romance of the rose was pure spontaneity. i've been longing to do a shoot but hadn't been inspired. but there i was in that lushness; organization of flora, swirls of koy fish, flowers with the heady scent of woman, honey and musk. My friend had a camera and i had a desire. this one was more difficult than alley cat because the lighting was fickle and it took a while before the shoot felt natural/authentic. whereas with Alley cat i was 100%, high with the experience; feverish with it. the summer air was seductive and the sight of my own breasts always delights me. with the removal of each piece of clothing i felt myself sway a bit more into the flow. the iron chair was quite an experience. it was cold and grainy against my skin and this was, rather then uncomfortable, thrilling. i did a chair dance for the camera, sticking my ass into the air like a cat in heat. and then hunkered down against that metal form, the rust cursive. i wanted a camera beneath me, wanted to be seen from beneath as a lover would see me as i lowered myself down upon them. by the time i got to the grass i was in a state of sleepy ease. I wanted to make love. i opened my body to receive. wanted to be pressed against the grass, wanted it in my hair, wanted to feel it give in to the weight. i wanted also to stretch and stretch like the beams of a star.
i was disappointed with the quality of the photos-i'm not gonna lie. and i knew that they were not up to par. but i had enjoyed the shoot and otherwise they would sit silently, unseen. i look forward to the next shoot and am eager to find a good photographer.

thought i'd share some writing again...

Lust. It felt like love. a hot ambiguity in between the two.

Our pinnacle; the carnival.
To get away from the dust bowl campus we piled into the grand wagoneer.
And Rae was there; her girlfriend flirting with some boy in a crowd; picking at cotton candy with two fingers.
Rae grasped my hand spinning me around and smiled puckishly, leaning in to dip lips to my necks hollow.
"don't," i whisper harshly. but i am smiling, "your girlfriend...."
"i need to be with you." she says.
A loud shrill scream interrupts us. We look up; locating the sound at the steeple of the ride.
"Lets go on that." she says.
"It my favorite."

We wait in line. My heart is beating in my belly. I want her. We hand our tickets over, spellbound by one another and step into the cage; it rocks with our weight.
the man closes it shut tightly and pulls on the door to be certain it is locked into place.
He releases and we swing forward, backward. The head light and and then the feet, dizziness rolling from the chest to the pelvis; chest to pelvis.
And with a sudden violent creaking movement we are lifted.
The ride gains momentum and we rock the metal cage wildly laughing. two girls two boys a boy and girl; all and neither.
In love at this moment.
Understanding completely without thought; with our hearts, with our youth.
The cage echos the rhythm we have established; flipping upsidedown, rightsideup and we are pushed into a single physical reality.
She grabs my chin and pulls my face to hers.
She kisses me with a lingering desperation.

And both our bodies soften together in a unison of relief.
With each kiss, each rotation of the cage desire mounts, desire is satisfied exquisitely.
The earth and its laws are suspended.
Mountain wind stirs at the rides summit; foreboding and deeply sexual.
And at the bottom, the sharp scent of metal softened by hot swampy oil. popcorn with nauseating butter. funnel cake.
excited screams follow the axis of the ride
but my lips are filled by hers
my mouth singing with the chapping wetness, smushed bone to bone
it is too good.

i have gone to the fair twice in love. once with the boy with the folksong lyrics, with the hunched back; with the knuckles.
Once with the first woman i touched. and meant it.

In a year she will be dead
But now,
now I am breathing in her mouth.

I'm on the cape! but i' willing to drive to see a photographer...any suggestions?
i love you guys, thanks for offering so much help
xoxoxo
~Paonia

I'm looking for a photographer in MA....any one know of any?

It began with the suicide girl shoot; something i have been wanting to do for several years now.
With my major opponent (possissive boy) laid out in a hospital bed with a broken pelvis my oppurtunity arrived. His best friend, a photographer and I found ourselves running endless errands, to acquire a bicycle for the shoot (whose logos had to be covered in tape to avoid copyright infringement) buying lights from home depot etc.
Stole the legitimate messenger bag from laid out boy, as well as that chain. ooo i love that chain! pelvis boy's room the perfect setting, a messy boys room, with communist anarchist wall hangings, abstract , or Pollock-esque art, the perfect amount of clutter.
When finally faced with the camera i found myself momentarily terrified; overwhelmed by a sense of doubt.
I insisited on wearing my motorcycle boots, whose strong leather buckles and solid heels give my legs a strength that travels up my spine. I swear those boots have some sort of magic.
The lights set up, the camera ready and me in the bathroom, using what litle make up i had to try and paint on a seductive face. red lips, Anna Karina eyes. drinking wine straight form the bottle--enough to embolden me, but not enough to intoxicate.
To be able to look the at lens directly with wide eyes, parted lips, but to have the wildness to unleash my pent up sexuality, a dangerous task. my erotic nature like a force that once unleashed could cause any number of floods, storms, mistakes.
could i pull it off? balancing with my buzz, stradling the seat of this borrowed bike, my strong runners legs taut, my arms trembling.
But a trance came over me, a confidence previously untapped. And there was no photographer but rather a lens huge and dark, and unblinking, the single eye of a creature whose sole purpose, sole interest was myself. And I looked into it with sex, with a flirtatious smirk, as i undressed, bent over, running my hands over my thighs, as i stepped from my boots, as i lifted my dress, my last skin. peeked coquettishly over the tattooed shoulder; i crawled across the sheets, my eyes leveled with this dark eye, this jutting shape which snapped percussively, like a drum urging me on in this erotic dance, in this sensual trance.
When at last we had finished the shoot, though the trance left me something had been obtained, something strong, fierce, that did not leave me, has not yet gone but lingers, fierce, a slow fire, a smooth smirk.
For the first time in my life i had given myself to myself.
And everywhere i went, i streamed a pheromone more potent than ever before. Swaying down the street in my rubber heels and feeling their eyes on me, everywhere, a sensual smoke swiled up from me, trailed me and i began to love it.
Each lustful look given intensified my musk, slowed seductively, my step.
And i, even i was caught up in this creature that was myself, the tigress, i rode her to bedrooms, i wanted a man or woman between my legs, beneath me.
The woman born in the lens, birthed in it and by it and through it crushes guilt under her heel like a cigarette, smears it into the pavement waiting, waiting for the next fix.