The Photographer
I turned my head just in time to see the football heading directly towards me on the sidelines. A pair of arms leapt into the air to snatch the ball. As the tight-end attached to those arms returned to earth, I realized he was being pushed out of bounds by a linebacker and a safety from the opposing team. I side-stepped deftly as the three men violently fell to the ground in the space I had occupied just moments before. Bumping into other reporters who had scattered as well, I straightened myself and discovered I was standing beside a pretty woman peering through a camera with a huge lens. She had captured the entire incident without flinching.
Unable to see her face, I could tell only that she was rather small, had legs with a gorgeous shape, radiant hair, and peered through glasses into that large camera. It was obvious that she was a pro proven by her capable follow-through. With a final look over my shoulder at the stunning woman, I moved down-field to get positioned for the following plays.
After the game, I attended the press conference for my own pleasure. Since I had just arrived in town to start my new job at the newspaper, I had no obligation to cover the game professionally as of yet. When the post-game forum was over I stopped at an Italian restaurant located a few blocks from the stadium. It was late enough that the fans from the game were on their way out and heading home. Once inside, I gravitated towards the bar since I only wanted to eat and have a beer. As I approached, there sat the attractive photographer reviewing photos on a small screen. Glancing as I walked past, I saw the current photo was that of the three players that had nearly flattened me.
“You don’t know how close I was to being part of that photo,” I blurted obtrusively.
Immediately, I felt embarrassed for interrupting the woman’s business.
“Me, too!” she answered as she turned and smiled.
Of course, I knew that already.
“Tristan?” she said with a surprised look on her face. “I heard you were coming to be the new sports columnist for the ‘News’ but I wasn’t sure if you were the same Tristan Jameson I knew in high school. I haven’t seen you since we were fifteen.”
Though her face seemed familiar, I couldn’t recall her name. The woman definitely had a sense of her own style, trendy but not like everyone else. Of course, the first thing I noticed was the intensity of her deep brown eyes, minimized, through the sparkling lenses of funky ‘80s style glasses. The large, square, crystal clear plastic frames fit perfectly with her dark-skinned face and wavy black hair and the lenses did nothing to hide the prescription needed for those eyes to see. To say I was interested in knowing her better would be an understatement. But as much as I appreciated her beauty, I could not remember knowing her.
“I’m sorry,” I conceded, “I don’t recognize you. Did we know each other once?”
“Isabella White. Everyone called me Bella in high school.”
“You’re Bella White? Oh my god, I was ‘head over heels’ in love with you back then.”
It was the second time in the past few minutes that I divulged something incredibly stupid. A more timid woman would have gathered her things and quickly run for the exit without looking back. But it was also another understatement because I was absolutely and utterly mad for Bella in the tenth grade. The problem then was that she was always with a guy that I knew from skate boarding. Worse than that, he was a creep that I couldn’t stand. Bella had been a precocious young lady when I knew her. Nothing seemed to faze her. She fit in with no groups at school, and yet, was able to mix with everyone there. She could be found ubiquitously, which is what made her such a fantastic photographer. Bella was seldom seen without a camera either in her hand or hanging by a strap from her neck and sometimes both. Moreover, she had the ability to evolve her craft from action photography, to portraits, and even to forms of art.
What always caught my attention was her sense of style. Bella never wore pants of any kind, not even jeans. She had a remarkable way of wearing skirts and dresses at all times even for active wear. The only exceptions I remember were the few times I saw her wearing shorts in gym class.
“I fell in love with you the first time I saw you wearing that yellow jumper with the sleeveless straps and the pleated bottom,” I confessed, “and there was something about those ‘blue tip’ canvas sneakers you always wore with it. I knew no other girl that dressed like you. But one thing I don’t remember is ever seeing you wear glasses,” I pried.
“That’s because I got them after you moved away,” she divulged, “I had killer headaches for a couple of years before that. We thought I was a victim of migraines until I had an eye exam. That was when I discovered I had a bad case of astigmatism in both eyes.”
“You look fantastic in them,” I said hoping she would accept the flattery without thinking I was too disturbed.
“Aw, thanks,” Bella replied, “your glasses are what attracted me to you. Those round tortoise and gold wire rims you wore in high school were totally sexy. They were my inspiration. In fact, when I got my first pair of glasses, they were just like yours.”
“Really? I never thought you noticed me. And being of ‘Asian/African/Navajo, etcetera’ decent, I always felt very different from everyone else.”
“You were the ‘Tiger Woods’ of our school. And you were the reason I came to take photos at the skate board park,” she admitted, “I still have hundreds of them that I developed; stashed in a shoe box; mostly of you.”
“But you were always with that weird guy when you were there!” I pushed.
“Who, Brad? That jerk clung to me like a bad rash. I could never get rid of him. I wondered why you never asked me out.”
“If I’d only known,” I contemplated thinking of my missed opportunity.
“Join me now,” Bella offered, “there’s no time like the present.”
I sat, ordered dinner, and the two of us began to get current. She had looked so unique in those days. Seventeen years before, she had an afro hair style with the curliest hair. That wasn’t the trend at that time but it certainly added to Bella’s mystique. Never being able to pinpoint her ethnicity, I just knew she seemed a lot like me. Now her dark hair was straightened, waved, and shiny. It was apparently attended to by an expensive stylist. Bella’s fashion sense was still an eclectic style of form and function. She was wearing a long buttoned sweater with scarf, a short wool mini, ribbed leggings, and suede half boots with short high heels. Her outfit came directly from the pages of a J.Crew catalogue.
As she spoke, her eyes danced behind the large lenses of her glasses. It was mesmerizing. The script for astigmatism was apparent as it seemed to twist the shape of everything behind the lenses when she moved. But in the back of my mind, I kept thinking that there was more to this story. The power rings and reflections from the flat-fronted lenses made it obvious that there was an incredible amount of correction for myopia. That and the cut-in was telling me somewhere in the range of -9.00 or more. She was absolutely perfect.
After staring into her eyes during dinner conversation, I could hold my tongue no longer. I had to investigate, but hey, that’s what I do for a living. Yeah, I may be only a sports reporter but I have the capacity to delve like Larry King.
“I don’t mean to embarrass you by prying, but I’m amazed that the prescription in your glasses progressed to one of such strength given that you didn’t start wearing glasses at an early age,” I stated questioningly.
“Not many people have ever noticed that, Tristan. But I couldn’t be happier with that development and before you ask, there is a story. Perhaps, I can tell it to you sometime.”
“I got glasses at age twelve,” I divulged, “and actually didn’t mind wearing them, even though I was into all kinds of sports. I’ve just never been a fan of plus lenses, but not because of the way they look. I wanted to be myopic. At least then, it would be so much easier to work with things up close without glasses. I have to wear mine for every distance, day and night.”
“I might be able to help you with that,” Bella deliberated.
I had no idea what she meant by that statement but I passed it off and continued eating. After a few hours, I realized that, besides the staff, we were the only two left in the bar. That’s when Bella grabbed me with both hands, looked me in the eyes, and pulled me close. She shut her eyes and gave me a long kiss while our eyeglasses clinked together. At that moment, nothing could have felt better. After we both took a breath, she spoke quietly.
“Would you think me too forward if I invited you home, tonight?”
“I couldn’t possibly refuse, Bella.”
“I go by Isabella, now. Get it right,” she laughed. “If you’d like, I can tell the story I promised. Follow me home and I’ll explain everything there. But I warn you, you’ll be taking on more than you can imagine and I won’t blame you for backing out.”
We paid our bills, left our tips, and headed for the parking lot. At my car, Isabella stopped to give me another long kiss. I didn’t want to let her go.
“That’s my Mercedes,” she said pointing across the lot. “Try to keep up.”
She moved so fast in every way. My mind raced as I followed. One thing I noticed was that her license plate displayed ‘PORTRAIT’. That was kind of cool. And, I couldn’t imagine what she could possibly tell me that would be such a secret. Beyond that, she was everything I liked in a woman. Smart, beautiful, energetic, stylish yet unique; and best of all she seemed wonderfully reliant on dazzling specs. I could visualize the fun she would be in bed. Still, what was her secret? Did she have kids? That’s really no problem, I thought. Does she do GOC? That would disappoint but then it would show she has an interesting story. Maybe she has an ex-husband that wants to kill her . . . . . or a boyfriend? Yeah, one named Brad. Perhaps she is in the witness relocation program. ‘No stupid, then her name would be different,’ I thought to myself.
After a short drive, Isabella stopped at a parking garage at the entrance of a large building on the edge of downtown. A plastic sign draped by ropes from the side of the building advertised, ‘Luxury Lofts - .5 to 1.5 Million’. How could she possibly own a loft this expensive? I followed and parked in a ‘Visitor’ spot near her car. Did I mention that it was a Mercedes? As I stepped from my Jeep, I noticed the car parked next to Isabella’s was a large ‘blinged-out’ BMW with a license that read, ‘LANDSCPE’. What are the odds? It had to be hers . . . . . or someone closely related. After entering the doorway to the building, she grabbed my hand and led me to the elevator. On the way, she pulled me in and gave me another kiss. This time I was struggling to keep from showing my excitement. My ‘little reporter’ definitely felt like he was getting an ‘exclusive’.
Then she whispered, “Keep an open mind.”
‘Okay,’ I thought, not quite knowing what to expect.
Upon opening the door to her loft, Isabella called out, “Stef, I’m home. I have someone I want you to meet.”
A woman peaked around a wall, and then entered the room barefoot. Wearing a tank top and shorts, it was evident she wasn’t wearing a bra. With narrow shoulders and hips, she was just a bit more curvaceous than Isabella. Her short, light brown hair contrasted pleasantly with skin that could best be described as ‘peaches and cream’. I quickly focused on her soft transparent gray-colored glasses and bright blue eyes, but only for a moment. Without missing a step, the woman continued until reaching Isabella. They smiled and kissed each other passionately on the lips. Startled, I felt the blood rush from the top of my head upon witnessing their embrace.
“This is Tristan, Stef. He’s an old beau of mine from high school,” Isabella said though stretching the truth. “And this is Stefanie, Tristan, my roommate, confidant, business partner, and lover.”
I tried desperately to avoid having a ‘deer in the headlights’ moment. I’ve always thought of myself as a ‘modern’ man but this was testing my capacities. The three of us made small talk for several minutes. I can only hope that I made coherent statements because I remember nothing of that conversation.
Eventually I returned to a lucid state when I heard Stef say, “It is so nice to meet you, Tristan. Again, welcome to our home. I have some things to finish in my office.”
After she left, Isabella said, “I’m sorry to spring that on you in that way, but trust me, it goes easier in person. Few people seem to understand at all when you simply try to explain it.”
“I thought you were inviting me to spend the night?”
“I was,” she replied.
“But, what about Stef? What will she think?”
“She may join us. Would you like that?”
“I’m a bit confused, Isabella.”
“Tristan, we’re bisexual. I’ve invited you to sleep with me. If you’re open to it, you might get to sleep with us. It’s an easy choice, really.”
Isabella was right. It was a very easy decision. How could I possibly pass up the opportunity to try a three-way with two women that I found so attractive? The icing on the cake was the fact that all three of us enjoyed partners with glasses.
But for the present, it was best not to anticipate what was going to happen too much. So, I joined Isabella to help finish her job. She needed to download and email chosen photos to our sports editor at the paper. Since I’m a bit of an expert on the subject, there was no reason I couldn’t provide a professional assist. The work was tedious and took a while but it was obvious that I was working with a master craftsman. As she toiled, we shared some drinks which eventually led to conversation.
“I was serious when I told you I could help with your problem,” Isabella said.
“What problem was that?” I asked.
“The one where you wished you could be myopic.”
After pausing to consider her words, I finally bit.
“How so?” I said, thinking she had some lame way of using contact lenses or something.
“It was a discovery I made when I was sixteen. I can’t divulge the process unless you legally agree to keep the secret.”
I was dubious of what I was being told though the story was beginning to get interesting. How could this photographer I knew from high school be able to do what she was claiming?
“You’re not talking about surgery or something?” I asked skeptically.
“No, but if you want to consider the options, I’ll have Stef bring the papers. I’ll even give the procedure to you for free. Besides, I would prefer seeing you in minus lenses myself.”
Since I had nothing to lose, I agreed. It turned out that Stef was a junior partner in a prestigious local law firm. When she finished her work, she joined us in the dining room carrying a small stack of papers in one hand and a vodka tonic in the other. As we stepped through the process of signing papers, I began to feel like I was securing a mortgage. Obviously, Isabella and Stef had a vested interest in protecting a rather lucrative business. It was becoming evident how they could afford their luxurious home and cars.
As Stef gathered and sorted papers, Isabella told her story.
“Not long after you moved away, I noticed something very strange. And that was that everyone who posed for me indoors for a photo soon needed glasses. It took a little while before I put the particulars together and realized what was happening but eventually I did.”
“You mean you simply took a photo,” I clarified, “and the person from that photo would show up wearing glasses not long after that?”
“That is exactly what I am saying, Tristan. It was especially obvious when there was more than one person being photographed. A coincidence seemed unlikely when all of them would soon be nearsighted. In time, I realized that the flash device on the camera I used for portrait-like settings promoted myopia. The light hit their eyes and within a day or two, the progression was done.”
“If this is true, people must have been furious with you at school,” I exclaimed. “How did you keep from getting tarred and feathered?”
“I never told anyone . . . . . and nobody realized the pattern. Why would they? Kids becoming myopic in high school are as normal as rain. They didn’t experience the sequence of events like I did. And you and Stef are the only ones to which I’ve explained what I know.”
“But with all of these legal papers you just had me sign, it is apparent that you have done this for profit.”
“Sure, but not back then. Now, we discreetly advertise, and then book appointments for ‘special’ portraits. Within a day or two after their photo sessions, the subjects have become myopic, increased their myopia, or become less hyperopic. That is all they know. And that is all they need to know. My customers think there’s something in the room like ultrasound, radiation, or special lighting, or something in the free drinks we provide. By agreement, they can’t ask and basically don’t care because they achieve the desired results. That’s what makes them happy. ”
“But how do you control it,” I asked, “the degree that is; how do you control the degree of myopia?”
“Each flash is a diopter or two. It varies a little with each subject. I take either one or two flashes, based upon the request of the customer, but never more than that at one sitting. For more, they have to book additional appointments. I give a substantial progressive discount for each additional visit. Once double digits are reached, my services are free. Of that, I’ve only had a few takers.”
“Then this is how you became so myopic?” I asked. “You did it to yourself?” “I was my first customer,” Isabella continued. “I set the camera on a tripod and took a photo of myself. The following day, everything in the distance had become a little fuzzy even with my glasses. I took another photo the next evening, realized that I was substantially nearsighted the day after that, and quickly asked my mom to book an appointment for an eye exam.”
“So how did you know when to stop?”
“I didn’t really,” she answered. “After my experiment, my first prescription was -3.75 added to my existing -2.00 of astigmatism. I just slowly increased it as time progressed. I finally stopped at my current prescription . . . . .”
“Which is what?” I interrupted.
“. . . . . roughly -10.00,” she continued undeterred. “It is as strong as I felt I could go and not lose visual acuity while wearing correction. I am a professional photographer, after all. I create my magic by being able to see well. Being correctable to 20/20 is a must.”
“It doesn’t appear you need to worry about making money anymore,” I declared.
“No, I don’t,” she countered, “but I am concerned about my craft. Making my art is as important as life itself to me.”
I sat quietly in contemplation for a brief period. The lack of conversation allowed me to deliberate. While in my thoughts, I assisted Isabella as she continued to download and email her chosen photos to the editor at the paper. When Stef finished her work, she joined us to share more drinks and conversation. Isabella and Stef were smart, incredibly attractive, and would be effortless women to love. Once we relaxed and got familiar with each other, we went to the bedroom. At least for me, I had a night like no other. I was pleasured in more ways than imaginable. It was apparent the ladies had done this sort of thing before. Their efforts were well coordinated. Creative uses for glasses and visual games were a great part of the experience.
The next morning, I awoke alone in the luxurious bed. As I gained my wits to the smell of coffee, I retrieved my glasses from the top of a dresser and found some clothes. Then I began to explore the loft and found that Stef had gone to work already. Isabella was reading the morning newspaper while sipping from a cup. She looked splendid wearing a silky teddy and her crystal-colored glasses. The radiant skin of her crossed bare legs was covered by nothing more than a pair of white flip-flops. I could be ‘up’ for another ‘exclusive’ rather quickly.
“Hi baby,” she said with the recognition that I had entered the room. “Did you sleep well?”
“Sure,” I replied still feeling half-creaky.
Actually though, it was the soundest rest I’d had in months. I had slept deeply and peacefully. Isabella poured a cup of coffee for me assuming that I needed it. She was perfectly correct. As I watched her examine the paper, I began to consider what had happened the previous night. The more I thought, the more I fretted. What had I done? What had we done? I’m a pretty simple man. In fact, I’m very easy-going and uneasily excitable. But experiences from the night had gone like nothing previously. Before long, I was having a full-fledged panic attach.
“Isabella, how does this work?”
“How does what work?” she responded quietly.
“You . . . . . me . . . . . Stef. I have feelings for you. But I hardly know Stef,” I rattled on, “well, I guess in some societies, I know her well enough to be forced into a marriage ceremony . . . . . or be executed for my actions or . . . . . ”
“You and I have feelings;” Isabella interrupted deliberately, “Stef was just having fun last night. Stef and I share something unique, though to be honest, I’m not sure either of us knows quite what that is. Don’t psychoanalyze it too much. It was just sex. And I had a damned good time. Let’s just see where it goes.”
“Won’t Stef get jealous of me?” I asked. “Hell, won’t I get jealous her?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, “will you? Look, let’s just take a day at a time and see what happens.”
And so we did. I reported for my first day of work later that morning. I began to get familiar again with my ‘new’ city where I had lived many years before. I settled into the routine of learning, living, and writing my column. Once I had gained perspective, I came to the realization that Isabella and I were only friends from our formative years but really nothing more; not yet anyway. Now reacquainted, we could initiate the mission of making something more of it. We could begin the task of finding out how Stef fit into the picture, too. Perhaps in time, I might like her better. Wow, that would create some serious complications, wouldn’t it? Or maybe the two of them would prefer each other more than me. Hmmm, there are chances for much exploration. It’s a dirty job, but where GWGs are concerned, somebody’s got to do it.
And then there was that other situation; the one that really offered some promise; the one that could remedy something I had never liked. Changing my hyperopic eyes . . . . . um, yeah . . . . . this will be continued . . . . .
Dieter / Dec. 2011