A Picture's Worth

My balls tightened up, and my body quaked so hard that the bedframe rattled. The pent up need that had been building since I met him roared out of me; and I shot load after heavy load of hot, white jizz all over my chest. Mason's dick pulsed inside of me, and I felt his searing cream shoot into his condom.

He slumped over me, trembling. For a while I was lost in the throes of my orgasm, and then I just wanted to bask in the afterglow. I wrapped my arms around him, felt his heart race against mine as mine pounded against his.

Hours seemed to pass before Mason stirred, lifted his head. My lips parted as I stared up at him in awe.

I could see myself in his eyes.

His long fingers threaded through my hair. "What a picture we must make."

Stroking his back, I locked him between my thighs. "I'm not letting you leave this bed to get your fucking camera."

He grinned, then captured my lips in a gentle kiss. "Never even crossed my mind."

-- Seven --

Gradually, I became aware of the morning light, the cotton sheets draped over my hips. My eyelids had just begun to creep open when I heard Mason's husky voice in my ear.

"I'm about to take a great photo of you, so don't freak out when the flash goes off, alright?"

My eyes opened slightly, and I heard that now familiar click and whirr. "Done?"

"Yep."

I blinked a few times, bringing Mason into focus. He'd already gotten dressed, wearing a faded Van Halen t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

Van Halen. Oh, I was totally in love with Mason Ripley.

He sat cross-legged on the mattress, rewinding the film in his camera.

I pushed myself up, slapped my cheek a little to come fully awake. "Hey, why don't you use a digital camera?"

"Too much automation in digital photography. I like the process involved in taking a picture the old fashioned way."

"Process?"

"Gaging light, shutter speed. Adjusting the lens by hand. I love taking the undeveloped film and making something of it." His brow furrowed thoughtfully. "There's something so cold about taking a person and reducing them to pixels. The end result is a machine's interpretation, and there's less intimacy, less soul. The subject isn't really captured at all."

It felt good, listening to him share his passion. "Do you think you captured me?"

He smiled, popped his camera open. "Would you like to see what I see?" he asked, holding up a film cartridge.

I'd already had a glimpse of it last night, but I wanted more. "Yeah."

Mason hopped off the bed and went into the darkroom. "Come on, then."

I yawned, stretched, and followed him.

"Close the door."

I closed the door, saw him setting up his equipment on a counter. I walked around a table in the center of the room, ducked under some thin clotheslines and looked over his shoulder. A small, steel reel; a little steel tank; a lid of some sort; and something that looked like a mini can or bottle opener. He set them all in a row, with the film cartridge at the beginning.

"Ready?"

"Sure." I'd never seen film developed before; I was looking forward to it.

Mason hit a switch on the wall and plunged us into darkness.

"What the hell!"

"Don't tell me you're afraid of the dark?"

"No, but you could have warned me!"

He laughed. "If it'll make you feel better, you can rest your hands on my shoulders or something. Just be sure not to jar me."

Still irritated, I very nearly turned him down. But then I reached out into the darkness. My fingers found his back, trailed upward, and curved over his shoulders. "Why does it have to be so dark?"

I felt his arm move and then heard something pop open. The film cartridge, maybe. "The first step of developing a photo has to be done in complete darkness."

"I thought there was a special light you could use."

"Safe light. I'll turn it on in a second. But unprocessed film is too sensitive, even for that."

There was an odd, spinning sound. "What are you doing now?"

"Winding the negatives onto the reel."

The clink of metal against metal. "Now?"

"Putting the reel into the film tank."

There were a few seconds of silence, and I squeezed his shoulders. "What about now?"

"Covering the tank and switching on the safe light."

I blinked, then looked down at him when my eyes had adjusted. "You're a mean sonovabitch, you know that?"

He grinned, lifted my hand from his shoulder, and kissed my palm.

"And too damned sexy for your own good," I muttered.

"Thanks." He pulled some bottles from the shelf above him.

"What are you doing now?"

He opened one of the bottles, tipped it into an opening in the tank. "Pouring the soup."

"Soup?"

"Film developer."

"Oh."

Closing the opening, he picked up the tank and turned it over in his hands in a continuous motion for several seconds, then he tapped it against the counter a few times and set it down.

"What are you—"

"The film has to be agitated to get anything good from it." He glanced up, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Kind of like you and me."

I started to thrust my hands into my pockets, and realized I was standing naked in his darkroom. "If you ask me, I'm the only one who ever gets agitated."

"Good thing I didn't ask, then, because you'd be wrong."

"What—"

He picked up the tank, flipped it over and back, and tapped it on the counter again.

I took the hint and shut my mouth.

Mason watched me a while, repeating the ritual with the tank according to some internal clock I didn't understand. Then he poured out the 'soup' and poured some water in, as well as a small amount of another chemical. This, too, was agitated.

I was feeling for the film.

He poured out that mixture and poured in another, agitating that as well.

"It's a fixer and hardener," he said, seeing the surly look on my face. "I really turned you inside out in the park, didn't I?"

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Yeah, and your photo session was a nightmare."

He chuckled. "Aesthetically speaking, you are the most attractive man I've ever seen."

Too hard to hold on to a frown when he spoke that way. "Really?"

"But I need more than that. For my art, for my bed. It was racking to have you around, to see you be so close to what I needed, and not be able to get to you."

Yet again, he'd left me speechless.

Mason turned, poured the fixer out, and took the top off the tank. He set it under the faucet and turned on the cold water. Leaning forward against the sink, he watched the water flow. "I think these pictures will be good. There are four, in particular, I really want to show you."

His tone worried me. There was no playfulness, no teasing. Just a faint undercurrent of something I couldn't identify. "Okay."

I watched quietly as he filled the tank with yet another chemical, agitated the film for a couple of minutes, and placed it under running water again. About five minutes after that, he removed the reel, unwound the film, and carefully clipped it to one of the clotheslines.

"Are you done?" I asked, looking over the long, wet strip.

"Yep. Now all we have to do is let it dry, and then we can make some prints."

"How long will it take to dry?"

"Around an hour."

"An hour?"

He cracked a smile. "You're an instant gratification kind of guy. It's cute."

I could feel my skin warming. "No one's ever called me 'cute' before. Not even when I was a kid."

"Do you like that I've said it?"

My lips twitched as I leaned forward to kiss him.

Mason ducked away. "Your shaking and the delicate nature of this room isn't a good combination."

Surprised, I straightened. "In the bed, then?"

"Actually," he ran his fingers through his hair, "I could use some breakfast. How about you?"

Before I could answer, he was out of the darkroom.

What was going on?

I hurried after him, slammed my leg against the corner of his bed. My roar made him spin around.

"Dammit, Mason!" I hopped up and down as I rubbed my shin. "Can't you afford a bigger apartment!"

Suddenly he was there, his hands on my shoulders as he guided me to sit on the bed. He crouched in front of me, lifted my foot to rest on his knee. "Here, let me take a look."

His palm glided over my throbbing shin, soothing the pain out of me. It was weird, having someone so much smaller treat me this way. Because I didn't know how to handle his tenderness, I snapped at him. "I'm serious. Doesn't being a big-shot photographer pay better than this?"

He continued to stroke my leg. "One, it's not my fault you're big and clumsy."

"Clumsy?"

"Two, I was traveling a lot, and all I needed was a space to put my stuff. Now that I plan to live here, I guess I will need to find a bigger place."

My annoyance seeped out of me. At the gallery, he'd only said he was playing with the idea of staying. "Where would you go?"

Shrugging, he lifted his other hand to give my leg a thorough massage. "I don't know. I've had this apartment for most of my adult life. Where do you hang your hat?"

"Union Square."

"Lots of health clubs in that area."

His warm touch and his renewed interest in me made me smile. "Yeah, I own one of them."

He glanced up, his brown eyes intent. "Do you?"

I nodded. "I'll give you a membership, if you want. In exchange for taking my picture."

His hands stilled, then he eased my foot off his knee. "I'll think about it." He stood. "You're probably on a pretty strict diet, right? Is whole grain cereal okay?"

I wanted to keep his hands on my body, but I couldn't think of any subtle way to do it. "That's fine." I normally had a lot more than a bowl of cereal for breakfast; I decided he didn't have to know I ate like bear fresh out of hibernation just yet.

Mason left me alone on the bed. "I'll fix us a couple of bowls while you get dressed."

Get dressed? "S-Sure."

I spotted my briefs at the foot of the bed, but didn't move to put them on. Mason was warm one minute, cool the next. I understood him less now than ever, and he was twisting me into knots again.

What did he want?

-- Eight --

"Why are you making me sit in the corner?"

Mason used a pair of tongs to take an 8x10 print out of a tray. "No one's making you sit there," he said, clipping it to the clothesline. "I asked, and you obliged."

Bastard. And he knew it. "Why did you ask me to sit here, then."

He turned off the safe light and flipped on the main one. "Because I didn't want you to see these until I was sure they were good. You can come and take a look now."

Mason could see the reality of a person and lock it in a photograph. Was I ready for that?

He tilted his head to the side. "Well?"

Slowly, hesitantly, I stood and crossed the room. My lips parted as I saw the four black-and-white pictures hanging in a row.

"Wow."

"They turned out even better than I thought they would."

The first three photos were of me on the bench in front of the Jardan Gallery. My face was cradled in my hands in one, and I could feel my own frustration and confusion. Another had captured my profile as I stared into the street. My eyes were introspective, a little sad. The third had to have been right after Mason asked me to go home with him, because I looked shocked and aroused and hopeful. In the fourth one . . .

I was stretched out on his bed, and I looked rested, happy, at peace.

Four pictures, revealing every emotion I had felt in the last 24 hours.

"Thank you," I said softly. "You have no idea what these pictures are worth." I leaned closer, careful not to touch the wet photo paper. "It's me."

"Yes. Because you were honest. Wrong about a lot of things, but honest."

I glanced down at him. "Wrong? About what?"

He kept his gaze on the photos. "Last night, you told me you weren't smart, or funny, or talented. That's not true. You're smart enough to recognize a hole in your life and to try and patch it. You're smart enough to run your own business." He smiled. "You make me laugh. Granted, most of the time it's not on purpose, but you're still funny as hell."

I frowned, but didn't argue. "And the talent?"

"You don't think posing on stage or for a camera takes talent? You should have a conversation with the people who never get that far sometime."

"I thought you didn't like the kind of photography I was involved in."

"I don't. But I respect the challenges involved on your part." He turned his head, his expression open, his brown eyes soft. "Promise me something?"

Anything. I wondered if he knew that already. "What?"

"Don't ever let them make you do something that doesn't feel right. Don't let yourself fade again."

A smile ghosted on my lips. "I promise."

He grinned, gestured to the hanging photos. "You remember who you are now?"

I laughed, nodded.

"When they dry, I'll sign them for you. If you want one of those certificates of authenticity, though, you'll have to talk to Fletch. He handles all of that."

My heart stopped beating. "Wait. Why does this sound like goodbye?"

"Because it is, Joe."

The answer, so casual and cool, threw me. "Wh-Why?"

"You wanted me to take your picture, you wanted me to see you, you wanted to remember. You've gotten everything you wanted, and you got laid. Aren't you satisfied?"

"No," I whispered.

He took a step forward. "Sorry, didn't catch that."

This had been a one night stand. Mason didn't want to take it beyond that. He just wanted me out of his hair so he could go on with his life. My heart jump started, pounded against my ribcage as anger flooded my veins.

"No."

The corner of his mouth lifted very slightly. "No? You want more pictures? You can take all the negatives with you."

My vision went red and I grabbed him, throwing him up against the wall and holding him there. "It's not about the pictures!"

"Then why did you ask me to take them?"

I clenched my fists, warping his shirt. "Yes, I wanted pictures. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to remember. I even wanted to get laid. But I need more now."

"More of what?"

"Of you, dammit! I need your touch and I need your warmth and I need your god-damned attitude. I need you to take all your shit and move it into my apartment!"

Mason reached out, ran his knuckles up my cheek. "So this is you fighting for me?"

My anger vanished in a puff of smoke when I realized what he'd just done. "You son of a bitch. This was some kind of test, wasn't it?"

That maddening smile appeared on his lips. "I wouldn't call it a test. That would make me a jerk, don't you think?"

I growled and dropped him. "You are a jerk."

Chuckling, he slipped his fingers into the waistband of my slacks and tugged me forward. "I really, really wish I had my camera right now."

"You and your fucking—"

"Kiss me, Joe."

And my mouth was on his. The contact brought more brilliance, more rapture, more irrational love. Mason Ripley made me crazy as hell.

I wanted more of that, too.