Greetings everyone! For those of you who have been reading and supporting Pleasure Prints, many thanks. For people who are just joining the fray, All Authors is in the midst of its Pleasure Prints blog tour. Today is my feature day where all things are “Unscripted”.
I would like to discuss my favorite three parts of “Axana … Unscripted” as well as the reasons behind the choices.
She surveyed the landscape. The grass was high, tinted yellow with neglect and saturated with candy wrappers, beer bottles, cigarette butts and ripped condom wrappers. A repugnant scent—a mixture of rotten eggs and raw sewage—gave foil to an otherwise clear day. If Axana were to guess, various neighborhood miscreants had taken liberties in the outward redesign of the grey building. However, the artistic direction lacked sync. The left side of the building—doused with profanity. The right side of the building—devotional mosaics of fallen comrades.
One portrait was of a little boy, who looked no more than six years old. His eyes were so big, his gaze so innocent and full of wonder. Axana wandered closer to the image and rubbed his button nose and robust cheeks.
What was this boy’s story? Why was his spirit called so soon?
With this, I wanted to paint a clear picture of the element that Axana was walking into. Although some people may be used to it because it’s what they see every day, this scene is not familiar to her, which is why it gives her tremendous trepidation. I also referenced the mural of the little boy to recognize that so many of them are taken from us too soon due to external elements. However, I leave the reader to come up with one’s own story as to the little boy’s demise.
Axana strutted over to the window. For a fleeting moment, she thought that Zube was studying her movements, but dismissed it just as quickly. She busied herself with different poses until he barked, “Don’t do any of that. It looks stupid.”
“Axana, this isn’t a modeling shoot. I don’t need you to work the camera. This needs to come across as natural.”
Axana huffed, her forehead dimpled with lines of confusion. It was always championed that women tended to not know what they wanted. They had not come across Zube.
Zube placed his camera back on the tripod to approach her.
“Axana I wasn’t calling you stupid. I’m just saying that life isn’t staged so it doesn’t make sense for you to pose. You must behave as if the camera isn’t here. Look out of the window, think about how you are feeling and make it visual enough for me to capture … whatever that is, even if it’s unpleasant. For example, how did you feel when you first arrived here? I don’t imagine it’s an emotion associated with walking the runway.”
In this exchange, I wanted to capture the camaraderie between Axana and Zube. Both of them have awkwardness in different ways. Axana is slightly sensitive to Zube’s directness, and Zube does not have the eloquent finesse to deliver his request until in hindsight.
There is also a microscope on the operation of life. When one takes pictures for Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and the like, we have time to make things pretty and perfect. Yet this is not what Zube is going for at all. Life is not staged or pretty. It often flows without opportunity for what’s appropriate or correct.
He didn’t answer, just pointed to the bed and instructed her to get comfortable. Just pretend he’s not here was the mantra Axana placed in her brain. Yet, she felt exposed. It had been a while since she’d been in this state of dress around anyone.
The more she attempted to dilute Zube’s presence, the more amplified it became. The silhouette manifested itself into him, adopted all of his features. The sensations pulling her closer to this fantasy rattled her rationale. Axana’s body was no longer her own. Some primal entity operated as her puppet master.
Axana’s eyes smoldered with lust while she looked into Zube’s camera lens. One brassiere strap, of its own volition, slid off her shoulder. One hand, originally on Axana’s thigh, slid closer to her secret treasure.
A tightrope is present between suppression and surrender. What is it about Zube that makes Axana’s cautionary wall feel comfortable enough to crumble? Is he that damn fine? Is it his art? Or seeing multiple sides to him? Perhaps, it’s just been a minute since she’s been sexually shaken up and she throws caution aside, thinking that she only lives once. Did they just kiss or go all the way? Those questions I left unanswered on purpose, for there’s really no wrong answer.
For more of Axana and Zube, don’t hesitate to pick up Pleasure Prints.