the third sex

.
.
.
.
She was on her hands and knees, with her bare bottom in the air. “What you want me to do now?” she asked. I scratched my head. There had to be an answer, but I simply put the camera down and told her to take a five-minute break.

“Don’t you want me?” she asked slyly, a delicate hand snaking out for my zipper. I withdrew modestly. She was attractive, but not my type. A bit too pushy, a bit too big and noisy. She came after me, tugging at my zip. But I really didn’t feel any attraction. I didn’t actually want to do anything but finish the photoshoot.

She pouted. “You don’t like me.”

You are a very nice model, I told her. Your photos look good. Here … And I grabbed the camera and quickly wheeled through the shots we had taken. That did the job. She became enchanted by her own image, and I wriggled out of a situation that I did not want to be in.

When I tell people that I don’t have sex with the models during a shoot, they look at me as if I’m slightly bonkers. Well, I wouldn’t deny that. But the fact is, I don’t. If I like a model, I arrange to see her later. But getting halfway through a photoshoot and then giving up and hopping into the sack is not what I’m there for. I need to get photo sets. I would never get any pictures done if I behaved like that.

Nor is it a case of making myself, or part of myself, into an element of the pictures. When I look at photos from other sites, if I see a big penis extending from the lower part of the frame and into my fantasy, I switch right off. I’m very happy to see as many ladyboy cocks as I can, but a photographer pushing his dick and his beer belly into the shot is an instant turnoff.

The funny thing is, that when I’m taking the photos, I’m very single minded. I don’t actually want to have sex, I want to get the job done. Although this might surprise a lot of people, I do have a lot of self-discipline. Besides, I certainly don’t lead a sex-starved existence. I am surrounded by ladyboys, and a phone call will have one of them in my apartment within the hour. So, I’m alright, Jack.

Years ago, when I was a student, I studied art at night school. One of the biggest attractions about this for me was the figure drawing classes, when a model would be hired for the evening and come in and disrobe for us. At the age of 18 or 19, and bursting with hormones, I used to go hot with desire if the model was a young and attractive one. Even if she was not that attractive, quite frankly.

I also used to disbelieve the stories that I read about photographers who specialised in glamour work, and how they primly kept their hands off the models when they were doing the shoots. But now I can understand. I have also in my career done food photography. You don’t eat what is on the table, no matter how hungry you may be: you take the photographs.

Ladyboy photography is like sex, in a way. You get the model to undress, you flatter her, coax her to get a hard-on, then you photograph her having an orgasm. After she has done that, she doesn’t feel the need for sex. Maybe I do. So, as I say, I reach for my phone and an hour later….