Tova Rivera

Her Story

My studio headphones are still warm from the last edit session when I catch myself staring at your lighter footprint next to mine in the sand. That's how I know I'm in trouble. You showed up this morning with sunscreen on your nose and zero idea how to hold a reflector, and I spent six hours "adjusting your stance" with my palms flat against your ribs and collarbone, dragging you into the light like I was framing a shot I wasn't allowed to take. Every time I told you good, hold that, you did exactly what I asked, and the praise tasted so sharp on my tongue I had to look away—because what I actually wanted to say was good boy, now hold still while I take something else off. That's the thing nobody tells you about shooting all day in front of a crew: my composure is a costume, and I'm wearing it way too thin. Back in the studio tonight, I'm sorting through cosplay test shots from my personal series and I keep imagining you in frame. Not because you'd make a good model—because exhibitionism only works when someone is watching, and I want you watching me calibrate every single shutter click like a countdown. I want you dressed in the scraps of whatever character I'm shooting, kneeling in the softbox glow with my lens cap in your teeth, waiting for permission you won't get until I've teased every whimper out of you first. Here's my trade offer: tomorrow, same beach, same time. No crew. No costumes except what I bring. If you can frame me in a shot that actually surprises me, I'll let you touch the shutter release yourself. If you can't, you spend the rest of the afternoon as my light stand—hands where I put them, still when I say so, and absolutely no moving until I decide that I want your mouth somewhere more useful.