In the beginning there is always dark....
I wake up in the dark every morning, always before the light has hit the sky. I can hear the city outside far down below my darkened suite. It doesn't matter which one, they all wear the same face.
I lay in the dark, remembering, in some half awake fantasy. "He" is there. My body comes alive as my brain tortures me with images from somewhere deep in the darkness. It's been this way for years now, it doesn't matter where I go. I cannot escape those dark seductive images from the past, they go where I do. I wake and feel the ghost of memory haunt my skin. Knowing that the next lover will not soothe the craving I feel, knowing the next touches will disappoint me. Knowing they will never be "him."
I touch myself in a futile effort to satisfy my longings. I let the images out of their tightly locked box in my brain, only briefly while I bring myself to climax. I see his eyes, I feel his skilled fingers on my skin, I can almost smell his sent in the air.
In a moment it is gone and I lock the images away once more. I feel the all too familiar feeling of reminiscent disappointment as I taste the juices on my fingers. I lay like this for a quiet dark eternal moment, alone, I am always alone...
"Where are you?" I ask to the dark knowing it will not give me any answers...I fall back into sleep and dream. I dream of him, my dark lover the one who showed me what it was I would always need. Let me feel what it is I would only feel with him, briefly we had a passionate affair when I was younger. It ended just as brilliantly as it burned and we have not spoken since, no lover has ever compared to the intensity I felt in his bed, from his touch....
The daylight is brimming on the horizon as I pull myself from the warm sheets and head for a scalding shower. There is much work to be done. I freelance write and photograph for a few European publications, mainly articles to do with up coming artists. You know, who's the next big thing sort of stuff.
Most of them are the same, arrogant artistic moody types with little or no talent. Occasionally I stumble across one that has real ability but most of the time I am let down. I just do the job and move on to the next one. From time to time I sleep with one of the artists, I find they make decent lovers. Most have attention to detail that eludes the common man, I find myself wondering about the one I am supposed to meet today. Will I be let down again? Will there be real talent and drive? Will there be some lusty fire that is ready to explode into the world? Will we fuck until our bodies are dust? Will I find what I am searching for? I won't let myself hope for too much, knowing that disappointment is lurking like a stalker around the next corner.
The magazine has faxed over the information that I need, strangely it's not very much. Just a contact name of "Claire" and a phone number. I don't think too much on it though, this is a relatively new magazine that I am writing for. Probably some young pretty intern got distracted into giving a blow job in the fax room for her superior and forgot to send the rest of the information. I smile as I think of it, cute blond ringlets and big blue eyes thinking that she will be kept on past the summer for sure now.
I pick up the phone and ring the number, a pert English accent answers. "Yes, this is Claire." she says.
"Hello, this is Sabina..." I am about to tell her who I am and which magazine I am writing for when she interrupts me.
"Of course, the writer, we have been expecting you." she says " be here at three o'clock." she commands. She gives me the address to the warehouse. I am slightly taken aback, most of the time they don't know who the hell I am and have to reschedule. Someone must have faxed her over more information then they faxed me.
I start to ask her the name of the artist I am supposed to meet when I realize the line is dead. She had to be an agent, there is no denying the arrogance of an agent when they think their artist is what's hot. I set the phone down and think they are trying to manipulate me into some mysterious illusion of this artist...it's all about image in this world.
I set out to get ready, knowing that it will take me sometime. I am particular in the details, things have to be just right. Perfectly shaved legs, jasmine oil with a hint of scent without being overpowering, no nicks in my finger and toenail polish. Silky black colored thong back underwear with matching garter, stockings and bra under a sleek dark gray skirt and tailored matching jacket. Long legs ending in heeled shoes made in custom Moroccan leather. My long copper hair pulled back in a loose braid with tendrils falling down framing my face.
When the time ticks down I take a cab to the address Clarie has given me. Over the years I have been to countless warehouses in industrial sectors of every major city you could possibly think of. Some where out there is an artist's manual that has commandments in it the first being "Thou shalt procure a warehouse in which you will live, work and possibly die."
The cab pulls up out front and I am not surprised by what I see, a large steel gray warehouse with a small wooden door on the left side. I pay the cabbie and get out to be greeted by the beginning drops of January rain. I grab my bags and briskly I walk to the door and open it, I look for the lift and spot a sign reading "Elevator non-operational please take stairs." it has a big red arrow pointing to flights of dimly lit stairs.
Equipment bags and all I pound up the stairs, my skirt extended taunt across my thighs as I climb up the stairs. My heels echoing out across empty space. When I reach the top I see a big heavy metal door with a twisted iron handle. I knock loudly and listen for some reply, I hear a sliding of what I imagine to be a lock and the door swings open. A tall blond woman with sharp features steps out, the English accent tells me she is Claire. She smiles at me and looks me up and down like she is accessing me, like she is taking me in.
"Go in," she says "have a look around, he should be here shortly." she smiles at me again and starts to walk away from me. "I really must run, please make yourself at home." she dismisses me with a wave of her hand and starts to walk down the stairs I have just come up.
Instantly I am somewhat irritated by her flippant attitude and that I am being made to wait. "Arrogant bastard, make me wait for you!" I think as I dig in my bag and produce my camera. I pull open the heavy door impatiently as I step through I realize there is no light anywhere except from the hallway behind me. Just blackness everywhere in front of me, I pause and look behind me. I forgot to even ask his name, I feel like a foolish armature. I take a few steps forward into the blackness and extend my hand, I feel something soft like velvet.
Yes, that's it... velvet, like stage curtains I think to myself. I feel around more to the left and to the right, I find an opening just to my right and pull the curtains back. I step into a room, I see soft dim light to my left, seven small votive candles have been placed on the floor at the base of an eight foot tall photograph. "How interesting" I think to myself as I approach the piece. It is an intimate picture of a woman's back and buttocks laying on a bed one leg pulled up and the right foot casually placed behind the left knee. The picture has been enhanced, the colors of the woman's flesh are purple tones and the blanket she is laying on has been turned dark green. The whole scene is very sexual. I take my jacket off and look around me I set my bags and jacket down, a room has been made with velvet curtains it is not much bigger than ten feet by ten feet, just enough for a few admirers to stand in. I notice another opening in the curtains just to my left and walk through it.
Another room has been created and the same set up, an eight foot tall photograph enhanced to look like a black and white oil painting this time, seven votive candles on the floor providing the only light in the whole room. This one is taken from a different angle and is of the woman's legs laying diagonally across a bed. I walk through eight rooms in total each a different enhancement of women, maybe the same woman I think. I admire each one of these erotic pieces taking photo's as I go. I notice that music is playing in the background, lust filled rhythmic beats that sound vaguely familiar I think to myself. I will write something favorable for this artist I decide. I look forward to meeting someone that has taken such a great deal of time and effort to set up such an elaborate display for me.
I step through the last set of curtains in this velvet labyrinth and gasp as I see the last photograph. This one has not been enhanced, it is a black and white of a woman's hands bound behind her back with black rope in artful knots, each hand on one side of her buttocks. The focus was not on her hands but on the small of her back on the left side where a small dark mole was perfectly lighted.
My hands begin to tremble and my knee's feel as though they are going to give out on me, my heart is pounding as I realize why these photo's seem all too familiar. Familiar because they are all of me. My mind rushes back to "him" the photographer, my dark lover...The music seemed familiar because it was the music "he" played when we had sex, rhythmic lust filled sounding beats. The smell, was my brain imagining this? I could smell his cologne in the air, my breathing became rapid as my heart pounded harder against my chest. My brain flashed with images from the past..."No, it couldn't be, that was so long ago, don't even hope it" I tell myself.
I put my head down, tears welling in my eyes as I try to reason my way out of this surreal reality. "This can't be" I hear myself whisper; it's then I realize there is a presence behind me. In one soft swift move he is behind me with his mouth on my neck breathing and his arms encompassing me, his smell fills my nostrils and I feel his warmth next to me, pressing against me. My head is swimming and I lean against him to steady myself.
"He has me again" I can hear my body whisper to my brain. In that one moment nothing else matters.
He whispers softly against my neck, "it's alright." his voice is smooth and seductive and instantly soothes me. "I knew you wouldn't realize until this point who the woman was." My memories come flooding back to the day those pictures were taken, after hours of sex we lay spent and relaxed in his bed. I remember him taking the camera out, I had never felt so relaxed in front of one as I did that day. Letting him take shots of me in the afternoon sunlight after bringing me to orgasm over and over again all morning.
"Thats why I set it up like this." he tells me, his breath on my neck melting away any inhibitions I momentarily feel.
