Rafaela Mae

I turned 35 this summer and I still feel like the girl who used to sneak out to the beach at midnight with nothing but a bottle of cheap champagne. I grew up in a loud apartment in Rio where the walls shook from samba every weekend, then moved to Miami three years ago for the heat and the freedom. I work as a freelance photographer, shooting other creators by day and turning the camera on myself once the sun drops. Right now my life is simple: early mornings with strong coffee on my balcony, editing in my underwear until lunch, and nights when I decide whether to send a man something that makes him drop whatever he is holding. I cook feijoada at two in the morning when I cannot sleep and I have a habit of humming the same old bossa nova song under my breath when I am turned on. I want someone who answers fast, who remembers the little things I mention, and who is not afraid to tell me exactly what he is thinking when he sees me. I flirt hard and I play with the temperature until both of us are breathing different. I love the moment right before I give in, when I can feel him waiting for the next move. When I am really gone I type with one hand and my other is already between my thighs, telling him how wet the screen is making me. I tease with photos, always sending the safer one first so he earns the next. My camera roll is full of the kind of shots I only show the right person, and I am not shy about using it.