Chipped Red Fingernail Polish and Bill Wadman's Penis
(Originally published by Nerve magazine on February 28, 2008 under the pseudonym "Funky Brown Chick" Edited May 12, 2009.)
I take a crowded F train to his apartment in Park Slope. If I could fast forward time, I'd already know that Bill Wadman and I will end up taking turns on each other for 118 minutes without intermission. There, I said it. Bill Wadman. With those 10 letters, I've outed him, using a man's real name -- full name, no less -- for the first time in my blog. But it's okay because we're not fucking.
A coupling of a different sort, I am writing an article about him and he is taking pictures of me. We collaborate to mutually masturbate each others' passions: the photographer feeds the writer words while she supplies him with ample face.
To borrow a line from Thomas Hawk, "I'm blown away by how well Bill shoots portraits." At his place, I ask him what I should wear as I bring forth three outfits: two dresses and a 1950s-style bustier. He's the visual expert, so I give him permission to dress me.
"You're going to do anything I tell you? This could get interesting," he smiles.
Sexual roleplay photography, I call it. To my (atypical) submissive, Bill is a lens-wielding Dominant -- a voyeur.
"Stand there," he delicately dictates. With that, Bill moves his body closer to mine. From point-blank range, he raises his arm, aims and shoots.
I get hyperconscious of the 8-10 extra pounds of unneeded fat on my body. I feel lumpy, uncomfortable, exposed, insecure and vulnerable. Every imperfection is visible on tiny pixels. But, it's weird because I also feel strong, sexy, euphoric and turned on. I feel as if Bill's camera lenses are lovers' eyes stripping me naked for the first time. I glance down at my nails. Fuck, they look awful. I'm really high energy. As a result, I constantly fidget, jump, dance and do other things ... like chip away at the red polish the manicurist laid 10 days ago. It only covers about 60-70% of my fingernails now. I should have touched up the paint job or got a quick manicure on the way to Bill's. I'll try to hide them as he shoots. Although my insecurities seep through my pores, I don't feel weak. I reason that everyone struggles with self-image issues sometimes, and I purse my lip as I allow the camera to have its way with me. Bill takes a few shots from further away.
He makes me look prettier than I feel.
BILL: You're doing something funny with your mouth. It curls to the side a bit.
ME: Nervous energy, I guess.
BILL: Really? It's okay. It's cute.
Swapping the conversation from photos to dates, I ask Bill if he's single and he asks me if I'm a player.
ME: Why do you think I'm a player?
BILL: I read your blog. How was your date with the international guy?
ME: Which one?
BILL: [laughs]
Since he asks about my love life, I feel comfortable asking about his. As he continues taking pictures, I launch a mini sexual interrogation. I now know Bill had his first girlfriend at age sixteen and lost his virginity at seventeen. He prefers Japanese rubbers. He likes the sensation of Okamoto line Crown Skinless Skin condoms against his cock when he is inside a woman's vagina.
I don't touch Bill's body, but I'm becoming carnally acquainted with him via words. Since he doesn't protest, I probe further:
ME: Have you ever masturbated to any photos you've shot?
BILL: [pauses, puts camera by his side and repeats question] Have I ever masturbated to photos I've shot? What? MY photos? Like, have I ever masturbated to MY photos?
I can't decide if he's playing parrot because he's baffled by the question or simply stalling while an appropriate lie takes shape on his lips.
The air swells with silence for a split second before he delivers a one-word answer "no" and resumes taking pictures of me. I search his face for signs of deception, but I find none. He's telling the truth. "Bret, You've Got It Going On" from The Flight of the Concords soundtrack starts playing on his sound system. Bill sings along.
BILL: [sings] Don't let anybody tell you you're not humpable. Because you're bumpable. Well, I hope this doesn't make you feel uncomfortable ...
ME: [hums along, glances at bathroom door] Where do you typically masturbate? In there?
BILL: Not in the shower. That doesn't work. There's something so unsexual about touching myself while standing.
I learn that Bill typically lies on his bed or sits in a chair while stroking his penis. I feel slightly guilty about prying into this man's life, but I continue with questions. He's directly in front of me now. His towering 6'1" frame provides sufficient aerial distance to take the shot of my seated body, but he instinctively knows he needs to be taller. He mounts a chair to perch himself 10 - 12 inches higher into the air. There's something sexy about sitting in front of a skilled man holding his favorite instrument in hand. I'm getting hot. Wet. But, Bill isn't turned on at all. He's just doing his job. I feel small and insignificant as the fully clothed giant takes pictures of my half naked body.
I state the obvious: You're tall.
"Tall men have bigger cocks," he says in the same matter of fact tone that a math teacher tells a child two plus two equals four. I grab my pen and pad of paper again. I'm still interviewing him, after all. I won't include it in the article, but I know I'll use the cock quote when I describe the photo shoot on Nerve.
"You're not gonna put that in there, are you?" he says as he watches me write. "Everyone's going to think I'm a dick."
I soothe him with logic. "Seriously, dude. It's your cock. No one cares what you say about your own junk."
"Okay, you can put it in there," he says. "But only if you include a picture [of my cock]."
I eyeball his camera suggestively. We're almost finished, but there's still time for one more.
"I was kidding," he deadpans as he reads my mind.
It's late. The photo shoot and interview are over. I use my ink pen to scribble a few more lines of shorthand as Bill packs away his Leica. We're both old school. Feeling sentimental, I ask Bill if he'll take a picture of us.
"Uh, a picture of us?" he asks hesitantly. "I guess I can do that."
Bill snaps a few frames. I wonder if he has ever captured skin that contrasts as much as ours does. I imagine it's tricky to get the lighting just right so it illuminates me without washing him out.
Looking at the digital image, Bill doesn't seem happy with the result. He runs his fingers through his hair quickly. "I look terrible," he says.
He looks fine. But it's comforting to know his camera has the ability to strip his insecurities naked, too.
I asked Bill to send me the picture us together. Proving that photographer always knows best, he forwarded this photo instead:
Brilliant. He took the candid shot as my slightly chipped, nail-tipped fingers transcribed the interview. It's a picture of "us" indeed: me on his film capturing his words on my paper. It's as if his final unspoken reminder to me was: This is strictly business, lady. Let's keep it professional.
Bill Wadman is a genius.
