My first experience with CFNM happened long before there was ever such a term. It happened before there was an internet, before the web, and the smartphones. It was not something expected either, but seemed to come of its own volition, a product of a situation that started as a goodbye rather than an adventure into something that decades later would come under the nomenclature of this group.
This experience happened in front of a camera. The camera was one of those that you had to install a roll of film in, then take it out when the photographer had reached the maximum number of photographs available on the rolls. These rolls then had to be developed in a darkroom. While the digital age and the smartphones have relegated these into the museums they played a role in that experience.
It was in a spring during the late 1970s. I was a much younger man in college. I was living with my girlfriend in an apartment that we shared with one of her friends, another woman. That roommate happened to have been gone on that weekend. On that particular morning, I was sitting in our bedroom staring disconsolately at a typewriter (I am really dating my age here) with a blank sheath of paper in its sheath. The paper was patiently waiting for me to do something with it and I kept staring at it and hoping that the coffee beside me would help overcome that writer’s block. Outside the window of our bedroom, people were flocking into the church across the street that was banging its bells through the ether to summon the faithful into prayer.
I was dressed only in a bathrobe. I had nothing on underneath. The bathroom was a present from my girlfriend, Lori. As I was listening to the bells and the voices outside while trying to get something started on that paper, I suddenly heard a click coming from the direction of the doorway of our room. Lori was standing there, a camera held to her eye. She had come to say goodbye as she was going on a trip with some friends for the day to leave me alone to struggle with that paper. Lori was the consummate photographer. She could make the most mundane this seem to have body and soul in an image. By default of an illogic that I could not understand she had selected me to be her lover. We had met at a party somehow (I cannot remember how now), and she gradually got me used to the camera. Why she picked me is something I cannot understand, as I was basically camera shy. I hardly knew what one was before her, and had been afraid of being photographed even for a graduation picture or a driver’s license. Over time, however, Lori had managed to get me used to being on camera.
She would photograph me anywhere and everywhere. As time passed, I got to like it. Sometimes, I even suggested things we could do where I knew she would snap me. We often went on these photograph adventures where I was inevitably the subject. I used to enjoy them. I am not sure now if it was because I liked the attention or the idea of a woman commanding me into this or that position for whatever picture. I began to find this latter quite intoxicating and rarely refused it when she had the lens pointed at me.
On that morning, she took a shot and then another. I smiled and laughed and was suddenly conscious of how vulnerable I was with just that robe on. Despite all the posing I had done for Lori, none of it had been naked. Call it fear, nervousness, or looking the future ramifications of what would happen if someone accidentally saw the results, or whatever I had never volunteered that and she had not asked me. I knew that naked men in front of women’s cameras were not uncommon at that college in that era. There were more women than males here and many of males were gay. A straight male was fair game. Women were particularly aggressive then, especially with their cameras. This was the era of Gloria Steinem and women’s lib and of Playgirl magazine. Lori had several of them in our closet that I had found by accident one day and there was a guy in a robe dropping it off for a lady with a camera. I looked at that series and wondered how he could stay so tame in that situation. I wondered what it would be like to be that guy, my naked body out there for the lens.
Lori moved in closer for more shots and the people filed into the church to worship their god. She was almost on top of me and I wondered if she had seen the growth down below. I was sure she had as women have an uncanny eye for those things. Then she had to reload the camera. I thought of that guy in her Playgirl magazine. What would it be like to be naked in front of her lens that I knew so well. With nerves and my body shaking and that growth getting more prominent, I waited for her to reload the film as the tenseness built up within me. In all my modeling escapades since then (and there have been quite a few), I have always enjoyed those moments of waiting, knowing what’s going to happen, yet not and you’re waiting for it. As she fiddled with the loading the roll, I gently unloosened the strap on the bathrobe.
Lori commanded me to stand up. The loosened bathrobe fell open just as she took the shot, revealing a full frontal to her lens and everything that entailed just then. Lori gasped in shock and offered to destroy the film. She apologized profusely. We faced each other a few awkward seconds. The decision was mine. Before her unbelieving eyes, I slipped off the robe and dropped it to the floor. Across the street, the church sang some hymn to their god. I was now naked and she was dressed with a camera in her hand. I was a nuclear reaction of emotions then: erotic excitement, nerves stretched taunt, and a desire to please her camera and be used by it accordingly. Without asking my permission, Lori recognized the amazing truth before her and looked down at how I was not so complacent and tame as that guy in the Playgirl Magazine. She aimed the lens that way and fired off many photographs in rapid succession. I think I loved that the most of that moment on how she fired it off without asking me, like I belonged to her and her Nikon. I also loved how she did not offer to get into the same situation as me, that she made no motion to undress herself and that I was that naked male in front of the clothed female.
The church let out and the people left, their duty done for one week. I watched them from behind curtains as the camera snapped away at my nakedness, taking it all in, and wondered what that flock would have thought if they had known what was happening a few yards from them. From the bedroom, we went all over the apartment, with Lori and her Nikon having its way with me whenever she and her lens saw a moment. We never looked back from that first moment of total CFNM, long before the concept was even born. I have not looked back since then either.
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