Orgy of Souls

5

Samson tried to rid himself of his perpetually bored expression as he prepared for his photo shoot. He wanted to get this thing done in as few shots as possible and he knew that this photographer was a perfectionist with no qualms about wasting rolls and rolls of film while his models stood in some ridiculously agonizing pose waiting for him to get that one in a thousand shot. Samson was not in the mood.

His disposition was completely wrong for modeling. Even when the fashion industry first embraced Samson, he’d been rather dark and brooding. He hated the fake smiles and artificial laughs that went hand and hand with high fashion. It pained him to manufacture emotion the way the camera demanded. His disgust at the world and disdain for the entire entertainment industry bristled in every syllable he spoke, which explained his failed acting career.

Now—being sprayed down with a mixture of water and baby oil in preparation to shoot an underwear ad while the effeminate photographer called for him to purse his lips and then to smile and look sexy as if he were some poseable action figure—he had to stifle the urge to slap the hell out of the patronizing little queer.

“Don’t lift your chin that way. It makes you look like Popeye. Flex your abs a little bit more. You should have done a few more sit ups, honey, you’re looking a little soft. Is there anything we can do with that bulge? We aren’t shooting pornography here. Maybe we should tape it down or tuck it back or something. Don’t worry, darling, it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it sounds. I’ve spent entire weekends with mine tucked back so far you couldn’t see it even in a bikini.”

The photographer’s name was Jacque Willet, and he was the hottest fashion photographer around. Samson was the hottest male model in America, if not the world. However, the two did not mix. The man had a way of making Samson feel degraded, but even he had to admit that the photos were amazing. Samson didn’t care how much he was getting paid for this shoot, and it was quite a bit—he’d signed a multi-million dollar contract with the underwear company to be their poster boy—he still felt exploited and it pissed him off. The smile fell from Samson’s face as he stared at the photographer. All his hate and disgust for the man boiled to the surface.

“Oh, now that look could work. It’s not what I was looking for but it’s actually kind of sexy. Hold that.”

Jacque Willet snapped off photo after photo as Samson imagined sacrificing him to the god of debasement and destruction. Not until then had he truly believed that he could do it. When the photo shoot ended, Samson stormed off the set into his dressing room.

“I don’t know who the fuck pissed in your Wheaties this morning, but you almost fucked up the whole shoot! I don’t work with prima donnas!” Jacque shouted at his back.

“Neither do I,” Samson growled as he slammed his dressing room door.