Too Sexy Two!

Hello once again and a good week to everybody! Ehen, where was I? hurim hurim hurim… yes! So I went to take my solo shots while my lady finished up her makeup. When I finished those, I changed into a pair of jeans and rolled them up to my calves. I also changed into a short sleeved shirt as our concept demanded but not before I had completed three sets of twelve push up repetitions in the hope that my heaving chest and brawny arms would steal the show, until she floated in.

She was wearing nothing except for a white muslin loincloth and her hands over her breasts. The skimpy clothing rode above her hips but surprisingly, there were no essentials visible to the sight except for part of her pert bottom. She came in with three handmaidens, actually it was the makeup artist, Tyna and the assistant director, who flitted about her as if to protect her modesty, and the essentials from any risk of being bared. I just stood back waiting, like a king waiting for his dinner, wondering how long it would take for those fences to come crashing down. She walked very well, head held high atop a slender neck, straight shoulders and back almost immobile while her long duiker legs floated before her with the practised step of the runway model that she was, oblivious to all around her. She came up and stood beside me, and there we stood, two gladiators in an arena.

She smelled nice, and shy. I know it’s weird but uncertainty does have a smell, not at all unpleasant, especially when it is unencumbered by alienating agents like perfumes, deodorants and soap. It can only be detected up close but becomes more palpable when two people have just disrobed before one another for the first time, each one unsure of how the other views them stripped of all armour. This earthy aroma, devoid of any pretence, and aided by body heat, radiates to fill up the personal space around both parties, leaving the skin contracted by goose pimples from the sudden loss of heat. it seldom is the same afterwards. I put my hand on the small of her back, a gesture to reassure her that I wasn’t an ogre. Tyna gave a thumbs up sign that all was set for work and we began the shoot. That was when the nightmare began.

I had carried milady before, playfully, when we were clothed, just to test her weight, and she was a breeze, weighing just over 50kg – I could handle that. This time, however, when the director gave the signal, and I swept her up in my arms with a flourish, her palms still pasted over her glands, and I, standing proudly with my weightless cargo waiting to be blinded by a sudden flurry of flashes, stared bemused as the assistant ran up to us, my arms beginning to strain. She took her time in arranging my colleague’s arms, making sure her breasts were covered and then told me I was lifting her too high, I should lower my arms a little. I did, and that when the strain really began. A few snapshots went off before the director, Tyna, lowered her camera and told me my face was too relaxed, I should strain it a little more. Wasn’t that the whole point of it, to be the strong soldier carrying a damsel in distress effortlessly? “Nope,” they said, “we want you looking strained, and we want it to show on your face.” Another round began, each time the sadists came at us, primping us this way and that until even my lady shed all attempts at decorum and left it to the hardworking loincloth to hold the rest of the fort. The worst was yet to come.

After a period of about thirty minutes, which felt like ten times that, my arms, especially the right, were aching and had begun to quiver from exhaustion when they suddenly gave way and milady stumbled onto the floor. Instinctively I reached out to her, both to steady her and to cover her modesty – there were two other men in the room – when everyone began laughing. Wondering what they were laughing at, I looked down and saw that her hands had ‘made’ it to her breasts right underneath mine! I was horrified at the implication. Quickly I protested my innocence; I was merely trying to protect her, but from the ‘knowing’ looks and smiles of my tormentors, men and women alike, I was fighting a losing battle. The guys’ smiles said, “we’re not judging you man, we understand perfectly”; the women’s, including mine truly, as she looked up at me, smiling in resigned amusement “men will always be men, no matter the shroud”.

Here ends my lofty tale. We had another session after that where she was completely nude and we were both doused in so much powder; I was shirtless and hid behind her and so didn’t even have to suck my tummy in! What I did come away with were very aching arms and a very sore elbow from propping myself up on it and trying to look like I was in love. Suffice it to say that I told Tyna that from the experience, I had perished any thought of pursuing a modelling career. There you have it folks, laugh all you want, I am not perturbed; I have exorcised my demons as far as I’m concerned. Have a great weekend everyone! Thank you for helping me complete this second part of my post! XOXO

Too Sexy!

A good week to everyone! So long apart, yet so long together. In the latter I revel to keep buoyant when I sink to the murky depths below until I bob back to the dizzying heights I constantly reach for. Well, that’s my stint at poetry this morning; my little way of expunging the little madness that has built up over the night. I expunged yesterday’s by, on a whim, opening up Betty’s bonnet, climbing onto her engine and jumping up and down it. I was gentle though; I just wanted to feel like I was on top of things. It sounds crazy but it worked; my mind was clearer afterwards, not minding the curious amused looks I got from my neighbours. I had a unique experience in modelling recently. It was a photo session that was for a photo gallery and of course I would get copies of the pictures for my own use.

The photographer, Tyna, showed me some photos of celebrities and models in various poses; some shirtless, others in more daring revelations. I told her point blank she could perish any thought of me going shirtless to pose for anything until I get my six pack back, or anything coming close to it. It is now I’ve begun to really empathise with our women who have just given birth and the battle fought to regain, or hang unto, ones youth. Long and short of it is I said no. We perused some concepts and settled on some fairly safe concepts where I wouldn’t be terribly compromised. In one of them, I would be the strong silent type rescuing a near nude damsel in distress from some horrible calamity. I would carry her in my arms while she, near fainting, would still have the presence of mind to clasp her naked breasts with her hands – which I looked forward to with some fever. We fixed the date for our shoot.

The day came and I showed up at the studio quite early as I wanted to be done and leave before the rush hour evening traffic began. I was introduced to the model I would be working very closely with. I can’t remember her name because it was a very unusual but lovely name. She was quite pretty, not strikingly so but the kind that grows on one and never lets go once the claws are latched on. She was dark complexioned and lithe in stature, and had full lips that I could tell were quite soft to the kiss – yes, I do look out for things like that. Anyway, we got talking, ostensibly to get to know one another better to work up good chemistry for the impending shoot. We flirted with each other quite a bit, which is where the fun lies; to dangle carrots before one another with sultry hints of what could be but walking away without eating the fruit. It’s like having really good foreplay and walking away before having the sex that will condemn one to getting annoying phone calls in the middle of the night for want of attention or silly questions regarding what I’m thinking of or if I’m thinking of her. I can hardly get my arms around Frieda’s wahala (and I have very long arms) let alone ten other babes’. I needn’t have worried because she was a professional; I could tell it was just work for her and nothing else, which suited me very well.

We went to do our make up where I, to my annoyance, and at Nkem’s insistence, had to shave my ‘unibrow’ as she calls it – the continuous growth of hair between the eyebrows. That, as far as I’m concerned is how I was made and I don’t see how I have to pander to those pansy perfect ‘pretty boy’ looks just because it’s perceived as ‘clean’ and what female fans want to see! I even had mascara applied to my lashes, to the extent that they were clumped together in twos and threes! You know those lashes they show in magazines where two or three lashes join to form sharp points at the end? That’s how mine ended up. The makeup artist swore blind that they would not be seen by the camera and their sole function was to give me an intense look. Don’t laugh I beg of you lot; I write this with a lot of bravery and consternation which means that my readiness to open my vulnerable sides to you in future will depend on the outcome of this post. Readers beware! Anyway, simmering down and moving right on, I finished mine quickly and went into the studio to take some solo shot as my colleague was still doing her make up – she was to spend a further hour and a half finishing hers before coming to join me.

The rest of what I went through, are they not written in the post to come in just a few days from this one? Is not this post restrained by space to compel me to halt this one right now and am I not emboldened to wish that everybody has a great week ahead? They are, it is, I am!