Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE Possession.
Now He’s Mine (Only for the Shot!)
What happens in the silent space between model and lens.
It comforts me, it infects me—this sudden, surgical attraction.
Not for the man, but for the way the light fractures along his ribs when he exhales. For the way his pupils swallow the room when he realizes I’m not just looking at him, but through him.
For the shapes his body makes when he forgets to perform: the involuntary curl of his fingers, the vein that surfaces in his neck when he resists the urge to ask, “Like this?”
This isn’t love. It’s translation.
The feverish knowledge that for these next ninety minutes, his skin is just parchment. I’m not reading him—I’m writing over him.
I fall for the way his Adam’s apple jumps when I say “Hold that,” for the goosebumps that rise when I step too close without touching.
He thinks we’re collaborating.
He’s wrong.
This is possession—quiet, consensual theft.
Now he breathes when I need breath.
Now he’s still when I need stillness.
Now he’s mine.
Not his jokes between takes, but the way his mouth goes silent when they fall flat.
Not his confidence, but the tremor in his knees when I make him repeat a pose until his muscles scream.
I love him like a sculptor loves marble: for what I can remove, not what’s already there.
And when it clicks?
When his guard drops and his body betrays him—just for that suspended, sacred instant where he’s neither subject nor man but pure vessel?
That’s the shot.
That’s the lie we both agreed to tell—the one that’ll outlast us both.
(And neither of us will admit which version is real.)
