It was cold in the basement. We’d been naked for the photo shoot, but most of us had tossed on coats or boots or even a few clothes as they’d herded us down the stairs. Prospective buyers were touring the studio. It wouldn’t do for them to see thirty rowdy nudes cluttering up the space.
In the basement, our nascent intimacy, born of being posed tangled under lights for hours on end, seemed to fade. We stood or sat in awkward cliques. Some people were old friends and lovers, but many of us had just met. Someone passed around a bottle of wine. “I’m finishing it off,” announced Rachel, throwing back her head and gulping dramatically. Then she waved the empty bottle in the air. “You guys, you guys, we should play spin the bottle!” She was practically dancing with delight at her inspiration. Under her full-length black anorak, her naked breasts nodded in agreement.
There was no hesitation. In moments, we’d gathered in a large circle, the bottle placed in the middle. “Who goes first?” someone asked, and Rachel said she’d spin for it. The bottle spun and pointed at a short young red-head, naked but for her Sorel boots. She spun and won a kiss from a tall blond man she seemed to know. They french-kissed in what seemed a comradely sort of way. We all cheered, and he spun the bottle with a flourish.
This time the bottle pointed to a willowy, dark haired woman, wearing a sarong around her waist and black lace-up boots. “Spank or kiss?” she asked the blond man.
“Oh, spank, of course,” he answered. I was surprised to see him walk to one of the basement columns and brace himself. The dark haired woman pulled down his boxers with a snap, and delivered four sharp, violent smacks. Then she stroked his reddened skin with her slender hand. She had an air of command mixed with a delicate grace. I was smitten. She spun the bottle and I longed for it to land on me.
The bottle rattled on the concrete floor and slid to a stop pointing at a handsome young man I hadn’t notice until now. Unlike most of us, he had on both a shirt and pants, though his white oxford-cloth was buttoned incorrectly. I later found out his name was Emil. “Spank or kiss?” my new ideal asked. Emil opted for a kiss. She draped her arms around his neck and kissed him with movie-star abandon. There were whistles and applause. Emil spun.
This time the bottle landed on Jay, our host, a man famous for his sexual exploits and the subject and center of our naked photo extravaganza. Jay did not wait for permission. He strode across the room and took Emil in his arms. His kiss was, if possible, more dramatic than the one that had gone before. Emil kissed him back gamely, arms outstretched as if to express his surprise. Jay’s hands splayed across Emil’s trousered ass and ground his pelvis against Jay’s naked crotch. While Emil was still reeling from this initial assault, Jay sank to his knees and began unbuttoning Emil’s pants.
I had the perfect angle on the action. I could see Emil’s face in profile, laughing with surprise, and his cock, half-hard, appearing and disappearing as Jay’s head moved back and forth. It was clear Emil was not among those of the party inured to the novelty of public sexual hijinks. Jay sat back on his heels. “Ever had your cock sucked by a man before?” he asked.
“Never,” said Emil, the member in question sinking back into its place.
A voice called from upstairs. We were cleared to return to the photo shoot. Our circle dissolved and we trooped back up the stairs. It was time to resume being naked for the camera instead of each other.
