Chapter 2: Worrying the Playboy Photos

Two days later, Crystal and I met Terry at the recording studio to rehearse some new songs that had been written by a rising songwriter from Nashville – Jake Randall. Jake barely looked sixteen, yet he wrote good music: catchy tunes and memorable lyrics. We all liked his work.

Over a break, Terry told us, “I talked with Charlie Spencer, Playboy’s artistic director. I passed along your suggestion and request to him, and he said they would remain interested, even without the full beaver and vagina shots. He did tell me that without the beaver shot, the spread would have to be extra arty and in keeping with the intellectual tone of the other parts of the magazine. He also wanted free rein to promote the issue and your appearance in it.”

I interjected with a sudden brain flash, “Wait. I know just the person who can take that kind of picture – any kind of picture. She can even make a beaver shot look artistic and not pornographic. I know her work very well.” I had a flash of two pictures that hung in my office – deeply shadowed nudes of the photographer herself.

Terry and Crystal looked at me; “Huh? Who?”

I turned to Terry, “Brite Reber, the photographer you had take some pictures of me a year ago during my road trip when I was in Minnesota. She’s very picky about whom, what, and how the photos come out.” Besides taking pictures of me, Brite and I had a passionate few days together; she had a unique way of making love I so enjoyed.

Terry instantly recalled the photos; one of me had become the cover of my first album entitled ’Road Trip’. He nodded slowly, acknowledging that using Brite might be the smartest move we could make.

“Let me see if Playboy will accept her work. We’d give her a byline; of course.” Terry disappeared down the hallway, madly pushing the icon buttons on his smart phone. As we finished the next song, he returned and told Crystal, they’re more than happy to use Brite’s work, but Charlie cautioned that it’s impossible to get any studio time with her; he told me he tried not too long ago. They love her work.”

Crystal and I spent the rest of the morning scanning through some new music. Terry and some of the Sony Music people had selected possible songs for a new album or albums, plural, from Jake’s work. Jake would sing the song and play the accompaniment on a keyboard; Crystal and I would get in the spirit of the song; and then we’d work with Jake and a couple of other musicians and drive through the entire song. Often, we’d do each song a few times, working on harmony, pace, dramatic pauses, who sang what, and such.

Our approach went along as usual, until I turned the page in the playbook that had been prepared for us, and came to a song entitled ‘The Naked Truth’ – Jake’s title for the song.

I started jumping around the studio in my excitement, waving the first page of the song I’d ripped from the notebook. “THIS IS IT! This is the next album we do. This is the title song. We use some of Crystal’s sexy pictures as the cover – the pictures of her nude ... well, spiced up, or whatever. Lots of albums have nudity on the covers. We call the album ’The Naked Truth’. A couple of the other songs we just reviewed also have titles along the same line: ‘Revealed,’ and ‘In the Light,’ to name two of them. You could have a photo per song in an insert on the physical CD. Heck, we could even promote the issue of Playboy that she appears in.” I babbled away, spewing ideas all over the room.

At the word “naked” Jake had perked up, casting a leering glance at Crystal. Crystal struck an obvious sexy pose for him, pushed her ass clad in only those Daisy Duke shorts at him, and then stuck her tongue out in his direction. We all laughed. She said, “I expect you’re all going to get to see me naked, but only after you buy the Holiday Issue of Playboy. Now, get all those nasty thoughts out of your head.” She waved her hand at all the musicians and laughed.

Terry had started to take notes on some of the three-by-five cards he always carried in his shirt pocket. Every time he looked up at me, he nodded enthusiastically, urging me to keep talking. I was on a creative roll. We talked about doing a couple of song covers for other artists too; songs like ‘Do You Think I’m Sexy’ (Rod Stewart), ‘Naked’ (Avril Lavigne), and ‘Naked’ (Celine Dion). Jake was jumping around with the idea, too, also adding that he could ‘country-fy’ any of the songs we picked as covers.

If you looked for a sexy, feminine, human dynamo, Brite Reber would fill the bill. She lived outside St. Cloud, Minnesota, and for the past five years had done business on her own terms. The fiery redhead commanded top-dollar for her photo sessions, and last I knew you had to book her at least two years in advance.

“Jimmmm,” she crooned into the telephone, responding to my name popping up on her caller ID. “I’ve missed hearing your sweet voice, and, of course, I’ve missed your warm and naked body next to mine.”

“I’ve missed you too, Brite,” I teased in a throaty voice. “Maybe we can fix that warm body issue, and I might even bring along a friend or two so we could surround you. As I recall, you’re happy to go both ways.”

“Oh, goody! Your girlfriend, Crystal? That’d be really fine. Does she like to play our kind of games?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it, if she didn’t.” Crystal sat beside me on the sofa, and she punched my arm. She leaned to the phone and said, “Hi Brite; this is Crystal. I’m listening too ... and I know ALL about you and Jim, so don’t worry about anything like that.” After a pause she added, “And from what I’ve heard, you and I would have a lot of fun together, even without Jim.”

She laughed at our mutual teasing, and then asked, “OK. OK. You’ve got me worked up, and it only took you two a couple of sentences. Now, what’s the real reason for your call?”

I explained, “Playboy wants to do a shoot of Crystal – centerfold stuff for their holiday issue, only we’re a little skittish of revealing too much ‘pubic to the public’. We don’t want all those conservative country music fans out there to black list her for showing her pussy in a pornographic manner; we’re not sure what the limit is or what’ll be acceptable to Playboy if it’s too demure, but we need your advice, counsel, and superb lens work to make this happen.”

“That’s all?”

“No. Earlier today we decided to do a new album entitled ‘The Naked Truth,’ so we also need a cover and insert photos for the album, probably using some of the same pictures. Terry, our agent, likes the project too, so the album looks as though it’ll be a mix of Crystal, me, and the two of us doing a couple of duets. We’ve already started rehearsing a few of the tracks.”

Brite responded with a lilt, “Oh, this sounds like fun, in so many ways. Will it just be Crystal and you, or will others come along? Terry?”

“Terry and Crystal’s sister Ellen could be talked into coming up there for part of the photo shoot. You know Terry. By the way, they like the same kind of games we like, too.”

“Now you’ve really got me cranked up; I may even have to jill off after we hang up. But back to business, hold on, let me work on my calendar a minute.” The line went silent; however, I could hear the clatter of her typing into her computer. I could visualize her sitting at her desk in the studio. I’d even fucked her in her office chair one afternoon, so she’d always have something to remember every time she sat there.

In her office were four large photographs, two revealing photographs of Brite, her nude body coated with shiny oil. She’d given me copies of those prints, and they hung in my den. I got hard every time I looked at them, partly because seeing them made me recall the sex-filled time we spent together a year earlier. Opposite them on another wall in Brite’s office hung two high contrast photographs of me, tastefully done and posed so no one could guess who the model had been. The photos were revealing, yet artistic.

“How about in two weeks. Arrive here on Friday afternoon, stay over at the house and studio, and we’ll finish by Sunday evening. I’ve got to be in Washington to do portraits of the First Lady, so I’ll have to leave first thing on Monday morning at the latest.”

“I’m impressed. We’ll be there, and I’ll email you our travel plans. Hey, maybe we can give you a ride to DC, and you can join the mile high club.”

Brite laughed, “And what makes you think I haven’t already joined?”

Our Learjet touched down at the St. Cloud Regional Airport just after three o’clock on Friday afternoon. As we turned onto the taxiway and headed to the general aviation parking ramp, I could see Brite standing on top of her hardtop Jeep CJ-6 taking photos of our plane. A lineman waved batons to guide us into a parking place.

As the engines spooled down, our pilot came back and spoke with the four of us, “Ms. Lee. Ms. Lee, Mr. Mellon, and Mr. Ross, we’ll be here late Sunday afternoon to pick you up for a five o’clock departure. If you need us before then, please call. Don’t worry if you’re late, we won’t mind waiting.” He thrust a business card into my hand, and gestured to the small terminal building. “I’ll have your luggage in a minute.”

He opened the door and deployed the stairway. When the stairs were secure, the pilot motioned that we could descend.

As I exited the door of the plane, Brite yelled to us, “Jim. Crystal. Stand in the doorway. Smile. Wave. That’s it. Now, slowly come down the stairway ... Jim, help Crystal the last few feet. Good. Kiss at the bottom of the stairs; good. Again! Swing her around – that’s it. Act like you’re greeting her.” I could hear the continuous snaps of the shutter on her camera as she instructed us. She had another camera hanging around her neck that she occasionally used too. We spent a couple of minutes ‘arriving’ for her cameras.