Patrick, The Photographer

Me in my youth… rather an unsuspecting soul…      julie on piano


I was a rather lusty young thing. Prior to my rx-husband, I dated a strapping young Irishman with thick red hair and a body that wouldn’t know a fat cell if it crept up and bit him in the deriere. He was lean and mean and all muscle.

He worked in the warehouse of the contract interior design firm where  I once worked as an administrative asst. Oddly enough, it was his older brother that I was crazy about. Everyone knew it.  But John didn’t believe in mixing work with pleasure. (John was Pat’s boss and head of the installation dept.) He was also Pat’s complete opposite. Almost as much as Cain and Abel were opposite. Although it’s unlikely that one would ever want to kill the other. John was the sweeter one of the two. Patrick? Well…you decide.

Patrick was  somewhat sullen and shy in nature. In fact, he was also something of a smartass minx, often looking like the cat that ate the canary.  While his older brother, John, was a huge, overweight, gregarious blonde who was losing his hair and was adored by everyone.

Pat pursued me with a vengeance saying John would never get involved with anyone from the office. (Which was evidenced by the fact that we didn’t get together until after I left the firm. Yes. I committed the cardinal sin of having sex with two brothers. But not at gee same time. That would be gross AND weird.

When I was  convinced that, in spite of the amount of blushing that occurred  whenever in  John’s presence, he would never date me, I finally relented to Pat’s requests that we just go out for a drink. Did I happen to mention that he was a few years younger than me? That is a theme that pops up occasionally with me. More on that later.

Patrick was younger and sexually insatiable. I was  27 and he was 24. He was very confident sexually and was not shy about wanting to share his “gift ” with me  regardless of time or place. It was  not unusual for me to go into the bowels of the warehouse at lunch time to rehearse monologues or songs for theatre auditions. On a few occasions, he found me,  which sometimes lead to a tryst up against a piller or behind a modesty panel which awaited delivery and installation to some Chicago executive’s desk. (Little would he/she ever know.) Admittedly, it got to a point when there were times when I hoped he might appear, but he was actually working.

I remember one time when I had to attend the wake of a distant relative that I didn’t know well. I told him I couldn’t meet him after work. He offered to pick me up afterwards,  which he did. (I didn’t own a car.)

I was  wearing a royal blue skirt with an icey pale pink Victorian looking blouse which was imported cotton, with a high ruffled collar that buttoned in back and had padded shoulders. The front was extremely feminine and modest with just a hint of tease to it. In the area of the  decolletage there was matching   pink embroidery which surrounded a sheer woven piece of fabric, which revealed my cleavage. It was a terrible tease. As though my perky, rather prominent breast were incased behind a fine pink barbed wire.

As I sat shivering in the front seat of his Vega, chattering away about seeing relatives I haven’t seen in years,  he reached past the stick shift when changing gears, to put his hand on my leg to warm me up.

It was  only moments before his comfort extended past my knee and up my thigh. I was astonished at how brazen and inappropriate it seemed. Really? But it did warm me up…quite a bit in fact. So warm in fact,  that I felt myself getting quite moist. He found parking and as we stepped out into the brisk, cold winter snow, I found it very sobering. At least until we  got into my courtyard building. I was  fumbling for the keys toy apartment, when I felt his warm breath and lips on the back of my neck as he pressed up against me. He was fully engaged. Which given his anatomy, he was ill-equipped to hide.

He took my coat off under the guise of offering to check the pockets,  which he did moments before dropping it on the floor.As I fumbled with my purse, he began kissing my neck as he was unbuttoned my blouse.

“Patrick. Stop! We’re in the hallway. What if somebody comes by?”

“All the more reason to find your keys!”

It was impossible to focus. Back then I carried everything in my purse, including panty hose, a toothbrush,  you name it, I was prepared for anything. ..except being able to find my keys.

He began to pinch my nipples, which causes me to all but lose control. I finally feel the keys in my purse. Meanwhile, he was  hard as a rock and pressed so close to me that  I felt we might break the door down.

I thrust the key into the lock, telling him to grab my coat as we both fall through the door and onto the bed in my little studio apartment.

Although it was winter in Chicago, when mother nature requires one to layer up,  I must have missed a beat, because before I could catch my breath, he was  standing before me in nothing but a t-shirt and a hard on. It was a sight to behold. While I may not be as quick as him, I was just as eager.

I decided to let him finish the task of undressing me. He did so with more vigor, than care for my wardrobe. I lost a few buttons to my blouse and (like a Willie Wonka kid who can’t wait to rip into a candy bar) he just ripped my panty hose to get to the golden ticket. Excellent choice if you ask me.  It was thrilling.

While my passions in life were singing and acting, his was photography. He often had his camera with him and was beginning to take classes in photography. It was very sweet when he brought it to some of my gigs and snapped pics of me strutting my stuff onstage. Many of which I still have thanks to him.

For all his faults and the games he played on me he was a guy who was basically clueless about his feelings. Almost something of a neanderthal whose mission in life seemed to be taking pictures and having sex. He enrolled in photography classes at the art institute.

I had always been a very sensual person. In fact it was  my sensuality and curiosity that got me in touch with my sexuality. (No. In case you’re wondering, my curiosity has never extended to the female sex. Just not my thing.)

When Patrick onve asked about tying me up I figured, maybe, why not. I had no real experience with bondage up to that point.  The closest I had ever come was, Ted.

Ted was at least a decade older than me, and had been a war photographer in Vietnam Nam. He was  also rather sullen and played his cards very close to his chest.  (It’s safe to say that being a somewhat gregarious girl, I think sullen men found me attractive because I gave them a lift.)

Ted was rather mysterious (and as  I learned later, also notorious). He was strkingly handsome. One night he took me back to his place after we were out. He had a beautiful apartment. He dimmed the lights, put on music and poured me a drink. It was  all very sexy…until he showed me his bedroom. The bed must have weighed a few hundred pounds. It was made of solid wood planking. Shortly after commenting on what a beautiful bedroom he had, he walked over and revealed the 1 inch thick ropes that were fastened to all four corners of this (clearly custom made) bed. I’m not talking about ropes encased in velvet. No! These were ropes you might used to herd cattle. I soon made my excuses followed by a speedy departure.

When, after a few cocktails and maybe a hint of white powder, Patrick took one of my stockings and tied it to my wrist, I thought he was playing dressups! I had no idea where this was going. When he saw how naive I was,  I think it turned him on. He had a grin on his face.

“What are you doing? ” I inquired.

“You’ll see…”

He took another one and tied it to my other wrist. (This guy had no regard for the cost of my clothing.) I was  beginning to see the light as he took the other end and tied it to the bed.

“I’m going to tie you up.”

Hmmmm. Interesting idea.

It reminded me of a time when after I was dating a well known, successful, Chicago producer for awhile, he wanted me to tie him to the bed using sheets and bite his nipples. I was only 23 and clueless. I didn’t get it. I thought I heard him wrong. It was a fiasco. The relationship ended shortly thereafter.

Admittedly I was pretty crazy about Pat at this point and after seeing how excited he was,  I decided to go along with it. I knew he would never hurt me…physically.

I was  surprised to find myself completely turned on. Although, I’m not sure whether it was the sudden enthusiasm eminating from him at being in complete control, or the feeling of being restrained and feeling unable to have any control.  Regardless,  it was  a successful venture which was to be repeated one Saturday evening after watching TV and a bottle of champagne. All night he kept telling me he had a “surprise” for me.

Much to my surprise he decided to take it to the next level. After tying my wrists, he pulled me down towards the end of the bed. Evidently, he’d snuck into the sleeping area earlier that evening (unbeknownst to me) and had already fastened stockings to the feet of bed.

He grabbed my leg and spread it wide.

“What are we doing? Is this your surprise? ”

“Just wait.” He said, like a red haired Cheshire cat. “You’ll see. ”

He pulled my other leg like a man with a job to do. He tied it tightly and told me to try and get loose. I did. So he corrected his knot accordingly.

I giggled. He kissed me and walked away from the bed to take a sip of his champagne. He wasn’t thirsty. He was reveling in his accomplishment of being in complete control.

When I came to that realization, it spooked me at first. Then he came back to me and stared at my body lying there in black lingerie and bound to the four corners of my bed. Like a man who hasn’t eaten in awhile, he looked me up and down, literally licking his lips, like I was a buffet and he was deciding where to begin. (Come to think of it, this eating thing also comes up again. He was neither the first nor last man to look at me in such a manner. I guess that’s not uncommon? No idea.)

He took every opportunity to tease me. First he kissed me. Then he climbed on top of me. He was given more than his fair share below the waist and knew it’s power. He teased me with it. By now the scent of pheromones filled the room.

I’m quite fond of the penis. I never understood Victorian women who regarded sex as some kind of unpleasant “duty” or who saw this part of the male anatomy as something repellent. I’ve always found them to be rather sweet, if nothing else. Maybe it’s because it can be men’s Achilles heel, making them quite vulnerable.

Not being able to touch him made me a little crazy.

Things were heating up significantly when he suddenly hops from the bed to run to the bathroom , which is directly across from the closet. I learned later that it wasn’t the bathroom he ran to, but my closet. No idea why.

I was too wound up to worry about it. He returns to the bed,  kissing my inner thigh beginning with my knee and working his way up.  I was  ripe for the picking. As he slowly entered me, (slowness is essential given the size of our respective anatomies) I was dripping wet and wanted him desparately and he knew it.  He began to pound into me.

“Is this what you want?”


He repeated his query.

As I shrieked my affirmation, suddenly he pulls out a camera and starts snapping pictures!!!



It’s a well known fact that at one time, native Americans believed that having your picture taken meant you would lose part or all of your soul. Up until this moment,  I could go along with that about 10 percent of the way. To start snapping Polaroids during sex? I TOTALLY GET IT!! I was  horrified. What’s worse is, I was  helpless to stop him. My hands  (and feet) were literally tied.

“SURPRISE! ” He said,  with a great deal of satisfaction. Like I said, “Neanderthal! ”

When he knew I was angry, he tried to kiss me. I turned my face away from him.

“What’s wrong? Are you shy?”

When you’re in a hole, stop digging. Being Irish myself, that is advice which I seldom had use for. I used to love a good battle. Not this time. I was completely non-responsive.

Imagine it. You’re sticky hot, covered in the sweat of sexual revelry when the guy you’ve entrusted to see you at your most vulnerable starts flashing pictures of you. The light from the flash was  blinding, not to mention being hit by what felt like a tsunami of betrayal.

I ask him to untie me. He put the camera down saying, “I’m sorry. I thought you’d like it. ”



“I’ll untie you when I know you’re not mad at me.”

“What? Are you kidding?  How could you do such a thing without my permission?”

“I’m sorry. Really sorry. Will you please forgive me?” He said, as he begins to kiss all the right areas.

He knows exactly where to go to shift my thinking. For the record, it’s not just men who can be easily deterred by touching of certain areas. Before I know it,  I find myself wanting him again. The curse of the young libido.

Just as I’m climaxing he pulls out the camera again and FLASH! Takes my picture. You SADISTIC FUCK! GET OFF ME!

This time I was crying when I told him to untie me. He did. I told him to give me all the pictures but he ran and hid them in my apartment. I began to hit him as I cried. He finally gave me some, but I knew there were more. I found two in an unused light fixture on a closet shelf weeks later.

I told him to leave and that I never wanted to see him again. I avoided him like the plague at work. But I was  terrified the whole time that he might have still had a pic or two that he might have shown the guys in the warehouse. Then there was my career to consider. The Chicago Reader had recently featured my pic in the Chicago Music Scene section. Thankfully, this was decades before the Internet.

It later occurred to me that it wasn’t likely to happen, as his brother would never have stood for it. Like I said, Cain and Abel…

Not long after that incident, I inherited a small bit of money.  I was given my boss’s blessing to take a week’s vacation to Puerto Vallarta.  (I decided to use some of the money to take a friend on vacation for having taken me in when I was homeless.)

While there, I had nightmares that I received a letter, firing me in my absence. I had this nightmare more than once. I knew this was going to happen in spite of Tom telling me I was nuts. (Albeit, I reported my immediate boss to the owner for having lied to a client. She lost her job because she believed my boss when he told her their 400 Steelcase desks would arrive on time for their move in, in spite of his full knowledge that Steelcase was on strike and those desks wouldn’t be ready for 4 more months! He did it knowing they’d given away their other desks in anticipation of the new ones. He wanted their rental contract as well. The owner of my company said, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” He sure did.)

I came home to open my mail. Only to find a letter from Contract Interiors saying I was  no longer needed and my personal belongings would be in a box at the front desk. When I went to retrieve them I was  not allowed past the front desk and was  escorted out of the building.

About a month later, I began dating Pat’s brother, John, who I absolutely adored. (He is the only man who ever literally picked me up in his arms and carried me off to bed. It was  wonderful!)

Unfortunately, considering John very rarely dated, he’d grown too accustomed to being alone and never wanted to go out. I was a singer at the time and went out a lot. He also enjoyed alcohol a bit more than I cared to. So we eventually fizzled out.

As for the brother thing? Considering how little consideration Pat had for my feelings that night,  I was not likely to consider his. Besides, he knew all along that it was John who I was  after. I decided that if John could live with it,  that’s ok by me.

I told John about Pat taking my picture, without going into details of bondage and asked if he ever heard about it or been privy to it.

“No. Never. My brother is an asshole. You deserve better.”

LESSON #1: Probably best to keep your hands free at all times during sex unless there is a strong mutual bond complete with love, trust and maybe a “safe” word.


Published by: JB chants

I was contacted by OkCupid a month after signing up, telling me I was in the top 5% response rate and asking my secret. I was stunned. I was in my 50's! Beats me! It's not as though I posted racy photos or I was plagued by blinding beauty! However it served it's purpose,in terms of finding dates,but finding a mate? Not so much. Along the way, I had some pretty nutty encounters, some more lethal than others. While my blog started as a retelling of these amorous tales, it's morphed into a myriad of stories, including many from my time on the planet. They range from working with the amazing Henry Winkler, auditioning for Nadia Boulanger, an attempted assault by one of Al Capone's retired former henchmen, and offering a homeless man (who was also a convicted murderer) a place to stay for the night. While most of this is older material but I'm considering penning epilogues or postmortems from my post pandemic, post #metoo perspective, as well as sharing more. So many stories to tell! Thanks for stopping by! Cheers!

Categories bondage, fantasies, flirtation, nanodating, Passion, post coitalTagsLeave a comment

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