paonia

It began with the suicide girl shoot; something i have been wanting to do for several years now.
With my major opponent (possissive boy) laid out in a hospital bed with a broken pelvis my oppurtunity arrived. His best friend, a photographer and I found ourselves running endless errands, to acquire a bicycle for the shoot (whose logos had to be covered in tape to avoid copyright infringement) buying lights from home depot etc.
Stole the legitimate messenger bag from laid out boy, as well as that chain. ooo i love that chain! pelvis boy's room the perfect setting, a messy boys room, with communist anarchist wall hangings, abstract , or Pollock-esque art, the perfect amount of clutter.
When finally faced with the camera i found myself momentarily terrified; overwhelmed by a sense of doubt.
I insisited on wearing my motorcycle boots, whose strong leather buckles and solid heels give my legs a strength that travels up my spine. I swear those boots have some sort of magic.
The lights set up, the camera ready and me in the bathroom, using what litle make up i had to try and paint on a seductive face. red lips, Anna Karina eyes. drinking wine straight form the bottle--enough to embolden me, but not enough to intoxicate.
To be able to look the at lens directly with wide eyes, parted lips, but to have the wildness to unleash my pent up sexuality, a dangerous task. my erotic nature like a force that once unleashed could cause any number of floods, storms, mistakes.
could i pull it off? balancing with my buzz, stradling the seat of this borrowed bike, my strong runners legs taut, my arms trembling.
But a trance came over me, a confidence previously untapped. And there was no photographer but rather a lens huge and dark, and unblinking, the single eye of a creature whose sole purpose, sole interest was myself. And I looked into it with sex, with a flirtatious smirk, as i undressed, bent over, running my hands over my thighs, as i stepped from my boots, as i lifted my dress, my last skin. peeked coquettishly over the tattooed shoulder; i crawled across the sheets, my eyes leveled with this dark eye, this jutting shape which snapped percussively, like a drum urging me on in this erotic dance, in this sensual trance.
When at last we had finished the shoot, though the trance left me something had been obtained, something strong, fierce, that did not leave me, has not yet gone but lingers, fierce, a slow fire, a smooth smirk.
For the first time in my life i had given myself to myself.
And everywhere i went, i streamed a pheromone more potent than ever before. Swaying down the street in my rubber heels and feeling their eyes on me, everywhere, a sensual smoke swiled up from me, trailed me and i began to love it.
Each lustful look given intensified my musk, slowed seductively, my step.
And i, even i was caught up in this creature that was myself, the tigress, i rode her to bedrooms, i wanted a man or woman between my legs, beneath me.
The woman born in the lens, birthed in it and by it and through it crushes guilt under her heel like a cigarette, smears it into the pavement waiting, waiting for the next fix.