Date: Wed, 25 Jul 2001 21:14:03 EDT
From: Try2sucsed@aol.com
Subject: The Innocence of a Photographer of Nature

		 The Innocence of a Photographer of Nature

  "What is so rare as a day in June?" The poet wrote and added, "then if ever
come perfect days." How consummate, how polished, the remembrance brought
back the words of the poet as well as other days in June. Those were when the
weather suggested that I spend the day in search of beautiful natural scenes
to photograph, to capture in pictures that would come close to matching the
captivating words of John Keats. If the incentive back home lacked any
persuasive element, a return to nature close to its original creation would.
A beautiful and sunny day, and the temperature perfect for getting outdoors
and naked, but not in the neighborhood where I lived. Why not go back to the
area in the foothills of those ever luring mountains? When it is an issue for
one more concentrated effort to pick up where my previous trip had landed me,
there was little standing in my way.
  The trip required a little less than a couple of hours, but by the time I
was within a few miles of my destination, there was no comparison to general
weather, the temperature and the scent of fresh air, to state a few. Choosing
a deserted area, I pulled off the rural road and parked near an old and worn
picnic area. Rotting tables with matching benches, perhaps this was a choice
space for setting up the tripod and press-type camera for that ideal scene!
Having noted some male items of clothing on a nearby, what used to be a fence
post, the following scene was less shocking than was it photogenic, to sate
the impression within moderation. Not clearly in view with all the beautiful
trees hiding its natural nakedness, it was easy to know the stream was there
from the gurgling sounds as it passed over and around the large granite
stones. Any professional photographer is always keenly aware of all the
beauty surrounding him, and that holds true even more when it's in its
natural and naked, defenseless state. A gray male squirrel scampered past,
that most evident as was his evident long survival. As he continued his
journey up a tree near the old table, the two large appendages beneath his
bushy tail definitely confirmed both his masculinity and his age. Over
observant, someone outside my field of expertise might consider, but perhaps
the following scene would capture any other observer's undivided attention.
  "Sorry," he said in his foreign accent as he came from the wooded area to
retrieve his pants and shirt. "And do pardon my nakedness," he added. "This
place is so close to matching where my family and I used to live, guess I
forgot where I am."
  "Don't let me stand in your way, young man." I searched for words that
would not suggest my thoughts. "If I thought I could get by with it, I would
be doing the same."
  "I see you are a photographer," this living god of natural beauty added,
having a slight problem with pronouncing the word. After this pleasant
surprise, what the hell did I care about the way he attempted to pronounce
words in English any more than his being naked met any objections from me.
  "You are right there, young man, and the things I enjoy capturing most in
film is natural beauty. Not much of that now, I feel you are aware. So,
that's what brought be back to this area."

  "I can understand why any photographer would choose scenes in this area.
Any question as to why my grandparents, and later my own dad chose to
relocate here after migrating found its own answer. The first time I ventured
from the house to explore and to find a place to swim in the nude, I learned
the reasoning. This choice stops comes very close to matching the place we
used to call home."
  "I realize that you and I have only met minutes ago and before you started
to put back on your clothes. And, by the way, my name is James Weaver. I want
to ask you a favor, but what modesty that still exists as a part of my
personality makes me hesitate to do that."
  "My pronunciation of some American words needs additional perfecting," he
replied and added.  "My name is Pepik Mishkin. Almost let that slip," he
said, letting me know he had already picked up on some purely American
expressions.
  "Very pleased to meet you Mister Mishkin," I answered, taking a small piece
of candy from a camera bag as a means for getting my immediate focus on more
than his naked body. "Pardon me," I added. "Haven't had sex in so long that I
try a piece of chocolate to alter my trend of thoughts."
  "You are too much!" Pepik reacted to that faulty reasoning and
demonstrating again his ability to pick up on American mannerisms and idioms.
  "That's what my X-wife used to say, but she was referring to my butt as I
came from the shower to the bedroom, to get dressed. Hell! Were she still
around, there's no telling about her opinion of this weight I have gained
since retiring!"
  Pepik thought that was funny, too, but he still did not know the real
reasons I hesitated to pop the question. Not exactly naive or stupid, I
weighed further, noting the change in size and position of the feature that
identified him as most definitely a man. To hell with the natural squirrel
that announced his identity when he scampered up the nearest tree. This
specimen of pure, unadulterated, mature adult male masculinity was no match
for the testicles that automatically identified the rodent! That's what
demanded being captured by my camera, but focusing only on that feature might
defeat my success in asking this natural phenomenon to pose for me. It would
be all or nothing at all, I could imagine him saying to me. And it was what I
hoped would be a follow up to match this response anticipated from Pepik
Mishkin. I wanted a taste of everything I observed as we stood there gazing
and one another, and that goes beyond the request for posing for my camera!
  I should have learned more about human psychology in all these years I had
been a shutterbug.  There had always been more devotion to that hobby than to
the job that supported me before I retired and went into photography full
time. Pepik agreed before I finished the request. Words, excuses, delaying
what's already on a man's mind cannot fool any man who is a man. Body
language and facial expressions say enough and begin to reflect in both men's
physical reaction long before any direct communication with words seems
essential. My bigger problem was that large protrusion that diverted my
attention, causing me to focus on that than through the lens of the camera.
Hell! Every time I adjusted the lens for a close-up shot, this young 'come
and suck my nice cock' man knew it was not for a full-body view. That
automatically sensed reality brought his cock to attention before his body
shifted this way or the other, as I instructed with each pose. Now, two
things stood in the way of my capturing on film the full body view of this
loyal to nature natural living and breathing, and anxious to get it on as was
my subject. Retired, older, but far from impotent or dead, I was anxious and
ready to fall for his suggestion before he hinted at a break.
  I fell as if I had stumbled on some of the debris from the tree that shaded
the worn picnic table. That's why some of the prints show Pepik's penis
redder than others. My deprivation and demanding hunger for a taste of the
real thing brought a vacuuming draining as if there would be no more for
later! Sometimes, a little touchup here and there in the darkroom can bring
miracles to the final proof for a client to view and make his selections.
But, every time I tried to get the red out of the final prints of his penis,
failure became accepted as intentional. Many years after the fact, I
continued to agree that was a wise decision. Every time I look at one of
these prints that are in colorful 8 by 12 format in my treasured portfolio,
my cock springs to life very much as did things on the beautiful spring day.
That was at the foot of both the mountain and the immigrant who did more for
me than pose for some shots in the nude! Just looking keeps me alive. If
another opportunity comes along for a repeat of that scene with the
unintended model, I will be convinced more than ever that the poet was closer
to the truth than I ever realized until I experienced it. Not only, "what is
so rare as a day in June," the poet said: "a thing of beauty is a joy
forever!"
  I will never be able to rid my memory of that last pose as he planted his
firm and well shaped buttocks on the edge of that deserted picnic table. In
the event I might ever come close, I will always have that special portfolio
as a constant reminder. When I finally got ready to pack up and head back to
the polluted city, I offered to pay Pepik for his services. "It has more like
your services to me," was his answer to my suggestion, "and I am a big
tipper!" He emphasized his command of that common usage of American English
jargon. But he proved also that he had acquired the effective application of
metaphor, or more closely, the pun. Sure, it began as a tip of his tongue on
my now naked penis. Removing my clothing at his suggestion to be like him and
truly being a part of nature that he stated earlier, now it resurfaced with
another reason he had in his mind. The performance that followed this
ecstatic introduction exceeds my ability to describe it. My writing is as
precise as is it brief to depict the natural scenes my camera captures. Why
go beyond that limitation now, when I need no other memory. If a simple kiss
can keep alive the affection of a friend who is leaving or moving away, there
are no words to capture the climactic final farewell we both shared those
last few minutes together! And, too, this was closer than we had been up to
this moment of association. This time, and although Pepik was assuming the
position I had exercised thus far, it was that special climax that begs
either for chapter two or a full-length novel. Perhaps one day, this
makeshift of a photographer will return to the scene. Not like that of a
criminal and risking getting caught, but hoping to retrace joys and
tribulations that can never be repeated!


  Pepik declared that he would always wear the small gold necklace I placed
about his next before the final farewell. It was a token of a closeness that
only can one man experience with another man, he said as I placed it there.
His token to me for this special closeness had of necessity to remain with
him. But, memory is more than an item hanging around my neck. Add to that a
real-to-life photograph, and memories fade into dreams. And I have enough of
those to dream about forever!

By: DeBu Try2SucSed@aol.com
http://site.yahoo.com/debu
[July 23, 2001]