“Sorry,” I say. “I guess I was distracted.”
“Eat, Syd,” Henry says. He looks at me with so much empathy in his eyes. I am beyond lucky to have such a devoted friend. I was an idiot for feeling aroused from Henry’s hug. I just need to erase that incident from my mind. I probably imagined the way he looked at me. I read something into it that wasn’t there. And right now I couldn’t be happier to be with Henry, my best friend, pushing all the craziness aside, and just enjoying pumpkin soup together.
“Mmmm,” I say as I have my first spoonful of the thick and fragrant orange broth.
“Jerry is such a good cook.”
“He’s making a honey-glazed ham for Christmas dinner, along with a winter squash soufflé and braised haricot beans,” Henry says. “My mother has been discussing the menu all week. Did I tell you Mayor Ryan and his wife Celine will be there?”
“No way!” I say. “Are you sure I should be there? I don’t want to be the weird, out-of-place guest.”
“Of course you should be there. You’ll be weird, like always, but not out-of-place,” Henry smirks.
“Gee, thanks. You sure know how to boost a girl’s confidence.”
“I didn’t know your parents were friends with Mayor Ryan,” I said.
“Oh yeah, for ages. Now Celine and my mother are running a fundraiser together. They’re doing it for a group that gives hot meals to Mid-Michigan families who’ve lost their jobs.”
“What’s the fundraiser?”
“A raffle. Someone donated fifty iPads, and Meijer’s is giving them furniture sets to raffle off … that kind of stuff.”
“Cool,” I say. “I want to help.”
“You can talk to them about it at Christmas dinner. Tomorrow!”
“Holy crap. I can’t believe tomorrow is Christmas Eve.”
“It is. And don’t forget about your red sweater. You promised to wear it. Did the shoes arrive?”
“They should be here tomorrow morning.”
“Good,” Henry says. “Now let’s turn to the soap opera channel. Tell me your saga, darling.”
“Professor Sparling wants to see me naked.”
“Duh!” Henry says and smacks his palm against his forehead. “What did you think? He spent all semester seeing you dressed. And now he’s got you wrapped around his little inbox. You’re going to fill it with everything he asks for.”
“You think I’m that easy?” I say pouting.
“Am I wrong?” Henry asks with his eyebrows raised.
“I guess not,” I say with a sigh. I start to tell Henry the story about the picture, but it’s embarrassing. I feel heat rushing to my cheeks. I hope my face is not turning bright red. OK, my face is definitely turning bright red. Henry’s reaction says it all – that ear to ear smirk of his and the twinkle in his eyes and then he asks, feigning disbelief, “Are you blushing, Sydney Morrison?”
“It’s not everyday I talk about taking a picture of my bare tits,” I retort.
“So did Mr. Professor write back that you are the hottest thing he’s ever seen?”
I blush again. “Something like that. He wants me to send more pics.”
“Go for it.”
“I don’t think so,” I say shaking my head. “It’s too strange.”
“It’s crazy sexy,” Henry says.
“I know it’s hot, but taking naked selfies … who really does that?”
“Like everyone, Syd,” Henry says as if it’s the most obvious thing ever. As if everyone on campus is aiming iPhones at their crotches and posting away. Well, maybe they are. What do I know?
“You gotta show off your goods to that old man of yours,” Henry continues. “It’s either selfies or you get someone else to take the pics.”
“And who exactly is going to take pictures of me naked? My cats?”
Henry looks me straight in the eyes. “Me,” he says.
I’m about to say “Ha!” but I see the serious look on his face and realize he’s not kidding. We both sit in silence for what must be a few seconds, but feels like a few hours. Henry doesn’t take his eyes off of me. Finally, I squirm and crack a joke to ease the tension in the air. “So I’ll be posing naked with the baguette, I presume.”
Henry doesn’t respond as I expect. There’s no humorous quip or tossing around of the baguette. He’s just staring at me and his eyes are a deeper blue than usual. Their sparkle has been replaced with duller, predatory look. It’s a more intense version of the way he looked at me in my pink towel. I try to joke again. “Hey, Henry, is this some kind of staring contest? What’s next, thumb wrestling?”
Henry puts his a forefinger over his lips. “Shhhh,” he says.
He stands up and pulls his fleece off over his head and puts it on the chair. He’s in a fitted white undershirt now that shows off his muscular shoulders and biceps. I can’t stop myself from admiring his amazing body. I also can’t stop my body from responding to his eyes.
Feeling some cross between panic and desire, I sit quietly on my chair beside my little table and empty soup bowl. Henry moves to stand right above me. He’s hovering close as he reaches across the table and grabs my phone. “What are you doing, Henry?” I ask nervously.
“Shhhh,” is all he says as he comes closer to me, so close that his legs are brushing against my knees. He’s standing right over me and as I look up into his eyes he says, “Don’t move.”
I don’t. I can’t. I’m frozen. As I stare up at him, confused and surprised at his behavior, he takes a picture of me. He glances at the picture, smiles mischievously, sets my phone back down on the table and says, “You’re stunning, but you need a phone with a better camera.”
Henry moves his hands to my shoulders and then rubs my chin with his thumb. He’s still holding his gaze on me as he readjusts the newsboy hat to a more slanted angle on my head. Now his fingers are moving back to my face. He places the tip of his forefinger on the edge of my chin and then gently runs it down my throat and over my collarbone. He keeps running it lower, past the first open button of my nightshirt, past the second open button, and then it stops when it lodges in the nook of the third button, which is closed.
My breath quickens and so does my heart rate. What is Henry doing? He’s acting so sexual. He’s brazenly seductive and I have absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to respond. My body, though, is responding involuntarily. My thighs clench, my nipples harden, and raw desire subjugates every cell in my body. I continue to stay still and try to calm my breathing as Henry slowly and deliberately opens my third button. And then my fourth. All without taking his eyes off mine.
“Henry,” I say. “What’s going on here?”
“I thought you’d want a little help with your buttons. You want to take over from here?”
“I don’t understand, Henry,” I say.
“I think it’s pretty straightforward,” he says.
“No. It’s, um … I don’t know what it is, but I think we should stop.” I can hear the hesitance in my voice.
“No, you don’t think that,” Henry says with conviction.
And he’s right. I’m scared, but I’m also about to detonate out of the sullen encasement that’s been imprisoning me for years. And I want to be freed. I look down at my nightshirt that has only three remaining buttons still closed and I move my fingers down, opening them carefully, one right after the other, eager, but not in a rush.
Henry remains standing over me, staring at me with unblinking eyes. Until this moment I’ve never truly imagined being with him. And now, the very thought I’ve never fully entertained appears to be an imminent reality. I can’t say it’s a dream come true because I haven’t been wishing for it. It’s actually better than that. It’s an instantaneous wonder.
“Slide the shirt off your shoulders,” Henry commands.
I do what he says. I clutch the bottom of the shirt and hold it closed with one hand and very gently shake my shoulders until the shirt slides backwards and the tops of my breasts are exposed. As I’m looking down at them, Henry snaps a picture. When I look up, he takes another one.
My heart is beating so fast I can’t form clear thoughts. I am baring my breasts to Henry and my body has begun to crave him in a primal way. Yet, thirty minutes ago, the man on my mind was Professor Sparling. In fact, these pictures are supposed to be for Professor Sparling. But, hello! This is very clearly no ordinary photographer/model relationship. This is so much more than Henry doing a favor for his best friend. There’s undeniable, potent sexual tension in the air. No one could miss it, not even a nun.
I pull the shirt up with my free hand and it now covers my shoulders again. There’s a gap between the two open sides of the shirt that reveals the skin between my breasts. Henry looks down at me and then takes a step backwards. I can hear his heavy breathing. “Stand up,” he says. It’s an order, not a request.
I swallow the lump of apprehension in my throat and stand up. As I rise, I pull the sides of the shirt closed and wrap my arms around them to keep them shut. If Henry asks me to open my shirt – and I know he is going to ask me to do just that – he will see me full frontal naked, except for the thin white cotton panties covering the part of me that is hotter, wetter, and more alive than ever before.
Henry takes a picture of me standing there with my arms wrapped around myself, the rim of his pin-striped cap grazing my forehead, my legs and feet bare, and my eyes, he says, “So full of innocence.”
I wouldn’t exactly call myself innocent, but it has been nearly four years since I’ve been in a real, live, sexual situation with a man. And if Henry feels even half of what I’m feeling then this is a very sexual situation. I am longing and aching – like I have been for Professor Sparling – for someone who is right here in the flesh. After so many years without this, so many years of smothering any feeling that might have brought me pleasure, I don’t want to let this get away. But it’s Henry …
“Let your arms hang down at your sides,” Henry says. He is snapping pictures of me one after another, but his eyes are so fixated on me I wonder how he’s managing to do anything at all. I’m staring back at him, vulnerable, aroused, and attempting to wrap my head around the fact that I’m seeing an entirely foreign side of this man who is so familiar to me.
Thoughts are swirling around my mind, but I cannot make sense of them. I feel like I’m in a hurricane, with the might of the storm tossing me around beyond my control. I force myself to concentrate on standing perfectly still to stop my nightshirt from opening. Henry circles me taking pictures from different angles. When he’s behind me he tells me to look back so my profile is in the picture.
“Now turn to me,” Henry says.
I take tiny half-steps to my right until I’ve turned 180 degrees to face him again, but I keep my head down. I’m afraid of what I’ll see if I look into his eyes.
Henry is holding the phone up directly in front of me. “Open your shirt, Sydney,” Henry says. “And look up at me when you do it.”
Still looking down, I whisper, “This is for Professor Sparling,” right?
“Yes,” Henry whispers back. “This is for Professor Sparling.”
If I were a stripper, this would be my ‘pull the shirt open so hard it rips’ moment. I, however, am doing everything slowly and delicately, but lucidly. And I am making this sexy moment last because it’s like sun after years of rain. I put my hands on either side of my shirt’s lapels. I straighten my back and suck in my belly. Then ever so slowly I begin to pull the sides of my shirt open. Henry is still aiming the phone at me. As I pull the shirt away from my nipples and slide it away from the sides of my breasts he groans, “My God you’re beautiful.”
Heat rushes to my core.
Henry and I are staring at each other. I don’t remember a time when we have been this quiet and still together. I can’t hold the stare. After all, I’m mostly naked and he is fully dressed. It’s more than a little unequal. “Don’t look down, Sydney,” Henry says. “Look at me. Look at the camera. Pull your shirt open with confidence and let me take pictures of you.
I finally relax enough to crack a smile. “How’s this?” I say as I pull my shirt wide open and thrust my chest forward, my breasts bouncing as I do.
“Gorgeous,” Henry says. “And so hot.”
I begin to loosen up as I strike poses. I put my hands over my nipples, push my breasts together, and give Henry my best pout. I turn to the side, put my hands on my hips, and show Henry my profile, arching my back so my ass and chest both stick out. Then I put my hands behind my head and stand with my legs apart. And finally, I start to play with the newsboy cap. I put it on and take it off and Henry keeps snapping pictures. “Attention, Playboy magazine,” he says. “You’re a natural, Syd.”
The more I pose, the more aroused I become. I can feel wetness pooling in my panties and I wonder if it’s making them transparent. How much of me can Henry see? I have no idea what he and I are doing, or where this is going. I take a deep breath and vow to enjoy this moment, no matter what happens next. Maybe it’ll be one of those things we laugh about a few months from now. Or maybe it’s the beginning of something real. Now Henry’s blue eyes are as clear as I’ve ever seen them, and they’re studying every part of me like I’m a precious work of art.
“Sit down,” Henry says. He takes a step closer to me so he’s too close now to snap pictures. I take a few steps backwards to my futon without taking my eyes off of Henry. I squat lower and lower until I’m sitting on the edge of the mattress with my knees pulled up in front of my breasts. “Keep your knees up, and spread your legs,” Henry says firmly. Those words take me to the hilt. A surge of lust races over me like a giant wave and I want to concede to it, drown in it. I’ve never felt this hot in front of a man before. I’m like a tautly stretched rubber band that’s threatening to snap. I’m losing more and more control with every passing second and I might come right now in front of Henry while he takes photo after photo of my pleasure. It is taking all of my willpower to keep myself from slipping my fingers into my panties.
I sit up as tall as I can on the edge of my futon. I begin to part my knees and when I’m positioned before Henry like that, with bare breasts and wide-open legs, he lets out a loud sigh and spins around to face the wall. He runs his hand through his hair. “Sydney,” Henry says.
I can’t decipher the tone in his voice, so I don’t know how to reply. Luckily, I don’t have to because in the next breath he says, “Do you want me to touch you?”