Viewer/Reader BEWARE! This album contains material that may be offensive to some. Discretion is advised.

Author’s suggestion: PG 17



Out of the blue the Stripper phoned the Photographer today. He hadn’t spoken to her in months. After they had brought each other up-to-date, she suggested they get together sometime soon. The Photographer said he’d call her.


He thought back over their relationship of more than ten years during which they had been friends, lovers, and she, his model for an ongoing series of erotic images.


When the Photographer first saw her, she was hanging around a photo studio and was in her teens, possessed of the innocent allure of the young Bardot. He saw in her the vaults and arches of a Gothic cathedral; and noted that in her presence, men and women alike supported her ironic confluence of innocence and eroticism with flying buttresses of elemental lust. Pyrotechnic skybursts of sensuality were everywhere about her. She dripped sex. It wasn’t her fault. That’s just how she looked. Her ass had been fluffed up by the angels.


The Photographer approached her one day, as soon as he felt comfortable enough to do so. He told her that he knew what she would be doing that afternoon. “What?” she asked. “You’re having the most beautiful photograph that’s ever been taken of you done,” he said. She soon became his model.


Some time later she began work as an exotic dancer and became dependent on the drugs indigenous to that environment. She and the Photographer continued to work together, marathon sessions fuelled by illicit drugs and rivers of bourbon. In one gargantuan effort they worked through three nights and into the fourth day, without sleep. She was the hardest working model he had ever had. He could call her anytime, night or day, and she’d be there in a flash. She was tireless. The Photographer and the Stripper worked fabulously together, and the results were wonderful.


The years passed and neither had ever made a sexual advance to the other, but after one particular photo session the Stripper bought a quarter-ounce of cocaine and checked herself, the Photographer, and a pipe into a cheap hotel room. Over the next three days they learned everything there was to know about one another.


From that point on, their erotic imagery lost its punch. The tension of the sex-charged photo sessions had dissipated. Their photographs now had the flaccid ineptness of an anxious penis.


Throughout the productive period of their work, before the fuck, the Photographer was guilty of some curious psychic engineering concerning the Stripper. He created a persona for her that had nothing to do with who she really was. He attributed qualities to her that had no connection with her behaviour. As he idealized her pictorially, in ambiguous contexts of his making; he likewise manufactured an open character for her into which he projected his own vision.


The Photographer had created his stripper, and he fell in love with his creation. He had taken the sexiest, most beautiful woman imaginable, and retrofitted her with the innocence of a precocious child. That circumstances had caused her to exhibit her cunt for money, and suck cocks in strip bar parking lots for pills and cocaine, concerned the Photographer not. If he squinted, she reflected his physical and spiritual ideal.


Slowly the Photographer began to see the Stripper as herself, apart from his fantasies and projections. It seemed that what he had done with the Stripper was what everyone had done with her throughout her life: made of her a plaything. Incestuous father and groping stepfather; salacious clergymen and opportunistic employers; insincere therapists and lecherous con men; beckoning infidels and malpractising healers; libidinous dope dealers and covetous photographers. It was the way she looked.



(C) 2012 arne torneck all rights reserved

images arne torneck