Solitude of the Photo - 1. Story

There is a solitude in taking photos that overrides the movement, the noise that encompass me. As I stand apart from the crowd I'm in their depths, taking photos of the action, the people, the crowds. Trying to capture the movement and the noise in still, silent photos. I'm not too bad at it. I make enough money to help pay off an apartment on the edge of the city, enough money to buy a more-than-decent camera and lens. Enough money to take a friend to a show.

If I ever had the time to meet a friend.

It doesn't worry me. I am content to be the voyeur, to be amongst the action, the invisible man behind the shield of the camera lens. To feel the atmosphere wash over me as I scan for that perfect photo.

Afterward, in the silence of my apartment, I upload the photos and remember. With the memory of sounds and sights, I can select the few photos that bring to life the event. Those I sell. The others I load onto my website for the participants to search and buy their special memory.

I have my regular events, but one gives me little in the way of sellable photos, and only the occasional sale off my site. Yet I keep going when I can. A local car hill-climb, run six times in the year, it only takes me ten minutes to get there.

The pull of the event is addictive. The power of the vehicles, the noise as they are pushed to the limits. The constant threat of disaster. The vitality on the faces of the drivers as they remove their helmets after a successful run. The pain of pride if they fail, the tender concern for their vehicle as they inspect the damage.

I had noticed his pale blue convertible before, taken shots of it in the past. Loaded them onto the website, but he'd never bought one. Today there was something different about it. The noise of it was smoother, more aggressive. It took the corners smoothly, rarely lifting a tire from the asphalt. It slid around the top loop like it was running on rails.

It made for boring photos, but for a faster time.

I watched through my telephoto as the driver levered himself over the roll bars and stood. He undid his helmet, strong fingers with short nails threading the strap through the buckle. My camera clicked repeatedly.

The grin on his face made it come alive. As he turned to receive praise and slaps from fellow drivers my camera captured the energy, the animation within his face. Behind me I heard another car roar past, heard its tires screech to hold on and fail. I glanced over my shoulder, camera still pointed in the direction of the blue car's driver. I swung around, desperate to catch the finale of the crash. Dust still floated as the car bounced off the bank, and the shattered windscreen caught the mid-morning light. Through the viewfinder I watched the car land awkwardly on its wheels, recoil and sink heavily into the asphalt. There was silence echoed around the track. Interrupted as the driver's door creaked open, the silence withdrew as spectators and drivers alike cheered and clapped as the car's driver clambered out. I took a few more photos; the pale face behind the scratched helmet, rocks tumbling from bent metal, the taunt towline as the car was hauled onto the tilt-tray truck. Photos capturing the sadness in the driver's eyes as his precious beast disappeared down the hill.

I turned back to the pale blue car then. Nothing would happen now until the track was cleared of remnants of the crash and inspected lest there was oil left as a trap for another.

The driver wasn't there.

As the event resumed I took photos, half-hearted attempts to seize the life around me and stuff it into my camera. Until the pale blue car roared to the start line. The memory card filled as I shot photo after photo, as I turned the camera to the pits, waiting, ready for him to park and extract himself. I took photos of him; his body concealed within the all-in-one race suit. As his finger brushed his damp, dark brown hair over his scalp. As he stripped the top of his pale grey race suit and casually tied the sleeves around his waist.

All the other drivers did the same in the heat of the day, but none looked quite like him. White T-shirt stuck to his back, the suit hugged his ass. His hips thrust sideways in casual power as he leant on his car. I took photos of him leaning under the hood, sliding under the jacked-up rear to check something, of him talking to friends. I envied his ease.

And one photo as he bent to pull off his race suit, his dark blue undies visible, the heavy weight of balls and cock tucked away.

I spun back to face the track. Took random photos of the last few cars, cock aching. Glad I was apart from the crowd, glad I was invisible.

***

His email asking to meet surprised me. Of course I didn't know it was him until he referenced a photo of his car. I answered and set a meeting place.

I was nervous as all hell. He couldn't possibly know I took photos of him. They never made it onto the website. Though one or two got printed and I jerked off to them.

He was waiting in the café booth, a mug of coffee steaming hot on the table. He scanned the doorway every now and again and I realised he wouldn't recognise me. I would have to approach him.

Or I could leave.

I didn't. "Hi, Michael?" I extended my hand as he half stood.

"Johan Simons?" The touch of his hand burnt. I slid into the booth's seat opposite him, hands together on my lap, rubbing my palm, hoping to remember that touch again.

He sat and looked down at his coffee. The waitress came and I ordered a hot chocolate. Not knowing where to look I studied him. Brown hair flopped over his forehead, and the fluoro lighting gave of harsh shine to the top off his head. I wondered where was the confidence I espied at the track.

He looked up. Emerald green eyes stared at me. My hands stilled. Pressed against my cock.

"I need a photographer." He swallowed. "Kirsten says I should pose for a mag and I need a portfolio." I glanced at his hands clenched around each other and saw the wedding band. "I liked how you made my car seem alive. Would you do the same for me?"

I couldn't form words just then. He took my silence for hesitation.

"I'd pay. What --"

"Yes."

His mouth remained open for a moment then he grinned. "Oh, cool. Wonderful. Awesome." His face lit up. I saw the same guy I'd seen at the hill-climb and my heart sank. I didn't have a studio as such, just an open apartment. I'd have to clean up, hide things. Hide the hard-on I was getting and would surely get as I shot photos of him.

Shit.

"When?" His face was full of question, fear.

"This weekend?" He nodded. "Saturday at three?" He grinned. Already I regretted the torture I would endure. Wanted it. Fishing out a business card I scrawled my address on the back. He took it and stared at it, silently mouthing the address. It slipped into his jacket pocket.

"Jeez, I've been putting this off forever, but Kirsten hasn't let up." He fingered the ring, twirled it around the base of his finger. Visions of his fingers on his cock sent shivers through me. The waitress arrived with the hot chocolate and I grasped it in both hands. The sudden pain came close to distracting me. "She says I have the right look and I should share." He laughed and I drank. The hot liquid scalded my throat. "She works for an advertising agent so she should know." He stopped and gulped his coffee. "Sorry, I'm running off at the mouth. I do that when I'm nervous." His dug out his wallet and pushed a note under the coffee cup, then stood.

"Till Saturday?" He stuck out his hand and I had to take it. It was cold compared to the heat of the mug, but it burnt anyway. All I could do was nod.

I watched him leave. Long strides in trousers that showed the muscles of his ass perfectly. He walked past the window without a glance.

Saturday couldn't come soon enough, yet it was too soon. Three days didn't give me enough time to prepare. I traipsed down to the local library and spent hours looking at mags like Cosmopolitan. Went to the drugstore and looked at the more erotic mags. In my head I got an image of what would be acceptable to a girlie mag. Not much different to a gay mag, just not as explicit.

My apartment got a clean from top to bottom. I made sure that all photos of a personal nature were hidden; found something innocuous to replace the one on the wall. I set up the lights and umbrellas in different spots and tested their effectiveness, finally settling on the middle of the lounge room.

When the doorbell rang my stomach lurched. I scanned the place, decided that if I'd missed something I'd have to bluff and went to open the door.

He stood grinning; six two, legs stuffed into boots and tight blue jeans, his chest filling a white T-shirt.

"Hi, Michael." I stepped aside to let him in.

"Johan , look I'm really glad you agreed to this." He walked in, looking around. "Nice place." He took a little tour by himself. When he stopped by my open bedroom door my stomach did a double flip, wondering what I'd left out. "Kirsten is so impressed that I found someone." He turned back. "That I actually got my ass into gear." He came to stand next to one of the silver umbrellas and fiddled with the upright. The umbrella swung around, nearly catching him.

"You want me here?" Before I answered he strode into the spot lit centre and lounged back on the chair. Hips forward, legs wide, one arm thrown over the back, the other casually dumped in his lap. He glanced over one shoulder. "Nice view." He was perfect. I lifted the camera and started clicking. The digital sound spun his head around and he flinched. "Hey, I wasn't ready."

"You were." I talked to him through the viewfinder, clicking as he stiffened. "Relax." But even stiff and conscious he was beautiful. "Michael, relax. Talk to me."

"What about?"

"Tell me about that car of yours." His smile was fantastic. I blindly stepped around the coffee table, knelt on the floor and looked up at him. The camera worked away.

"The MGB."

"Yeah. Tell me what you did to make it go faster."

"You noticed? Sweet." He leant forward, resting one elbow on his knee. "I did up the suspension. New brake pads. Shocks got an overhaul. And I got new tires." He stopped and looked at me. "You don't really want to know this do you?"

Fuck, even his frown was beautiful. Kirsten was a lucky girl and I was jealous of her. "I do. Tell me everything. When did you buy the car?" I didn't take my face away from the back of the camera. I'd miss something if I did. He leant back, not quiet relaxed, but close to it.

"Well, I've had her for about fifteen years. She was an automatic when I bought her. I drove her like that, drove her hard until I killed the motor. Then I stripped her and rebuilt her."

He talked. The words took him into the world of his car. I wondered at the love his wife had for him to compete with this inanimate object. He loved the car. I could see that through the camera. I walked around him, even behind him. He didn't seem to notice, just kept on talking.

"Michael."

He turned to my voice and I snapped. He grinned and I snapped some more shots.

"Take off your shirt." My voice died as I spoke but he stood and stripped off the T-shirt. I hid behind the camera, taking photos as fast as my breath. His chest was tanned, smooth, hairless except for a ring of dark hairs around his nipples. I wanted to wrap my tongue around those few and suck them as I sucked his nipples hard. I wanted to push him back into the lounge he knelt on. I wanted him looking up at me instead of just looking at me, head tilted. I took photos.

The 18-70 telephoto lens zoomed in close. I wasn't conscious of my hand twisting the lens until I realised I could count the hairs that ringed the darker skin.

"Do you want a drink, Michael?" I turned away to the kitchen, thankful for the tight jocks that hugged my hardening cock to my balls, thankful for the loose shorts that sagged from my hips and hid everything.

"Water, please."

The camera swung heavy around my neck as I ducked down to get two glasses. I pulled the jug of water from the fridge and turned, to see him walking barefoot toward me. All I could see were long, well-proportioned toes, just as tanned as his chest. Toes I wanted in my mouth. The camera clanged on the bench top as I almost dropped the glasses on the marble. Water sloshed over the jug's spout. I glanced to see his boots lying tumbled against the lounge.

He looked down at his feet. "Sorry, I can't stand shoes." He grinned. "Do you mind?"

I shook my head, too scared to make a sound. I stood close to the cupboards, my one hand gripping the jug's handle. The other twitched to get near my cock. He took the jug from my hand and poured. I watched his throat as he swallowed. The ring on his finger glittered, as did the droplets of water that ran down his neck. I poured a glass and gulped the cold water. I wanted to throw it over myself.

He smiled as he placed the glass back on the counter. "Where now?"

"Uh?"

"Where do you want me now?"

"Um." I looked around. I hadn't thought about that, but I could do some stand-up shots near the balcony. The late afternoon light was even, would give his skin a nice glow, and there were no building shadows to cope with. "By the balcony door?"

He sauntered over, feet making tiny slaps on the floorboards, his jeans swishing by his heels. I dragged the camera up to my face and reluctantly looked through the viewfinder. At least I could zoom closer, feel like I was close enough to touch even though I couldn't. Couldn't by distance, couldn't by sexual preferences. I had to be content to be the voyeur.

The light played across his chest. Every muscle movement showed as he moved.

"One hell of a view, Johan ." He leant with his forearm on the glass, his head resting beside his fist. I took photos. "I'd never leave here if it was my place." I played with the light. Making him a silhouette, focusing on the distant high-rises. Zooming in on his face, adjusting so the contours were edged with light. "I love my house because it's mine, but it has no character." He twisted to look over his shoulder. His eyes seemed to shine with their own light. He shrugged. "Doesn't help that I pour money into the MGB."

His wry smile filled the frame.

"Your wife must be very accepting." I zoomed out to catch all of his upper body in the half-shadows. His laugh shook his muscles, caressed my cock.

"Kirsten doesn't always understand, but she's cool."

I glanced at the camera's readout to check how many photos I'd taken. Enough that I was sure I'd have a good selection for his portfolio, depending on which magazine he wanted to go for, what heat level he wanted. I rested the camera on the kitchen bench. Michael turned around and leant back into the window, feet crossed, thumbs hooked into jeans. It would have been a great photo, but I needed to ask.

"Um, do you know which mag you will send the portfolio to?"

He shrugged. "I have a list I'd like to try."

I swallowed. "Do you know the style of photo they want?"

"Sexy."

I nodded.

"Naked." he added.

We stared at each other. He blushed. His tan tinged, around his throat, his ears. He lowered his gaze. I wanted to offer support, hugs, my cock. But he was straight, married. I was gay and most men I knew ran a mile, mentally if not physically. I didn't want Michael to run. I leant into the cupboard, the door handle pressing hard against my trapped cock. It was the only relief I allowed myself.

"I can stay here. With the telephoto, I don't need to be close."

He nodded. He undid the buttons of his jeans, gripped the waistband and started to pull them down.

"Slowly." I snatched the camera to my face, squashing my nose against its back plate. He looked up, question and fear written all over his face. "Forget me. Strip for Kirsten."

His smile chased the fear away. I leant into the cupboard, my elbows on the counter to steady the shakes I was having. His hand loosened on his jeans and he pushed, but slower. He leant back, his shoulders resting on the edge between glass and wall. His hips twisted slightly, the trousers came off crooked. Abs flexed, the muscles too shadowed. I leant forward, still with the camera to my face, and flicked the switch for the light over the balcony door. The shadows danced away. He blinked, my camera capturing the moment, forever closing his eyes as he drew down jeans and undies. As he revealed the bush of hair. I held my breath, clenched the camera, not caring if my nails damaged the metal. Just before his prick escaped, just before I could see what he hid behind those clothes, he stopped. Looked at me. Bit his lip.

The camera's sound was the only thing I heard. Maybe I should have put music on to hide the sound. Maybe I should have told him I was gay. Maybe I shouldn't have said yes. Maybe, but I was glad for the twelve megapixels of each frame, glad of the telephoto. When I fiddled the photos later, I would crop that one to just his face, teeth biting, lip pale with pressure.

He let his jeans drop.

Brown hair surrounded his prick, soft, dangling against his sack. He went to hook his fingers in his jeans and failed. He laughed. Folded his arms in front of his chest. Shoulders high, neck thick with tension. What could I say to make him at ease?

"Relax, you're too stiff." Idiotic thing to say. He laughed.

"Thought that was the idea?"

"Well, yeah."

He smiled, his shoulders dropping, his hands sliding over his skin to his crotch. One palm pushed against his soft cock. Fingers buried into his bush, pulling at his balls. He tensed as the sound of the camera echoed in the silence, but his hand kept rubbing. Through the lens I could see the soft skin flush, see the slight resistance his prick gave his hand. I zoomed, filled the frame with the tense muscles of his stomach, his hand wrapping around the hardening cock, the dark hairs hiding his fingers as he tugged at his sack.

I lifted to find his face, staring at me. Green eyes I could get used to, watching me watching him. Filled with something I'd seen many times before as the guy realised I was gay, that I was a threat he didn't want to deal with, didn't know how to deal with. Filled with fear.

I nearly put the camera down then, nearly walked out of my own apartment. But he closed his eyes and a slight smile of resignation came to his lips. I stayed, became the invisible voyeur I usually am.

His hand pumped his cock, shadows of his moving arm hid the tip as it poked through his fingers. His thumb stayed, pressing against the slit and his hand slipped down. The setting glow caught a jewel of pre-come under his nail. The camera took me closer, so close I could smell the heady fragrance.

I pulled back, shifted against the counter to find a better view. Let the camera watch and capture as his fingers squeezed, rubbed, stroked his prick to hardness, as he cradled his balls.

He stood, muscles straining as he pumped his cock. Tanned flesh ridged, as his pale prick tinged purple, a contrast to his skin that never saw the sun. The light of the day soft on his skin, bright ceiling lights forcing shadows that danced as he pumped, as his legs gave way and he sank to his knees.

I had thought he would just draw his cock to hardness, then pose, but he kept long fingers around his dick, his thumb tormenting the tender slit. He kept squeezing and pulling his sack, teasing himself to release. As I tried to concentrate on taking photos, both hands clutching the reality of the camera, I wondered what vision he saw, what fantasy kept him going. Did his wife hold his attentions behind those closed eyes, or some other girl? The romantic in me hoped it was his wife who drew him to these heights of arousal.

He had been silent, a contrast to his MGB. But as memories or fantasy drove him to climax he groaned. My hand slipped from the camera, slipped down my own stomach and I squeezed my hard, bent cock, straining for release from my wet jocks.

My last photos were not of his erection, not of the blessed release, not of the ropes of come that shot across his trembling chest. My last photo was of the exquisite, distorted beauty of his face, of the agony of pleasure that twisted his features.

That I captured forever.

By the time he stopped panting, by the time I heard him stir, I was at the collection of equipment I had barely used, my back to him. I pulled down the reflection umbrellas, packing them back into their bags. I listened for his movements.

"There're clean towels in the bathroom."

"Thanks."

I wondered whether I heard embarrassment or worry in his voice. His feet slipped across the floor. I turned only when I heard the door close. I watched the closed door, listened to the shower run. I tried to think of anything but Michael naked in my shower, Michael washing his come off his chest, Michael rubbing the towel over his body, his cock, the soft scratches bringing it to hardness again. Anything that would stop me from shooting my load as I stood in the middle of my lounge.

Anything didn't work.

I was sitting at the computer when he walked back in, dressed once more. I tried to seem absorbed in downloading the photos as he pulled on his boots. In truth I hid a dark stain of spilt come on my shorts, covered the trickle that escaped and crept warm down my thigh.

"How'd they look?"

Swivelling around, I met his eyes, green that shone alive. "I don't know yet. I'll look once they're downloaded." He smiled and my cock jumped. I talked, to hide my arousal, to keep him distant, to keep him from going. "I'll have to crop a few to get a better picture and some will be useless, but I think there will be enough to send out."

"Cool."

"It will take me a couple of days. I can put the best on a CD?" It wouldn't, not normally, but already I knew I would be jerking off as I searched for the best ones.

"Sure, just post it to me." He pulled from his pocket a card and offered it to me. I reached up and took it, careful not to touch his fingers. To my utter disappointment ,the information it offered was only his name and a post office box number. No phone number, no address, no business information.

He obviously wanted to keep this an arrangement separate to the rest of his life.

"I said I would pay, but we never..."

"I'll check out standard rates and you can pay me if --" I grinned "--when you get a photo spread."

Was it relief I saw flick over his face? "Awesome."

The computer chimed its completion and I turned back. By the time I had finalised the download and disconnected the camera, Michael was at the door. He turned, his hand on the door handle, and looked at me. I couldn't resist one more photo.

He watched me take it, with a smile that was almost sad. Then he slipped out of the door and out of my life.

I failed to find my bed that night, fell asleep, naked, head resting on the desk, exhausted. Each photo I looked at brought a hardening to my prick, took my hand from clutching the mouse to clutching my cock. By the time I got to Michael lowering his jeans I had jerked off twice. And lay my head down.

Sunday was no different. The day was spent selecting photos, cropping to highlight Michael, jerking off to his image on my PC. I showered at least three times. By the end of the day, I had finally created a CD, imprinted photos in my memory so I could recall them at will. Shot my come 'til I dribbled instead of shot.

I posted the CD on the way to work on Monday.

For days after, I wondered if he received them. A simple email of thanks allayed that fear. I expected nothing more than that, but I had hoped.

Each night, I slept to visions of his face, beautifully distorted. Every time I worked on some other photos, cropping, playing, I found myself in his file. I jerked myself off more times than I could remember.

I went to the next hill-climb, half-determined to approach Michael, on the pretext of seeing if he'd sent anything off. I watched his first run, taking photos of his car, an offering maybe? Instead of watching the pits I walked down the hill toward them, stopped as I came from behind the canteen. Michael got out of the car, a woman ran toward him, and leapt to his arms. They hugged, bodies pressed hard, arms wrapped around each other. He placed tender kisses on her head. As they walked to the spectator point, Michael's arm protective around her waist, I left.

I deleted those photos off the camera, without downloading. I deleted his folder from my PC, dumped the backup CDs in the trashcan.

I wasn't upset, not really, not at Michael. Just had to remove him from my life. Give him back to his wife.

I missed the next hill-climb, a more profitable event clashed, but two months later I went. No camera, just to enjoy.

I sat surrounded by spectators, close to them, one of them. Listened to the banter, the discussions of machines. Let the roar of motors and screech of wheels drown the talk out. Watched as car after car climbed the hill, sped down and drove around the corners. Some of them cut through the short grass, the occasional one stopped. The driver was lucky, he missed hitting anything.

After seeing a black Monaro lumber around for the second time, I started to look for the pale blue MGB. I walked the pits, methodically moving down each road, searching for Michael's car. For Michael.

"You lost, mate?"

I turned to find a tall, old guy standing by his car, black race suit pulled down over his shoulders, beer-belly hanging over the tied sleeves.

"I expected to see someone." I turned to walk away.

"Who?"

What the hell. If I asked, maybe he might know of Michael. "Blue MGB, Michael --"

"Oh, he's not here. Crashed his car last event." My knees buckled. "Bent the front corner. Don't know if he'll have her ready by next meet. Parts are expensive." He turned away, went back to doing something to his motor. My feet felt like they were buried in the concrete.

I don't remember driving home, just remember sitting at my PC, staring at the screen, wondering if I should send an email. Apart from the post box, I had no other contact for him.

I typed three starts, deleted each one. Tied myself in knots trying to work out what to say, if anything. I was glad when the doorbell rang. A distraction at least.

I blinked when I saw Michael at the door. Tall, beautiful, undamaged.

"Hi, Johan ." He pushed past. Threw something on the coffee table and walked to the kitchen. "Thought you'd like to see them." He opened the fridge and pulled out the jug of water and found a tumbler. I switched my gaze between him and the mags that splayed on the table. He gulped down the water.

"Well?" He grinned at me.

I turned and picked up one of the magazines. 'Dicks and Pricks'. Nothing entered my head except the title.

"Turn to page fifteen."

I obeyed, flipping the pages until I came to his photos. My photos. He was there, the shot of him biting his lip, a close up of his hand on his dick, thumb pushing down on his slit, slippery with pre-come. I knew the photo but I hadn't given him it cropped like that. There was the photo I'd fluked as his jeans dropped, revealing his cock. And one of him as he was leaving, body half-turned to me, hard cock still evident under the fly of his jeans. There were words between the photos but I couldn't focus to read them.

His hand rubbed over my stomach, pressing me back into him, his hard cock filling the small of my back. The cold droplets of water from the glass he held above my shoulder did nothing to cool the heat I felt.

"They want me to do another shoot. With the race suit and the MGB."

Nothing made sense. I tried to pull away, but he held me. His lips kissed my neck.

"Kirsten's my sister. The ring, my father's band, well, that's complicated."

Grabbing my shoulder he turned me around. I stepped away a little, opened my mouth, then shut it. I couldn't think straight.

"I told them yes." He bit his lip. "I told them I would bring my own photographer. Will you do it?" His eyes held questions, fear. I'd seen it before. Misinterpreted it then. Was I doing the same thing now?

I stepped forward, reached to the back of his head, and pulled him to my mouth. Lips touched. Then pressed hard. My tongue met his. He tasted of cold water, of memories, of petrol, of hardness and male. His hand and the cold glass rubbed against my back. I bit his lip and pulled away.

He was panting, flushed, grinning.

"Yes."