There’s a few photographers I’ll never shoot with again, for many reasons. The one I’m thinking about right now humiliated me like no one else. He spoke to me like he shouldn’t. I never reacted. He touched me where he definitely shouldn’t. I didn’t say anything. I was shocked and filled with something I could call surprise and anger.
Here are my words directed to all photographers: treat your models like you would want other photographers to treat your daughters…
Don’t be me. React.

This is another story that happened not so long ago. I’m largely confused about it – is there anyone to blame at all?
It was the end of the shoot – well, almost. We chatted a lot prior to it, for days. Until now I don’t know if the linguistic flirtation was obvious or not. I think it was. We were both quite wickedly smart, which means that for things to be obvious, they don’t need to be obvious to us.
I felt unasked pleasure. He read me brilliantly. He must’ve seen that faded spark of desire in my eyes. Yes, I wanted him when he touched me. But he took advantage of that tiny grey area – benefit of the doubt you could say… what if he was wrong? What would he do then… yes. He was very smart. I’ll give him that.
Yet I never said anything or did anything right there, right then to entice him. The invitation didn’t exist.
I said nothing when he removed his hand. Was it my fault? I still remember how I stood in front of the mirror, looking at myself, I remember the pleasing warmth of his hands, his breath sliding across my neck. If I had no self-respect, I would’ve probably begged for more.
I liked the fierceness he suddenly grabbed me with. His hand travelled from my chin to my breasts, from breasts to waist, from waist to hips, from hips to ass. Then…my thighs, a slightly unsure finger sliding in between them… two fingers… three fingers…the whole hand. And then he stepped back – leaving an illusion, a possibility of pretending it was only part of the role. An innovative way of shooting.

Will I ever know?