Hi, I'm Russell, I guess. Here's some things.
Written on the Fletch
when i was cupid lying lonely in my bed i shot an arrow through my bedroom window and through the window came an arrow it shot me straight in the heart my heart goddamnit! how terrible! how beautiful! how it was you all along
(trigger warning, btw)
doc says there's no cure for "sex is like giving someone a handshake and watching them twitch out in ecstasy"
with my lips i scrawl every harbored fever of passion against the cool smoothness of her neck until it flows that sweat heat and heaves her breath lifting her breasts next—boys only want one thing—to the cusp of my tongue which patiently ticks in harmony to the patterned beauty of her gasping lungs i pull away to brush my hands along the gorgeous fullness of her sliding firm fingers beside her strong hips so that light tickle fickles up her nerves—keep your boy away from my daughter—as my kisses scale up her skin her soft toes crinkle against stubbled remnants her aching calves quiver to balming lips her thick thighs spread under hot breath when she grabs the dick i never wanted and begs it inside i comply and wonder when any other part of me will be touched or if my mascara meant—you're such a fucking perv'—anything or if i didn't shave close enough or if i shaved too close or if my waxed legs still inspire no desire the way hers do in effortless moments when they drape over the mattress corner and someone all on their own comes up and kisses them and i noticed she grazed my chest once her painted nails against—you don't make me feel special—its flatness and matted fur but maybe it was more in reach? and the trespass of myself into the—you have to protect her purity—feels like nothing still (after all those teenage years cutting for disappointing—after all the lord done for you—by slipping purity rings off unforgivingly idle hands and it still feels like nothing still—at least you weren't slut shamed—not a single thing) and i want to cry but i laugh: so i'm still a man aren't i and i splurt out chuckle after chuckle hoping they'd sound like giggles (they never do) and every partner always shyly sweetly asks "why are you laughing" and i always think why am i fucking but i say it's just because i'm the nerd boy who never thought he'd be worth a woman like you instead of it's not you it's a history of—my therapist says you have intimacy issues—everything at once (but i really just want a good fuck don't i and i shake to think it'll never be you and maybe i oughtta cum early so this all stops and maybe i oughtta play terrible in bed so i don't have to play the untouchable toucher but i remember the final slams of their bedroom doors and you deserve a good fuck too because you've got what i don't but couldn't i have a different body if not one with a womb to nurture then at least one that feels you right and am i fucking in gratitude for the moment of slender purse strap hooped over my shoulder when you went to the bathroom or the teddy bear socks you let me wear in the pillowed fortress of your room with the blinds shuttered) and she leans back into the fuck and convulses like she were speaking tongues and i watch in curious senselessness like becoming an apostate all over again
Yeah, so that's sex. Or, it was up until a few years ago when I decided I wanted to do a shoot. I'm not sure to what extent it still is. I think I wanted to prove to myself that I could figure out how to feel sexy, but I don't think I did. I did feel like I looked sexy, sometimes. I think it's probably just hard to feel that way when your feelings around gender and sexuality are intense but transient or surreal or absent. Or that purity culture just necessarily fucks you up for life, and the best you can hope for is to prevent your hypothetical future kids from having to deal with that shit. I definitely enjoyed the experience of being photographed like this, in a kind of innocent and giggly awkward way.
Or, I think 25 year old me wanted to see more genderfluidity represented and 28 year old me just wants to sleep but felt like I owed it to younger versions of myself.
Maybe I just wanted a photo album to look back on as a 70 year old and be like "Yeah, I was hot and dumb and fucked up."
Anyway, this is something I've written a bit more recently. I think it's an optimistic outlook on aging and love.
As I hold a candle before you its scent unlabeled yet familiarly discoverable I tell you oh how these candles once simpered enlightened me to dulcet smiles in flickers of pale light between our simmering eyes I tell you oh how these candles once whimpered hummed up a graying line to soothe me through the night amidst our whispered goodbyes I must warn you my teeth are more resin than ivory their crowns are coming in next week and next month and probably many more times my heart murmurs rather than coos it twitters unabated regardless of pates my lungs skip breaths it has nothing to do with you they just do that now my eyes may only capture you the way photographers capture big foot My brain too has a cavity where festering memories burrow excruciate my nerves and mutate undecodably but it is also a deep well of earned workarounds to horrendous truths My heart cannot follow a love if to hell we veer but it beats like a war drum when omens draw near My lungs cannot chase a love whose cold feet send them aflight but they hold steady and calm through the trials of a fight My eyes cannot behold a love with unbridled adoration but they will study our flaws and offer seasoned navigation As I hold a candle before you its scent fading yet hopelessly young I ask you would you like to take your worn matchbook and be a little brighter with me? (But what about my teeth, you ask? Oh no those are fucked I was hoping you forgot about them)
Thanks. Have fun out there. Be good.
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