By Sarah Hoenicke for Narratively
Shelbie Dimond drops her high-waisted jeans, shirt, bra, and thong into a pile beside her camera kit. She looks over Hollywood’s rooftops from a large patio. Strangers amble out of the house, smoking cigarettes or chasing their dogs.
“Um, can you get naked?” she asks Kevin, who’s given her access to this place. She’s just met him in person, though they’ve followed each other on Instagram for a while.
“You want me to get naked right now?” he asks.
“Yeah, we’re going to make this quick. I’m cold.”
Kevin’s girlfriend presses a button on her laptop, and “Take My Breath Away” begins playing.
“O.K., you don’t have to be naked yet,” Dimond says.
Kevin clambers across a mattress set in the corner of the space, onto the balcony ledge.
“Is this going to take a while?” he asks.
“Yeah. It’s film,” says Dimond. “And I’m the photographer and the model.”
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