beauxenfantsdumonde:

I turn around. “Are you following me?”
“Maybe.” He flashes a coy smile.
“You want my attention? You sure are dressed like you want attention.”
“I want the attention of your camera. I saw you taking photos of boys on the beach earlier. I’m prettier than any of them.”
My eyes roam over his figure. So much skin, yet so much left to the imagination.  “You’re jealous?” I ask.
“I’m not jealous, I know I’m prettier. Just …seems a shame that you would come here to take pictures of homosexuals and not shoot me. Seems a waste of film even.”

I raise my Leica and peer at him through the viewfinder. The lens likes him. He isn’t even actively posing, but the lines of his body are fantastic. I take a photo. I want to take more. Against these rocks. Against that boulder over there. From a down-ward angle with the sky in the background, clouds around his head in angelic repose. Bare naked on his back, in the sand. On his stomach in the surf, waves sliding over his thighs and ass.

The ideas cascade through my head like rapid cycling television channels. I swallow; my throat is dry. Who is this boy? Maybe he’s a prostitute, but he seems to wear his sexuality as easy as a smile instead of just trying to fake it to sell it. I sense he is a local. I sense he probably has a strained relationship with his parents. I sense I’m not the first tourist that will see his penis and I won’t be the last. I have a feeling he’s well known to the cops.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
“Of what?”
“Where to pose you first.”
He smiles. “You want me to undress now?”
I swallow again. “No. My camera will tell me when it wants to see you bare. Remember, you’re showing off for it. Not me.”

He puts his fingertip between his teeth. “Oh no, I’m definitely showing off for you too. I told you, I really like attention.”

You curse under your breath. It’s unavoidable. This evening is going to end with him spilling into your fingers. You hope you have enough film.

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Captions are fictional.