After our magical day at the beach, Paris is all I can think about. It was exhilarating visiting with him. Every time he laughs, his mouth opens wide, carrying a fantastical and unforgettable echo. I hadn't been to the beach in a very long time, and watching that beautiful guy as he swayed in the cool bright blue waves made it better than my wildest expectations.
Since the moment I drove Paris back to our cul-de-sac yesterday, he's consumed my thoughts. He looked at me in a way I never dreamt of someone looking at me. I want to capture that delicate and gorgeous face and keep it in my heart forever.
On my desk sits the camera that Maya and Tommy bought me as a going-away present. It replaced my much older model, yet I haven't even used it yet. I really want to. More than anything, I want to take photos of Paris.
Suddenly, I have an idea.
Without hesitation, I slip on a pair of joggers and a tank top before grabbing my camera and running out the door. Hastily, I rush over to Paris' house and knock on the front door. I wait there for a few minutes, frantically hoping he'll answer. Worried that something might be wrong, I knock again. Finally, Paris opens the door. He looks particularly radiant, staring me down with his reflective brown eyes that suck me in like a lethal vortex. He analyzes me for a minute, probably wondering why I'm standing on his front porch for the third time this week.
"Hey."
"Hey," he responds, unable to hold back a little chuckle that drives me insane.
"Look, I know this may sound crazy, but I got this new camera and I've been dying to test it out. I was wondering if you wanted to...maybe..."
"Maybe, what, Gray?"
Something about hearing Paris call me "Gray" so nonchalantly makes my heart skip in ways it never has before. I can already feel a faint blush hitting my skin, but I finally manage to spit out what I've been trying to say.
"...model for me?"
"Model?" Paris stutters with a fragile mumble, surprised at my request. His gentle voice sends a chill down my spine. I try to blink away the feeling, hoping it doesn't take me over. A part of me hopelessly wants it to take me over. Like a drug I'm intoxicated by him. His trademark scent lingers in the air, jasmine flowing through my nose, setting a dazzling array of fireworks off in my mind.
Eventually, I manage to bring myself down to reality and answer his question.
"Yeah..."
"I'm certainly not model material."
Paris' face dims, crestfallen. I hate seeing him like this. Paris is a delicate flower I wish to protect, a blooming rose among a field of disgusting little weeds.
"Paris, how can you say that? You're astonishing."
"You really believe that?" Paris scoffs, unable to comprehend my raging adoration.
"Absolutely."
Without another word, Paris opens up the door and lets me in.
If only I had the courage to let him in and say what else is on my mind. That Paris isn't just astonishing. He's a masterpiece; a sparkling gem that outshines any other. He draws me in with those hypnotizing coffee bean eyes and adorable raven black curls. I've never met a guy who has a smile as radiant as his, with thin lips that curl upward in the most exceptional way right before he laughs. It brings out the adorable freckles dotted across his cheeks and makes me wish I could wake up every day to the view of Paris' beauty.
***
I rummage through Paris' closet while he goes into the bathroom to take a shower. He wants to look his very best for the photoshoot. I hate to see his bedroom so empty, but the neatness makes it the perfect place for a photoshoot. The natural light pouring in from his window shines on the light turquoise sheets of his white wooden bed. Now, all I have to find is the perfect outfit from him to wear.
For someone who doesn't leave his house much, Paris has quite a lot of clothes. I wasn't expecting all these choices, but it gives me plenty of ideas for our little photoshoot.
Eventually I settle on a white button-down and a pair of acid-washed jeans. He can half-tuck the button-down and roll up the sleeves. A nice chestnut belt brings the whole look together. If everything goes according to plan, he'll look absolutely stunning. Not that he needs any help.
For a while, I sit on the bed, waiting for Paris to finish blow drying his hair. I hang the outfit on the top of the bathroom door and, after a while, he snatches it. A moment later he struts out, wearing the button-down untucked.
"Come over here," I prompt.
Paris complies and patiently waits while I tuck the shirt in just right, unbuttoning the top two buttons to show off his thin porcelain chest before looping the chestnut belt through his jeans. Now, Paris is ready for his close-up. His face lights up energetically as he crawls onto the bed, folding his legs under him, looking down so I can get a snapshot of his perfect curls.
Next, I ask him to lay down on the bed and rest his head on the bedpost, instructing him to look toward the window pensively. He does so perfectly, and I lick my lips eagerly, the feelings brewing inside me reaching an uncontrollable point of no return. Soon enough I'm imagining his body on mine, the feeling of his slender torso pressing up against me. I can almost feel his lips pressing into me, imagining him playfully biting at my soft pink lower lip as I slide my hands all over him. I desperately want my fantasies to become reality, but then I'm yanked back into reality and reminded that acting on these feelings would change my life forever. It would confirm that I'm gay. And it hurts to admit it, but I'm not ready for that confirmation or the negative repercussions that come with it.
These fears consume my mind and I start to drown in my thoughts, unable to escape the web of anxiety until I catch another glimpse of Paris. An intense happiness has washed over him and he can't take his mystical dark eyes off of me, biting his lip as he stares into the camera. Knowing I've made him smile lifts my spirits and calms me down. I return to the present and snap another photo, wanting to encapsulate this moment for eternity. Perhaps one day everyone will get to see Paris' exceptional beauty captured in a picture.
Who knew that a simple photo could make somebody so ecstatic? Yet there is much more to that fire brewing inside my abdomen than a mere picture.
Unable to restrain myself, I imagine what it'd be like to see Paris' vulnerable side, to photograph him in an exposed state.
I tell him to unbutton his shirt, and, without hesitation, Paris complies. There is a sense of longing on his face. I can see how much he wants this, maybe more than I do.
His shirt is untucked and his slender torso Is exposed, the white fabric hanging loosely from his arms. His skin is lighter than paper, as if he's never seen the sun in his entire life. It seems unbelievable, a moment that could only be proven by the snap of a camera.
Paris picks his poses and I stay silent, photographing them in awe. One moment he sits on the edge of the bed, the next he drapes his body against the sheets, facing me. He looks natural in this state, like a statue carefully carved by Da Vinci himself. The artistic beauty looks to the ceiling as I photograph the delicate flutter of his chest, the swift arch of his back, the taut outline of his ribs, the thin dark hairs trailing down his abdomen, and every other magnificent aspect of his frame. Everything blends in a meticulous harmony to create a sense of perfection I have never witnessed before.
A metamorphosis happens before my eyes. Paris sheds his outer shell and becomes a radiant personality, trailing his light fingers down to his jeans, reaching to unbutton them. I stare intently and gulp, mouthwatering as Paris slowly unzips the acid-washed fabric and pulls them from his tall, thin legs. He's left in only his tight white boxer shorts, leaving nothing to the imagination as I continue to photograph him pulling up the sheets, holding them over himself in an alluring fashion, piquing my interest. Then, he throws them aside, dropping himself down in between the sheets for everyone to see. He rubs his legs against each other and reaches his hands out like shimmering rays blooming from the sun. I inch closer, standing on the bed to get an aerial view of him. His black curls pool over the sheets while he smiles up at the camera. Never have I ever felt such a wave of delight cascade over me. These feelings shock my core and chain me down with their immense power. It takes every ounce of self-control to stop myself from jumping down and kissing every square inch of his body. I can taste his sweet jasmine scent on my lips and feel his warm skin gracing my teeth.
Unexpectedly, Paris and I perk up at the sound of the front door opening. The two of us swiftly rush up from the bed, our moment of intimacy thwarted as Paris hurriedly slips his clothes back on. I dart into the bathroom to hide, leaning against the door to listen.
Moments later, someone who I assume is Paris' father stumbles in and mutters in a near indecipherable drawl. I question if he's merely exhausted from work or if there's something more. Assuming I'm overreacting, I brush off my suspicions.
Once the coast is clear, Paris opens the bathroom door. Without warning, Paris wraps his gangly arms around my waist, squeezing me into a toasty embrace before leading me out. He whispers a message of thanks and I can only hope that my time with Paris has helped him. It certainly made me feel something raw that I've never felt before.
Something that might be the blossoming of love.