Picture Perfect

“What do you mean, you won’t? Carlos demanded, squinting into the sun.

“Just what I said, I replied.

Carlos was a gorgeous guy, with dark, wavy hair; a deep, tropical tan; even teeth, as white Chicklets; broad shoulders; a deep chest; a flat, firm belly; strong arms and legs; and firm, compact buttocks. He had quite a lovely cock, too, over seven inches erect and circumcised, with a big mushroom head and the biggest balls I’ve ever had the pleasure to behold-or hold. We’d been lovers, sure-what model hasn’t made love to her photographer? In fact, for the last couple of years, we’d been a couple. I’d have thought he’d understand my decision not to strap my own cock and balls down between my thighs, the glans pointed past my anus, but he didn’t understand. He didn’t understand at all, and he was anything but supportive.

“You have to, he insisted.

“No, I don’t, I countered. I read my contract. There’s nothing in it that says I have to emasculate myself to model Va-Va-Va-Voom Bikinis.”

“No one’s asking you to emasculate yourself, Barbie.”

“Tucking my cock and balls under my perineum is the same thing, isn’t it, symbolically?”

Carlos sighed. No. Now, come on, please. Be reasonable. There’s only another hour of sunlight left.”

Behind us, the waves rolled in, high and green, crested with foam and smelling of the sea. We’d arrived later in Tahiti than we’d anticipated, but Carlos wanted to get whatever pictures he could. Superstitious, he believed that a photo session’s success or failure was determined by how things went the first day. He was nuts that way. All artists have their peculiarities, I suppose. Maybe mine was my refusal, this time out, to tuck my genitals out of the way, as Carlos often expressed his request to hide my cock and balls between the lower cheeks of my most decidedly round, feminine bottom.