By Sky Gilbert
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Extra info for Desire High Heels Red Wine
My mother had given them to me as a stocking stuffer three years ago. " He came in close with the camera. " "Yeah. " I gave him that grin he liked so much. Then I thought of him beating off to this picture tomorrow night and my smile grew. "Very nice. " The flash went. The motor wound. The light left an after image on my retina, but I dimly saw Bill snatch at the Polaroid. He set the camera on the shelf beside a thick pile of pictures. He waved the square slowly in the air trying to speed the chemicals.
I pulled out the front and tail but left it 56 — Closure on, hanging open. "Nice chest," he said. Even if Bill gave the commands, he knew the power dynamics here, and I think he resented it. He remained stock still, but the way his knees bent I knew he was restless. I shrugged the yoke of the shirt and let it drape from my elbows. I unbuckled my pants. My feelings in the kitchen had been an indication, but still I was surprised how my desire responded to this play. An exhibitionist, and I never knew it.
The ice in my scotch had melted. I took the pile of Polaroids down and sat on the sofa. Methodically I flipped each picture off the top, examined it and put it at the bottom of the pile. Faces. Only faces. They held nothing in common but the photographer. A few I vaguely recognized: the owner of an antique market, a waiter, a bar-boy, a vagrant. A vagrant? I held this one closer. Definitely: the Recipe Man. I used to see him on my way to work for at least two years. Usually he'd sit in a doorway, grizzled, dirty, covered in a blanket with his palm held out.