Forward, Chapter 1: College

Forward

My name is Luke Hurst. I’m a very successful and somewhat well-known fashion and beauty photographer in New York. I photograph beautiful models every week. I’m often asked what happens between model and photographer that the camera doesn’t capture. I usually tell people that I’m not much for workplace romance and leave it at that.

But, people are attracted to each other in the workplace all the time. Sometimes the attraction is mutual and those people end up acting on their attractions. When the workplace is the set of a photography studio and one of those people is a comely model, attraction happens as often as you might imagine. The model is attractive by definition, and the camera gives the model a kind of validation that becomes a powerful attraction towards the photographer.

These days, I wouldn't dare enter an intimate relationship with a model. I don't want a reputation as a womanizer, or overstepping the boundaries of appropriateness. But I did. The truth is, a lot of sex happened between me and the models. At one point, I was drunk with lust and power, and “helping myself” to whatever I pleased is putting mildly.

It wasn’t always that way. I began my photography journey as an introverted art student and was a virgin until my freshman year of college. This is my story. The names of people and places have been changed to respect privacy.

Chapter 1. College

It was my senior year of high school, and the decision of picking a college was weighing heavily on my mind. In my search, I stumbled across Santa Fe College of Art and Design. I clicked aimlessly through the website, until I hit a page for one of their drawing classes and paused, struck with what was on the screen.

A nude, female model was front and center in a spotlight. Her back was to the camera and she was being drawn by a class of art students, their easels clustered together in the dim background, with their faces out-of-focus. Of course they have art classes with nude models, but I was surprised that they used an image from this class to represent the art department. There was something about this girl. It was the most unchaste image I could imagine in a college advertisement. Even from the back, she radiated sexuality through her pose. She looked like a centerfold; relaxed, unashamed, and free. I envied whoever had captured this breathtaking image of her.

That night, I dreamt of the art class model, alone with me in the figure drawing room. She posed, curving her statuesque body. I was transfixed by her perfect teardrop-shaped breasts and velvety, bronze skin. My mouth went dry as she as she parted her lips. I had never seen a woman like this before.

Her fingers moved to my zipper, her body pushed me to the floor, and I was instantly inside her. Her body shivered on top of me as she dug her nails into my shoulders. I woke up the next day sexually frustrated and late for school, knowing I would have to visit Santa Fe.

Finally, the day of the campus tour arrived. The first thing I noticed about the campus was its earthy tones — greens, maroons, and mustard yellows, all against the pale blue sky of Santa Fe. It was hot, it even smelled hot. Everything seemed brand new, right down to the smell of fresh paint.

“Luke Hurst,” our guide said, looking up over her clipboard that read “Santa Fe College of Art and Design.” As she lowered it, her blonde hair swept over her shoulder, and the fabric of her white blouse pulled tight against her breasts. I could almost taste the bead sweat running through her cleavage.

The campus ambassador took us through the gym and stadium to get us excited about the football team, but I couldn’t care less. I wanted to see the art department and especially see the room from the brochure where the figure drawing class met. As we went through the gym, she remarked, “It’s not all just football either, there’s archery, volleyball, and gymnastics. I’m a gymnast!” She continued naming sports but those words blurred like nameless faces in a crowd behind her original statement. As my eyes studied her tight little body, the words “I’m a gymnast” echoed through my mind. In my head I could picture her flexible legs lifting to the sky like an eagle spreading its wings.

"And this here is the Student Center," our guide said, but my focus was on the swaying of her hips as she walked. While she spoke, I thought of how much I wanted to grab her and push her firmly onto the grass, peeling her shirt off and tossing it to the side. She, of course, wouldn't be wearing a bra. I'd fumble around with her pants but she, being more experienced, would push me off and take care of it herself. She would pull my pants off, and start running her tongue up and down me.

Of course, all of this would have required speaking to her. Even as she revealed that she was a sophomore at the school and asked us about our plans, I could barely bring myself to mutter more than a few quiet words.

There was something about the atmosphere of the school that made me know I belonged there. I could picture myself sitting on the edge of the fountain snapping pictures of the bustling student body while listening to the soft, constant trickle of the water behind me; an image lived in my mind for years before it became a reality.

After a couple of hours into the tour, I realized how friendly and passionate the students were, while the teachers seemed as if they genuinely cared about student well-being. It wasn't long before my freshman year became an exciting time, with new and interesting people walking into my life one after the other.

I was walking home from class one afternoon when a blonde girl doing cartwheels on the grass outside of the gymnasium caught my attention. It only took me a second to realize that she was the campus ambassador who had led my group. I paused for a moment and watched her. She was wearing a tight, pink blouse and short shorts that barely covered anything. Watching her do a backflip, I swore it was the hottest thing I had ever seen. Her body stretched, shirt rising up to reveal her flat, smooth stomach. She more than fascinated me with the rhythm of her movement, the patterns of her muscle, and the sun back-lighting her shape. After a few cartwheels, she sat down on the grass, breathing deeply. Her chest rose and fell with a tantalizing tempo.

“Can I help you?” She raised an eyebrow as I came closer.

“Oh, sorry. I couldn't help it. Cartwheels and back-flips—you're really good.”

“Um, thanks? Do I know you?”

“You were a campus ambassador when I toured the school.”

“Oh. Well, there were a lot of tour groups that day.” She sighed, looking down at her phone.

“Okay. Well, I heard about the figure drawing classes and I was wondering if you know anyone who has done some modeling for it? Have you ever modeled before? You've definitely got the looks for it.”

She looked up from her phone, her shoulders tensing slightly. “What?”

“Yeah, I mean, you're hot. You could totally be a model.”

“A nude model? Gross. Keep it in your pants, kid.” She huffed, her face red as she stood abruptly and walked into the gym. Her hips still swayed the way I remembered.

“Real smooth.” I grumbled to myself. Dejected, I sulked all the way back to my dorm room.

In my Intro to Printmaking class was a petite, Japanese exchange student named Yuko. Although she hadn't quite mastered the English language yet, she understood me well enough when I spoke. Or, I assumed she did, since she was always hovering around me. Yuko smelled of lilac shampoo. She would always walk up to me as if she had something she wanted to say but couldn’t put the words together. I had a hard time understanding her, and it made me nervous when I was around her. After all, I had a hard enough time holding a conversation without a language barrier. Each time she would come within a few feet of me, I would pretend I forgot something across the room or in a different class.

“Do you hate me?” Yuko asked one day, following me as I was scurrying away. The guilt trip worked and I stopped to talk.

“Of course not!" I reassured her, but I wondered how true my statement was. I didn't know her well enough to hate her, but nothing attracted me to her either. "I'm just busy!”

A couple of months into the semester, Yuko caught me by surprise. While I was cleaning paint brushes in the back of the painting studio, I felt a small poke on my right shoulder. I turned around to see that petite dark-haired girl whom I had spent the last couple weeks avoiding.

"Hey, Yuko," I muttered, still skeptical about her intentions.

"Hello," she said, her accent thick, but her words still intelligible. "I want to ask something."

"Yes?"

She lifted up the camera around her neck. "Please help with my project," she said. "It's photo project." I couldn't stop myself from breathing a sigh of relief. That's all she wanted? Help with a project?

"Sure thing, Yuko. Do you want to go now?" I asked. She nodded. After I finished up with the brushes I followed her back to her dorm. It was a tiny, crowded space, much like my own. It smelled like patchouli, which made me smile. I noticed she had covered up the windows with blankets and set up a couple lamps in front of them so she could easily manipulate the lighting in the room while photographing.

Positioning me in front of the lamps, she tugged on my t-shirt. "Off." I squinted my eyes, the light from the lamps so intense that I could barely make out her tiny figure. She then motioned to my leather jacket, “On.” I slipped off my shirt and took the leather jacket from her hands. At first, it was cold against my bare skin, but the lamps behind me quickly warmed me up. After a while, I could feel the moisture beginning to gather on the surface of my lower back.

She adjusted the shutter speed and aperture on the camera and then snapped a few pictures. Her face scrunched up into a look of uncertainty. "Not right," she muttered, before posing my arms and legs. I tried my hardest to keep from moving as she posed me over and over, making gestures I couldn’t begin to interpret. I couldn't tell exactly what she wanted, and she didn't have the words to tell me.

The camera would snap some pictures, she would sigh and mutter something in Japanese, readjust my position, and the whole cycle would repeat itself. I tried to cooperate as best I could, but being both new to modeling and standing in semi-nude in front of a girl, I was sure the results weren’t great.

Finally, after about a couple dozen or so shots Yuko stepped back and stared at me. "More…" she paused, looking me up and down. "More dirty." I raised my eyebrows. I wasn’t expecting that word; maybe she meant sloppy.

"What?" I asked, feeling my face turning red. Surely she meant that literally.

"Sexy, dirty," she elaborated. "Now." It was clear she wasn’t taking “no” for an answer. I was caught off guard and didn’t know what to do. But she was insistent, there was a sense of urgency, and in my confusion it was easier to just do what I was told.

Looking back now, I probably would have gotten fully naked if Yuko told me to, even though I wasn’t attracted to her. At the time, I was so caught up in the moment that I just felt like a puppet under her control. I probably would have gone along with anything. Yuko's boldness taught me how a model can feel and what I needed to open the next chapter in my life.