The Heir of New York

Part 6 - Photos last longer

My dad was once featured on the cover of a local business magazine when his company broke the ten-million-dollar barrier. When we went to the photo shoot, they took him to the side of the room and sat him down in a barber chair. Women moved around him until his hair was slicked down, and his face was covered in a foundation to smooth things out and then powdered to keep the glare down. It took 20 minutes. When they finished, he stood in the middle of the room for some test shots and then the photographer ran around talking about the glare from my dad's shirt. One of the girls, the one who I think did his hair, went over to a rack and came back with a rustic denim shirt. The kind with pearl buttons. She stood beside him while he unbuttoned his white shirt, exposing his torso, which didn't have much more color than his white shirt. He swapped his shirt for the one the lady was holding. It was a little tight in the arms but fit well around his stomach, making him look thinner and more muscular. The photographer took some shots, asked my dad to look up and to the left, took more shots, then up and to the right, then more shots. Then it was done. The entire photo shoot was just under 40 minutes.

Natasha is still sitting in a chair after 40 minutes while her makeup artists—two women—hover over her, applying delicate layers of color, creating shadows that hollow her cheeks. Her eyes are surrounded with dark makeup, and she looks like she has been up all night partying. It transitions from a burning brown surrounding her eyes to a faint brown that fades into her natural skin color just outside her eye socket. Shadows, tinted with red by her nostrils, make her nose look raw, like she has been snorting coke all night. When she finally stands up, after 90 minutes, she is wearing so much makeup she looks as though she is in a theater production.

"What do you think?" she asks.

"The last time I saw you look like that, you had been up for two days on a coke high."

She sneers, then snorts back. "Good," she says. "That's the look they want."

She steps away to the center of the room under the harsh full glare of lights and looks down. She holds her hands out, takes a half step back, and drops her robe to a crumpled pile by her feet, revealing a white studded corset and nothing else. A guy who is almost as thin as Natasha—and smells of strong cologne, like burnt wood— runs over and pulls it away from her feet. At no time does he look up at her naked body, which is glaring and smooth in the lights. She spreads her legs shoulder width apart, holds her arms out by her sides, and freezes. If I had just walked into the room, I would have thought she were a mannequin.

The makeup lady walks over to her and begins to apply a foundation to some thin stretch marks on the top of Natasha's hips. I never noticed them until now.

"You can get Jerry," the makeup lady says. "We're ready."

The guy who took the robe bobs his head and runs out of the room. A moment later, he returns with three other people. The man at the front of the group is wearing a striped shirt and has a mustache looking like it's trying to escape from his face. With each step, his stomach pushes out against the stripes, making his midsection look bigger than it is. He walks by me without noticing I am in the room.

"Natasha," he says. "Beautiful."

He walks over, and she moves her cheek toward him. He doesn't touch her, though he does leave a kiss an inch from her cheek.

She gestures toward me. "I hope you don't mind, I brought my friend."

Jerry turns in my direction. He looks down at my shoes, then up to my face. He stands silent for a minute, then exhales loudly in an apparent dramatic fashion. "I guess."

He spins around. "On the bed, dear. I was thinking stomach."

Natasha turns and crawls on the bed, careful not to smudge any of the makeup applied to her body.

"Center," Jerry says.

Natasha shimmies over to the center and lies facing the camera. When she settles, she looks over and winks at me. The two assistants who came in with Jerry move large silver disks into place so a dramatic shadow is cast just underneath Natasha. Jerry circles around, looking at her from every angle, then stops in front of her. He holds out a single finger. Natasha's eyes lock onto it. When he moves it up, she lifts her chin, then follows the finger down to the right, then to the left.

"Too dark," he says. "Bring it up two."

He taps the bottom of his chin.

One of the assistants grabs a third silver disk, smaller than the other two, about the size of a frisbee, and places it close to the ground, so it's reflecting light under Natasha's chin. Jerry holds his finger out again, and they go through the same routine—up, down, left, right.

"Better," he says. He looks down at Natasha. "Are you ready?"

She nods.

Jerry slips off his shoes and steps up on the bed. He walks around Natasha until he's behind her. He starts at her legs and scans up the rest of her body. He lets out an audible hum and chews on his lips while thinking. Hmm again.

"Okay," he says. "Bring your left leg up like this, beside you, like you are crawling."

Natasha slides her left leg forward until it's up beside her. Jerry looks her over again, stopping to take in her vagina.

"Good," he says, and hops off the bed.

He moves through a few different positions with her arms first up, then down, then under her, so she's pushing herself up into a pseudo downward-dog pose, and eventually brings them to her side, so they're touching at the elbows and falling to the right side. Natasha looks like she's going to roll herself over.

"Bring your right leg up beside you as well."

Natasha does as she's told and now has both legs spread open. I've seen her like this numerous times, but never from the front before.

Jerry steps back and stands to take the scene in. "Perfect," he says.

The two cameras get positioned off center from Natasha's face so they can take in the length of Natasha's body. The cameras click in bursts of three. In between each burst, Jerry moves his finger and Natasha moves her head in the corresponding direction.

"Less interested," Jerry says.

Something subtle happens with Natasha's face, something imperceptible, but instantly, she looks more melancholy, almost lonely.

Jerry just nods and takes another burst of photos.

"Just stay there."

He walks over to a laptop and clicks the mousepad. "We're done," he says.

Natasha lets out a groan and pushes herself up. Her face still looks melancholy. She steps in front of the bed and runs her fingers through her hair. "Can I get my robe?" she asks.

The skinny boy runs the white robe over to her, and she slides it on. A smile returns to her face, and she walks over to me.

"What did you think?"

"He was looking at your pussy," I whisper.

"That's just Jerry," she says. "At least he doesn't try to sleep with me. Most do."