Dance For Me Savannah
Dance For Me Savannah
Southern breezes move me. So does warm rain when I'm caught in one of its downpours-the ones that take you off guard, rising out of nowhere during the afternoon of sticky summer days. The savage shades of green in spring move me, that time of year when the seductive beating of the earth drives erotic passions wild. I'm moved by the seasons in their endless change, and at other times, when I'm lucky enough to hear the sound of a woman's velvety laughter while she lies in bed with me, and feel that woman's skin against my fingertips. Such times as these, I know I've moved miles towards my soul and reached a state of grace.
I've found that kind of grace more than once in my thirty-five years, and yet in all that time, I've never felt as stirred by something beyond myself as I was the first moment I saw Savannah. It was not her flaxen colored hair, or her pale complexion; it was her fragrance, reminding me of a spring shower, mixed with her attitude of ease that made me stop short of greeting her immediately. I'd emerged from the darkroom into the studio to answer the sound of the chime informing me that I had company.
"Mr. Renz?" She stood in the waiting area wearing a simple pale blue suit, a long strand of pearls and lipstick-slightly pink-blushing her lips. For an instant I was fixated on those lips.
"May I help you?" I asked, extending my hand to her. She held hers out to me and I held it far longer than convention dictates, though it wasn't awkward to do so.
"Yes, I called yesterday, about a photo session?"
"I remember," I replied.
"The name's Savannah," she added.
"Yes. You inquired about boudoir photographs."
I had the feeling from the outset that she was scrutinizing my insides as thoroughly as I attempted to understand her. I was seduced that instantaneously, completely in love with her. The thought of love descending on me that way so jarred me, I had to eradicate it from my mind quickly. I'm not given to such irrational thoughts about any human, even a woman as alluring as this one.
"And you said you might have time this afternoon?" she queried me. I noticed her eyes then: the lilt of her slightly arched brows, the thick lashes brushed with dark mascara, and the color of her irises I couldn't describe-something that reflected blue and green but was neither one. There was an odd streak of brown in her left iris.
"I really don't know," I responded to her question, flustered. She was not in my plans for the day. "It is late." I looked at my watch seeing that it was nearly four o'clock.
"You mentioned that afternoon is a good time of day for natural light and erotic photographs," she returned.
"I said that?"
"Maybe you just implied it," she suggested, seeing how I hesitated.
I thought so, I never remember using words quite that way.
"So, it's not a good time?" she asked.
I smiled as if I was a blushing kid. "No, no, now's perfect. I could use the break."
I ushered her beyond the curtain to my studio and motioned her to a couch where we could sit together and discuss the shoot.
"I heard about your work from a friend. Norma Evans. She had some photographs taken for her tenth anniversary."
"Most of my clients wanting boudoir photographs have that sort of thing in mind. At least those who aren't looking for modeling jobs. Is that what you were thinking of?"
"I don't have a husband," she said.
"Then this is a professional layout you want?"
"No, I have a lover."
Over half of my boudoir shoots were most likely done for lovers not husbands, but I'd never had a woman put it so frankly. I nodded to her, and went to the more delicate matter at hand. "Perhaps you could tell me the kind of photographs you envision. I think it's necessary for us to have the concept of our work here."
"Nothing posed," she replied. "I need to look n