Queen Bee

Sex sells.

It’s the old truth. Older than money. We don’t barter with beads and pelts anymore. We barter with glances, with access, with sacred skin.

The market for lust is a stable one, because the paychecks are handwired into the brain stem. Turn your nose up at it all you want, but at the end of the day, a good old-fashioned hungry look pays better than a resume.

My father’s high-art black-and-whites of war zones gather dust on shelves, while a single fuzzy capture of a starlet’s nipple buys a beach house. I didn’t learn that in school. I learned it in the developer tray, watching pictures of strangers’ debauchery appear.

This isn’t art versus commerce. This is commerce as art. And my well-tended gallery is the dank, airless darkroom where dreams are developed into dollar signs.

Horny as hell, sex-obsessed Americans buy and sell sex in cartoonish amounts.

Anyone who isn’t caught up in the movement is just another unwashed, malnourished sheep among us.

I’m only half serious.

In a free market, you can use a pornographic career to your advantage. There’s nothing wrong with making a car payment by showing a little skin. Being naked and having sex with other naked people.

Not my thing, but sexy ladies have hot streaks, getting them paid, getting the bills paid, and earning credit.

Printmaking is an art form that lends itself to adult content. Art, combined with the right collector to command a high price. Some of the best photographers in the world are adult shooters.

My own tastes are eclectic, but I refuse to be pigeon-holed as a pervert just because I offer erotic pieces to wealthy clientele.

My old man was a successful photojournalist. Avant-garde, creative, famous, he made his bones in a business that was unkind to those who asked for special treatment. The work made his name in a competitive market, stacking up awards and accolades.

When he hit a streak of bad luck, he lost dozens of years of talent. He was forced to admit to darker motivations.

I started learning photography at the age of nine.

My success or failure as a photographer is riding on my tattooed, pitch-black balls and six-inch man-meat.

I’ve sold art in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Honolulu, New York.

But now that my wife is the star of my latest “series” and I’m ready to get the most money on art, I would do anything to ensure my wife is safe and “clean.”

My wife is clothed, unless you count tight leggings, cleavage-bearing tank tops, and halter-style sports bras as masculine attire.

She’s on a keto diet and does cross-fit and kickboxing. She’s empowered and cocksure.

Before heading to a print show in L.A., I went out on a limb and suggested the idea of shooting “exotic” work with my sexy wife as a model—to make money for my “real” work.

To my surprise, she went for it.

“Oh hhhhh yesssss, we’ll get paid, Daddy. More money—more…more reveals. I can see myself doing it; I have the potential; I could do it. I can do it. Oh yeah, Daddy…”

It wasn’t until our first test shoot that I realized she was the Queen Bee.

That’s right, you heard it here first. Sasha is the Queen Bee-sexual deviancy baroness, sweet-spot-vegan babe of my world. Sexy as hell and craving dominance, she’s the star of the show.

My job…make it rain.

Not just metaphorically, in dollars or accolades. But to satisfy her “cervix ticker” and give her a high chance of getting pregnant.

“If I want to sell my art,” I told her one night