren goes to the bathroom and I clean up the kitchen. Zigzags of olive oil drizzle the edges of Fiestaware plates. I rinse off the remaining leaves of spinach, crumbles of feta cheese, and a couple of circles of cucumber from salad. I run the garbage disposal, grinding and pulling it all down the drain. I wipe out speckles of crushed almonds from the cast-iron skillet cooling on the stovetop that I used to bake honey-glazed salmon.

Lauren comes back to the couch. We spoon. It’s late. We don’t spend the night at each other’s places, because our morning schedules are too different. Lauren has to wake up at 6am for her hour commute to work. I will wake up at 10am, and then take my time drinking coffee and reading, before I drive a couple of miles to clock in at the restaurant at 11am.

I go in for a kiss, not sure if I’m trying to get more. There’s a part of me that wants her body. 

“Again?” Lauren asks. She seems willing, but I know she needs to go. I shake my head and kiss her one more time. Lauren says she’ll let me know when she gets home.

For the next hour, I flip through a magazine on the couch. The warmth of our bodies ebbs out of the cushions. I wonder if the part of me that just wants sex is bad. When I think about it, I know that it’s not the desire that’s a problem, but the intention. If I just want Lauren’s body instead of her, then something will shift. What scares me is that an act of intimacy will just turn into fucking the girl I love.

My phone vibrates. I open a text. It’s a picture of Lauren standing in front of her bedroom mirror topless.

 

A year ago, when I was in college, I stood naked in front of my bathroom mirror. I held my cell phone’s camera in front of me ready to take a self-portrait. I was about to reveal what I looked like to a stranger.

My hair was buzzcut with a few cowlicks. A ghostly scar sliced the bridge of my nose where my glasses had cut my skin during a bad header in an intramural soccer game. Stubble peppered my face. My biceps curved and inflated as big as ever. My torso looked like a face: an overbushy set of eyebrows over my nipples and a thick beard around the pursed mouth of my belly button. Three stitches faded on my right side of my face-stomach’s cheek marked where surgeons had made an incision to remove my appendix. While I held my cell phone in one hand, my other hand held my hard dick.

I wanted to come while imagining fucking this girl who I’d been e-mailing. I didn’t even know her name. I wanted to fuck that girl, not because I loved her, but because she wanted to be fucked.

I took the picture of my reflection. Then, I jerked off and came on the bathroom counter. I took another picture to prove to the girl how much I could come.

Our e-mails’ subject area read RE:RE:RE: cumplay (m4w). I sent the photos. The girl responded, Thats a lot of hair, Pa. Your gonna have to shave that.

I didn’t like what she was saying. I didn’t want to role-play as a father figure. I wasn’t interested in being told what to do and I wasn’t going to change for her. So, I lied saying that I would shave. Then, I demanded a photo of her.

The lighting in her room was dimmed. The walls were white with nothing on them. She seemed to be illuminated by a computer screen. The picture was grainy and blurry like she took the shot with a webcam. Her face looked blank and shadowed. The girl held her thick legs up to her chest. One brown nipple poked above her knee. The bottom of the frame showed the slight slit beginning of her ass. I wasn’t attracted to her.

I knew that I was assuming she was a she. I’d had a lot of guys e-mail me offers to get my dick sucked off or masturbate to porn with them. They emphasized that they owned straight scenes and lesbian videos. Even with the photo from the girl, I couldn’t quite be sure if she was not a guy. It might not have even been her picture.

I’d read online posts from guys warning of messages from women who showed off convincing photos without implants, nose jobs, or highlighted hair. In the pictures, the women looked normal: doughy arms, sagging breasts, bellies, and trimmed bushes covering their crotches. However, when these guys went to meet up with these seemingly real women, a guy opened the door.

The girl wrote me, I can stay home from school.

I wondered if the girl was underage. She might be a police sting. I didn’t want sex that bad. It was not just that the risk was too much, but I didn’t even want to be with her for a fuck. I deleted that e-mail account.

 

Under her picture, Lauren’s text reads: Sweet dreams ;)

I don’t think Lauren realizes how permanent this image could become. I deleted my own photos from my phone. Still, I wonder if they might be somewhere out there.

I text back, Thank you for the sext you fox! But I’m deleting it.

I almost expect Lauren to write I love you.

But she texts: You’re the best, Rabbit.

I’d rather hear Lauren say she loves me than for her to write it. I want her to be able to say it when she’s ready, because our relationship isn’t about the fuck, the instant gratification. It’s the same reason I’d rather be with her than see her body. I delete her photo.

Image via Flickr.

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