PAUL’S PHOTOS || Trophy Boy

He was reclining on the couch.  When I walked over he started to happily wiggle around as I snapped shot after shot of him.  I commented on his shirt and he laughed.

His clothes came off and things went well for a while.  I took snapshots of him as he stretched, as he scratched his knee.

Suddenly, inexplicably, it was as though the emotional temperature of the room plummeted.  I honestly don’t know what happened, but suddenly it was very tense, almost unpleasant. I positioned him some poses that I liked and took some pro forma shots.  Regardless of the emotional tenor of a shoot, I am always in love with the architecture of the male body. I asked him to crouch on the green chair so I could take this shot of his genitals, so beautiful emerging from between his legs.

I glanced up and was shocked to see the intensity with which he was watching me.  His eyes seemed full of tears; he was immensely sad. I asked if he was ok.  He shrugged and sat down on the chair.  For a while all I could was snap pointless shots of a sad young man.  The little blue star tattooed near his navel felt ironic, heartbreaking.

I felt inadequate to ask the right questions.  The mood he’d fallen into was too deep for me to approach. Following a truly stupid impulse, I had Trevor gently squeeze his nipple.  His only response was to put his hand over Trevor’s.

I’m a pornographer, nothing more, nothing less.  I crouched down to snap this last shot, centering it on the center of my life: male sex.  I’m ill-equipped—utterly incompetent!—to deal with the emotional depths this young man had suddenly fallen into.  I felt as though I should have held his hand, said something sage, comforting.

But I’m a pornographer.  I snapped the last shot and left the room.

Paul Morris