Apparently I knew at a very young age I was captivating.
So it's been a fabulous happenstance that within a week I had two photo shoots and ran into a third photographer--literally, I was running, and then saw him along the waterfront--who also wants to shoot.
My inner child is twirling around in her tutu in sheer delight.
But something happened at my shoot this week that made me realize how much I've changed.
The photographer is great.
We've worked together for years and he captured my first ever pin up shots.
But like any great love affair, there comes a moment when you've realized you've grown beyond them.
Your needs have changed, your desires, even the way you view yourself undressed.
He's a perfectionist.
He directs you which is why he can grab the perfect shot.
Lift your left leg higher, your chin aimed lower, this way not that.
But what I realized was that after shooting with a new photographer the week before, someone I'd met all of ten seconds months ago, I discovered a dynamic more Reese.
Him and I immediately had a great vibe, and his shots are by far the best I've ever done.
And I didn't even realize there was any sort of difference until I was back to working with my old photographer again.
Move your arm lower...We don't want you bunched up....cover that area....
Wait.
Cover?
Move my arm a little bit lower to cover....
Are you telling me to hide parts of my body??
Like I said, he's a perfectionist.
And he kept repeating what a great face I have.
But when it came to my curves I got the distinct impression he thought they were only beautiful from certain angles.
And I didn't want a "perfect shot."
I wanted a shot of me.
The photographer I worked with last week told me I had a great body.
He got shots from every angle and I mean every single one.
And some of them when I saw them, if I'm completely unabashedly honest, I felt slightly insecure about, the ripples on my stomach exposed, the curves on my arms and my thighs.
And then once I let my momentary embarrassment subside, I thought, I look beautiful.
Those ripples, every soft curve was me.
Raw, vulnerably me.
And that was stunning.
The shoot I did last year with my photographer, which I had felt proud of, he'd photoshopped some of my ripples out.
To make it more "perfect."
But then it was no longer me.
So I felt really grateful.
Grateful I'd had the chance to work with an artist who inspired my absolute rawness in photos rather than an idea of what I was supposed to be.
I felt empowered.
And I also realized that as much as I loved being in my ex lovers hands, he wasn't like the new photographer who saw the beauty of me in my natural state.
He was like the old photographer.
Seeing parts of me as beautiful.
And parts of me as needing to be hidden.
When I was having the most euphoric sex of my life those weeks with him, I wasn't writing.
And it wasn't because I was distracted by my blissful state.
It was because I was nervous to.
I was afraid if I wrote the wrong thing he would read it and get offended, just as he had by the photo I'd posted weeks before, that he'd be uneasy by me presenting expressions, ideas, passions of who I actually am.
So I kept it in.
And I don't want a life where I'm holding back my chaos.
I don't want to be photographed with my arm covering my belly fat.
I want a lover who delights in my intensity.
Who sees me standing there, perfectly flawed body as is, and says Fuck, you're beautiful.
Yes.
He was good with my body.
And I would never turn him down if he wanted it back in his hands.
But I also would never be exclusively his.
Because he could never satisfy my soul the way someone, somewhere could.
And I refuse to settle for any one thing that doesn't contribute to the vibrant madness that I am.
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