I first met Martin when I was at a shitty bar in New York, drinking every guy there under the table, smashed out of my brains. I remember wearing an old college sweatshirt, the NYU cracked and faded, and some short shorts that showed a little too much skin. I wasn't fat, but I wasn't some skinny bitch either, and I wasn't going around like I was better than everyone else. I wasn't a whore- I didn't sleep with many people and I had some fucking class. At the time, my hair was a dark brown, wiry and untamed like the Muses in the old paintings, and my lips were always coated in red, and at the time I wore thick rectangular glasses that gave me a childish look.
I slammed my fist on the waxed wooden counter and demanded the bartender to give me another rum punch, and some guy, hoping to fool around with me, fronted the bill. I downed it with ease and smiled in satisfaction as my competitor slumped to the floor, passed out in all of his glory. A chorus of cheers roared in my defense. Nobody, to my dismay, challenged me, but many asked me home, thinking that I was baked beyond reason- I am surprisingly cunning when drunk- and these people were blatantly refused.
I heard the opening of the bar door, and turned around, livid eyed, waiting for the poor sap eager to lose a bet. I was the most attractive broad in the bar, and expected to be greeted flirtatiously.
But to my dismay, the newcomer was a woman. She seemed pretty on the outside, if a little butch for my tastes (not that I had tastes, I didn't swing that way) --her hair trickled past her shoulders in a small wave of black- her eyelashes were long, and she was flat-chested and dressed masculine-ly.
"Guinness," said the stranger.
It was a man's voice. At first I thought, is this a fucking tranny? Are you shitting me? Upon further inspection, the newbie's attributes were most definitely male. He had the fine appearance of stubble across his chin, which was cleft; his eyes shone an enigmatic blue, his hands were rough and calloused and big; hair graced his arms, not much, but it rose in small wires. I smelled his scent. He smelled like cologne and sweat and sex, and for the first time I felt a strange sort of desire well up within me. What a fucking gorgeous man.
"Hello," he turned to me, satisfied with his beer, downing it in a few gulps.
"Hey," I said, warily nursing my latest gin and tonic. "You new in town? Never seen you before."
He laughed, melodiously, his tone low in his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, the faintest perception of sweat on his skin.
"I'm an art student. I'm here from Savannah, hoping to get my masters."
Ooh, an artist...how intriguing.
"Cool. What brings you here?"
"Photography," he answered candidly. No you asshole, I meant what brings you to this bar.
"What do you photograph?"
"Women."
I felt a shiver run through me.
"What kind of women?"
He shrugged. "Beautiful women."
I almost expected him to say "like yourself" at the end of that, but then if he was from SCAD, well, he had to have some credit behind his claims. Not all guys wanted to hit on me, God. Suddenly his hand was in front of my face. I shook it firmly, amused by how his hand consumed mine.
"Martin," he said.
"What?" I remained staring at his hands, feeling their smooth texture.
"My name..."
"Oh. I'm Carmen," I answered.
Martin smiled. "You definitely have some Spanish in you."
The remaining time I drank at the bar, all I noticed was Martin's hands- on the handle of the beer stein filled with the black, oozing scum that was Guinness- on the pen as he signed his check, and most importantly, on my arm, on my shoulder, near my thigh. For the first time, I knew overpowering desire. I wanted those hands- with their softness and their grace- on my body, finding places I didn't know existed, running along my back, gripping my hair. I wanted those hands to make me come.
After he signed his bill, he looked at me and offered me a charming smile.
"Shall we go?" he asked, expertly, deftly, delicately.
"Go where?" I feigned skepticism.
Martin leaned down and whispered in my ear, his lips so close it made my skin tingle. "I want to take pictures of you."
Again, the desire flooded my veins. I followed him blindly, like a sheep.
He led me to this fancy hotel- the Parisian looking ones that every child wants to stay at when they are in the city. It reminded me of The Plaza in that book my mother read to me when I was young- Eloise.
Martin opened the door and ran to his camera bag, pulling out a Nikon with the biggest lens I had ever seen. The room felt grand, bourgeois, luxurious. The walls were covered in a black and white fleur-de-lis pattern, the bathroom had granite countertops, there were Monet prints on the wall, and the single bed- a black four-poster loomed in the middle, the white of its sheets begging to be corrupted. A leather armchair relaxed like an old friend in the corner.
