Dad came home for an extended stay in mid-December, full of himself because his team was closing in on isolating a new element. As usual, he let Mom assemble the celebratory tray before dragging her into the bedroom for what he, half proudly, half apologetically, explained as “celebrating their collision.” Very particle physicist. That night I made love to myself over and over to the accompaniment of their celebration music, thinking all the time of Ella’s sweet, willing body.
For Mom, the shine wore off Dad’s prolonged visit quickly, and it being a vacation, I escaped the fringes of their dissonance by repairing to Ella’s place as often as possible.
With picnics in the bedroom curtailed, Dad turned to his new enthusiasm, photography. Hours in the locked dungeon in the basement that I soon discovered was a fully tricked-out darkroom. One day, in a generous mood, Mom was away on a protracted shopping trip, I asked if he’d teach me to make photographs.
“Does black-and-white interest you?”
Oh my yes! Mom’s love for Georgia O’Keefe had led Ella and me to discover the sensual B&W nudes of Imogen Cunningham. In our buttoned-up 1960s world, Imogen’s life and Arts & Crafts lifestyle showed us that even for women, independence and freedom were possible.
Dad loaned me his second camera, an Exacta, and a light meter, loaded in a roll of Tri-X, gave a quick demo, and said “The best way to learn is to do. Everything’s an experiment. You’ll figure it out. Shoot the whole roll and we’ll develop it tomorrow.”
Framing the luscious curves of a Calla Lily, I got so turned on I had to change panties. Even the interplay of a volunteer fern and a rusty hinge on the toolshed door aroused me. I couldn’t wait to tell Ella, and I saved a couple of pictures at the end of the roll to expose with her.
“Oooo, a nice camera. Let’s make some pictures,” said Ella.
“Pictures?”
“Yes, silly, pictures. Of us. You don’t really know what you look like, do you?”
“Well,” and I was thinking there were ‘pictures’ in my head that I couldn’t imagine sharing. “I guess... why not... but we’ve gotta be, um, modest?” I had no clue what “develop” meant in terms of film, but I knew it involved a dark room and wasn’t sure if my father would see all our photos. Modest wasn’t exactly what Ella was imagining – I think she had an even less clear idea than I did of how easily a ‘picture’ could become ‘public.’ Glowing after urgent love-making and wearing robes that covered fully, she standing halfway behind me, her hand on my shoulder, we composed a sweet photo of ourselves in her Mamma’s big pier glass mirror. Good soft light from all around. I pushed the button. Click.
“I think I blinked,” Ella apologized. “Take another.”
“Last one . . . you sure?” She nodded assent, I checked the exposure, counted down, clicked, and wound. “Oh! I think there might be one more.”
“Take us again,” Ella urged, and without looking through the viewfinder, I clicked. Just as I snapped, I realized she’d dropped her robe from her off-hand shoulder, and was teasingly half-revealed beside me, her most salient feature prominently in the frame.
“Oops,” she said, but I was pretty sure her revelation wasn’t accidental.
– o –
“Did you slip your robe off on purpose, do you remember?”
“You’re asking me 60 years late?” Ella queried with a big smile. “Of course, I remember, and of course I did! You know I didn’t keep a journal like you did, but I wrote about that whole episode. Want to read what I wrote?” Without waiting for an answer, she was up, saying “Let me go find my memory book. ”
From Ella’s memory book, “New Year's Day 1967”:
New Year. New me, I guess. I continue to surprise myself.
This episode began when G brought the camera. No secret – I love the way she looks at me, and maybe I was only thinking a picture of us with me bare would give her something to treasure. Back of my mind, I knew that photos take on lives of their own, and my bare boob might be seen by others?
Two days later, I’m over at G’s place, and her Dad’s there, and he’s looking at me with a new intensity. Had he seen the photo already? G cleared that up when she took me to her room and showed me her contact sheet and 4-by-5s of us in the mirror. The last one, Angelic Grace in her modest robe, and this small incandescent brown person just behind her, small gamin face, impish smile, big glowing boob from just below the dark erect nipple. Even I have to admit, beautiful. Only way it would’ve been better? if G had dropped her robe, too!
Was I turning into an exhibitionist? Because I felt a new meaning in the way Jack, G’s dad, looked at me – and it made me hot. I unbuttoned two more buttons on my blouse and pushed my tits up higher in my bra before we went out for dinner. Jack made a fool of himself trying to see. The power!