Learning to Be Looked At
How sitting for nude photos taught me to enjoy being desirable
I took off my shorts and lay down on the couch in my underwear. Paul set up his camera, grabbed the remote, took off his shirt and pants, and lay down next to me. The camera clicked, controlled by the remote in his hand. Early afternoon light came in through the blinds, cutting his chest and my back in diagonal lines.
“Let’s get rid of these,” he said, and we did, stripping what remained of our clothing.
We sit naked on the cover of a book. My arm is wrapped around his body, my chest and nipple turn toward the camera. I’m white and Paul — the photographer, my friend — is black. Our bodies and legs intertwine in something like an embrace.
For so many years, I did everything possible to hide the flesh of my body. In middle school, I had nightmares about locker rooms and what happened there. I never showered after PE class; I only pulled off my shorts and pulled on my jeans, my tighty-whities visible for the shortest possible moment in time. I wanted my body to disappear and leave only my mind, the only part of myself that I always liked. I wanted my body to disappear, because it was impossible to control; it could betray my desire by getting hard when I shouldn’t — there in plain view of other boys or men.
