Boy Parts(30)

Anyway, I have a few props I shoot with on occasion. I prefer to have a clear view of a model’s face for the most part - but masks and stuff are kind of part of the territory with my work. I have a few options we can look at – I have a giant bunny head (has a tail too – kind of cute!) and a couple of gimp mask things, which are a little cliche; its not really my taste so I try to make those photos a bit more creepy/less sexy in tone. I have some masquerade things too and one of my old friends makes masks with old porcelain doll faces – she sold me a few.

Let me know when you’re free, and I’ll give you my address. We’ll have some fun with disguises.

Seems a shame to cover up such a good face, but oh well :(

I generally get my models to sign a consent form, so I’ll make sure there’s an anonymity stipulation in yours, if that makes you feel more confident. I’ll treat you to a coffee and we can talk it through.

Irina x



When I’m brushing my teeth, cleaning my face, moisturising, etc., I spend a little time in front of the mirror rehearsing. I try to smile, naturally, nicely. I pull the corners of my mouth into place with my fingers and see what it looks like when I show my teeth. It always looks a little smirky or sneery, I think, or like the anxious grin of an agitated chimp. I’ve never had a nice smile. A shame – you spend all that money on a set of veneers to find out your teeth were never the issue. I try looking sad. I try twisting my mouth up the way Flo did Tuesday morning, forcing my eyes to well up, looking down at the sink, furrowing my brow. I’m better at sad.

I let the skin of my face relax, and gently massage in my night cream.

‘Hi, Eddie from Tesco, is it?’ I stick my hand out at the mirror. We won’t shake hands. ‘What do you drink? What do you want to drink?’ I try smiling. I think if I smile at him like this, he’ll leave. I look like I want to skin him and wear it.





EDDIE FROM TESCO




Eddie, Eddie, Eddie from Tesco, shall I compare thee to a heavily discounted piece of meat on the reduced shelf at the end of the day? Thou art cheaper and, hopefully, fresher.

I smooth my skirt down – the denim is damp beneath my palms. I’m distinctly aware of a rash forming on the insides of my thighs, a combination of razor and friction burn exacerbated by sweat and the day’s heat. I squirm. I’ve gone without foundation today, knowing it would melt straight off my face. Sweat gathers on my forehead, melting my SPF.

I should have worn bike shorts under my skirt, but it’s almost thirty degrees outside, and it’d be another layer. I suck on my iced coffee, absently scrolling through some old photographs. I peer over the rim of my MacBook; no sign of him yet. We still have ten minutes, which means he’s just not an early bird. Will isn’t working today, which is a shame. I was hoping to ignore him, to rub another, shorter, man in his face.

Eddie from Tesco stumbles in, drawing my eye by tripping on the door frame, and going ‘Oopsy!’ as he enters the cafe.

He’s just as sweet outside of the supermarket. I make him five foot five (if he’s lucky) and nine stone (if he’s soaking wet). I wave, brightly, from my table, with a big, white smile so he knows I’m happy to see him. He waves back and shuffles over. He’s wearing a slightly-too-tight T-shirt and skinny jeans. He carries his weight on his tummy, his backside and his thighs, like a girl. His arms are like toothpicks, and his thick thighs taper into calves as thin as a bird’s. He has a high waist, and an effeminate swing to his hips. With the freckles, the curls and brown summer skin, I’m smitten. Dimples when he smiles, too, and a little chest hair peeping over the collar of his T-shirt.

‘Hi,’ he says. He can’t meet my eye. He’s looking back and forth from the chalkboard menu behind me to my tits. Still, he’s got this look on his face like he can’t believe his luck. He takes a seat, cheeks reddening, and hides his face in his hands. ‘Did you see me trip?’

He smells of baby powder.

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you a drink. Any particular milk preferences, or…’

‘Oh um. A latte? With full fat milk, if they… I mean, you don’t have to buy—’

I shush him and walk over to the counter. There’s a girl with dark hair and a lip ring arranging brownies on a wooden serving platter.

‘Will in today?’ I ask.

‘Nah. I’ll tell him you said hi, though.’

‘Hey, this is going to sound a little…’ I clear my throat, lower my voice. ‘Do you ever have any problems with him and female members of staff?’ Me and this barista chat sometimes – I think she invigilates at the Baltic at weekends. She has one of those haircuts, like she has a Tumblr and runs a feminist Etsy store; you know, those very short fringes? Like Betty Bangs but shorter, like she’s seven and she cut them herself.

‘He actually keeps, like… bothering one of the new waitresses. Texting her and stuff. Why?’ And then, ‘Aren’t you two friends?’

‘We were,’ I say, pointedly. ‘I’m not telling tales, but you know… Just keep an eye on him, babe.’

‘I will now. Thanks.’ She takes my order, and doesn’t charge me for Eddie’s drink, with a wink, murmuring something about solidarity.

I sit back down with Eddie from Tesco. He is fiddling with his curls, wrapping one dark lock around his middle finger, and letting it bounce back into place.