Gisele Bundchen is writhing on the sheets of a bed in one of those airplane-hangar-sized New York City photography studios. It’s the last setup of the day, and she’s wearing a black bra along with something skimpy, satiny, and dark that she will later describe to me, with a straight face, as “boys’ underwear.” She works really quickly. Her fluid poses are a kind of rapid sex-symbol Tai Chi—fingers pass through hair, arms extend above head—and she moves from one into the next without making a single awkward gesture. Her expressions, though, are really something. I don’t know how she manages not to cross the line into camp when she puts on a smoldering look, but she does. At one point, I find myself in her line of vision and our eyes meet, and while I’m only stating the obvious here, I must say, I am not man enough
