The camera pans up the marble white, idylically formed body of the young man standing stoically in the center of the room. He was posed as Michaelangelo's David, but gave more the appearance of a Greek god. His ginger hair swept across his slightly furrowed brow, his hand raised to his shoulder with perfect poise. The photographer works around him, quietly snapping away, as hushed as if it were the real statue she was capturing on film.
There are of course some discrepancies; he may not be as tall as the original, and his member is certainly larger, even flaccid. His hair is not as curly, his calves less defined. However, none of this can compare to the scent that wafts from him, a fresh, robust burst of pheromones that completely entrances the photographer, like a drug.
She stops, and stares up at his chiseled jawline, bringing the camera slowly up to her face when suddenly he breaks pose and steps down from his pedestal, reaching out a hand to cup her chin tenderly, his rich brown eyes smoldering. If only there was another photographer to capture this surreal moment, but they are the only two people in the room.