NOTE: To keep things relatively realistic, I sometimes use terms that are common to the photographic and arts industry but may not be understood by others. In this story I use, “TFP.” The literal translations is; “Time For Prints.” Now days, of course, we rarely make prints anymore, we make digital images but the term has stayed the same.
It means exchanging services with others in the trade. If a model wants to update her portfolio with a certain look or revise it with new pics, she can call a photographer and ask if he’s interested in working with her/him on a “TFP” basis. The end result is that the photographer gets new images that he can use for self-promotion and display and the model gets the images for his/her portfolio.
The same trading system is used for other professionals within the industry as well; make-up artists, hair stylists, set designers, wardrobe consultants, Photo retouchers, etc.
I also talk about “Composite Cards,” or (Comp Cards.) These are 8X5 ½ cards that show several shots of a model along with her measurements and sizes. They are sent out to photographers and advertising agencies by modeling agencies to advertise their models.
Some of my friends think I have the most glamorous job on the face of the earth and I have to admit, some days I feel that way myself; this was not one of those days, however.
I’m a commercial photographer and I love it. I wouldn’t have any other job in the world, but every once in a while I have to remind myself of that.
I was supposed to be on Peoria’s, picturesque river front, shooting two beautiful models for “Feminine Classics,” a woman’s clothing line. Instead I was in my car heading north on I-55 about an hour from my home in Arlington Hills, a little suburb about twenty-five miles northwest of Chicago.
I had scheduled three full days for the shoot and thought everything was all lined up. I had gone down on the weekend prior to scout out locations and make notes as to what direction the sun would be shining at different times of the day. The models were two of the client’s favorites. One was being flown in from New York and the other from Atlanta. Both should have been waiting for us but when we got there neither had arrived yet. A call into the model agency gave us the explanation. The ad agency’s account rep had his assistant schedule the girls and he gave them the wrong dates.
I tried calling some of the local models I use from Chicago but nobody could block out three days of shooting on such short notice; we were screwed. The client wasn’t about to pay everyone to hang around and enjoy Peoria’s hospitality for three days so we all packed up and headed home.
At first I was pissed. I’m self-employed. If I’m not working I’m not making money and now I was looking at three days of sitting around, doing nothing. There was no way I was going to be able to schedule anything as a fill in.
I was just turning onto I-355 for the last leg of my journey home when it hit me, why waste the rest of the week doing nothing. It was only Wednesday afternoon. I still had all day Thursday and Friday. I could make it a four day weekend. My wife, Stacy, and I hadn’t really had a vacation or gone anywhere in a while. The sky was blue, there was no rain in the forecast, and I was starting to dream about a quiet little hide-a-way someplace for just the two of us.
My mind started to wander. I pictured us sitting on a private balcony somewhere, sipping a glass of wine and watching a beautiful sunset. As the shadows reached out further from their roots, my lovely wife would stand, and with a pull from her slender fingers, undo the bow around her neck letting the sheer nightgown she adorned, sensually slip to her feet. Now, wearing only a smile, she moves with sultry perfection and kneels by my side. She licks her tantalizing lips as she slowly unzips my pants and reaches in to claim her prize.
I close my eyes and lay back as I feel her tongue salaciously glide from the base of my steel-like cock to its tip. I can hear myself moaning; feel my breathing getting deeper...
My aching dick actually awoke me from my daydream. I had gotten a raging hard-on from my amatory meanderings. The problem was my cock was not in a spot that allowed its growth. I had to maneuver into a position where I could adjust myself—not easy while lashed in with a seatbelt, doing seventy-five miles per hour with traffic all around. The skin was stretched so tight it hurt. If someone passing had a high cab truck where they could look down into the SUV it would have been embarrassing. I finally found relief.
I put my mind in search mode and tried thinking of places we could go on the spur of the moment. The problem was, I didn’t just want to go to some hotel or motel someplace, I wanted something intimate and romantic.
I was still racking my brain as I pulled into my garage. It was almost dinner time. I figured Stacy would be in the kitchen. You can hear the garage door go up and down from anywhere on the first floor so I wondered why she wasn’t standing in the doorway asking why I was back.
She must be upstairs, I thought as I came in through the empty kitchen. You can’t hear the garage door at all from up there. I was just on my way to surprise her when I heard what sounded like high heels hit the tiled hallway at the bottom of the staircase. I rounded the corner to see her standing in front of the mirror.
The vision of loveliness before my eyes stopped me dead in my tracks. She had obviously been to the hair stylist; beautiful full-body waves of silky strawberry-blond hair hung casually over her shoulders. A pearl necklace, the one I gave her for our anniversary, hung around her long, smooth neck and her make-up was impeccable.
The proverbial little black cocktail dress she barely wore was a good four or five inches above her knees and to finish the ensemble she was wearing a pair of black silk stockings with some kind of pattern running through them. A pair of black, four inch heels were what I’d heard announcing her presence.
About the time my mouth dropped open she saw my reflection in the mirror. She literally shrieked. “Shayne! What are you doing home?”
Even from where I was standing, I could see the terror in her face looking back at me through the glass.
“I have a better question, where the hell are you going dressed like that?”
I really caught her by surprise. She stammered all over the place but the best she could come up with was, “I ... ah, the girls, honey. I was just going out with the girls.”
She had to know how ridiculous it sounded before the words even left her mouth.
“The girls like hell,” I fired back. I was so angry I must have had flames shooting from my eyes. “Answer me, damn it! Where the hell were you going and who the fuck is your date?”
She just froze, standing there in a daze, looking scared. Her mouth was open but nothing was coming out.
I spotted her small evening bag on the table by the front door. She evidentially laid it down there to make her final, ‘do I look good, ‘ check in the hallway mirror before leaving.
“We’ll just see,” I declared walking in her direction.
She must have been terrified. She knew damn well I’d never strike her or any woman but she flinched as I reached past her and grabbed the little purse.
“What ... what are you doing?”
“I’m checking your phone. We’ll just see who lover boy is,” I snarled.
“Wait ... please Shayne ... don’t,” she begged. “It was a mistake ... please...”
I could see her mascara starting to run. In a panic, she tried to grab for the purse but was too slow.
“You try that again and so help me, I’ll...” I growled through clinched teeth. I didn’t finish the statement because I really wasn’t sure what I’d do. Like I said, I’d never hit a woman; however, my voice was so full of anger and malice I know it scared the hell out of Stacy because she retreated back, against the wall.
When I opened the purse I saw one of the reasons for my wife’s panic, in addition to her phone, there was also a box of Trojans. I looked back at her with what I can only describe at that moment as disgust.
Stacy looked like she wanted to cry but her fear wouldn’t let the tears fall.
I pulled out her phone and threw the bag on the floor. I immediately scrolled through her call log. She had obviously been deleting her call history, but since I wasn’t supposed to be home for the next three days, she hadn’t bothered with the last few. The first call was to her friend, Joan; the third to her best friend, Gwen Carlson, but the one in the middle was Joe Wexler. He and his wife, Doris, were supposedly friends of ours.
It was certainly no smoking gun; one call wasn’t enough to go around making accusations so next I checked for text messages. Even though she deleted the history there as well, there were several messages made during the day that were to and from Wexler. They started a couple hours after I left in the morning. The last one was posted an hour before I got home.
Stacy: Hey lover, hubby is gone. R U sure U can’t come by now? I’m still in bed and I am naked.
Wexler: Damn, stop teasing me, gorgeous. U know I can’t take the day off. Besides, I thought you said I couldn’t come to the house.
Stacy: Hee, hee, I am just teasing you.
Wexler: I will see you soon. Doris thinks I’m going out of town so we have all night.
Stacy: Did you book the room yet?
.... There is more of this story ...