After weeks of coaxing diplomatic enough to bring peace to the Middle East, if it had not been so selfishly applied, she still said no. It was the third glass of whiskey and soda, smuggled into her like sugar candy in a pack of birth control pills, that finally bared the camel's back, if the soft, revealed skin of a woman could ever remind anyone of a camel. He danced around her with the camera trying to capture breasts owning contours he had so often admired stretching the cotton tops she wore. But her top-heavy torso dragged her into a graceful spin, perpetually stumbling against something, hiding all the fleshiness he had hoped to immortalize digitally. If ever he did get an open shot at her the result was so blurred as to frustrate even a minute examination of the enlargement. All this gyroscopic rotation in pursuit of exposed breasts magnified the effects of whiskey and soda in the photographer's system. He became dizzy, wobbled in directions his feet wouldn't take him, and finally stumbled flat onto the floor, where he fell asleep. The girl caught herself on the door, pressed up close, adoring the feel of gentle wood on her tender skin and the sensation of blood circulating in whirlpools of excitement. She took up the camera, undressed her unconscious host, and continued to fill the camera's memory with male positions of appealing delicacy. As a souvenir for her photographer she left one picture of herself.

Story #253