He found my page on myspace and told me I was beautiful.
"I want you to model for me." He said.
"Really?" I was surprised and thrilled at the prospect.
"Well, I would absolutely love to, I've done some modeling in the past, and am game for pretty much anything. I love the camera."
Shortly after, He called me one evening.
"I'm in your area, just hanging out, waiting to pick up some equpiment from a friend, want to hang out for a bit?"
I met him by his car in the parking lot of a local high school. I was struck by how attractive he was, with his longish unkempt blonde hair, angular features, and aloof mannerisms. He told me he liked my lip ring, and mentioned he used to have snakebites. I told Him that I used to have them as well. We marveled at the coincidence, and discussed other ways in which we were similar: An affinity for the color red, mutual enjoyment of the band Circa Survive...
A Police car pulled up, and told us we had to leave the lot, that we were trespassing. I drove away, with him in the passenger's seat, to a local park. I parked the car, and we walked through the playground in the dark, towards the woods beyond the baseball and football feilds.
The lights of suburbia at our backs, we made our way into a heavily wooded and dark forest, an old haunt of mine to which I have always been quite partial. We walked in silence to the sounds of branches snapping beneath my boots and His frayed Converses, the sounds leaves brushing upon my leather jacket and His black hoodie.
We reached a clearing where partially fallen trees leaned upon eachother in support. I perched myself upon a thick horizontal trunk, and lit a cigarette. He asked for one. I lit a cigarette for Him. He leaned back upon my knees as we talked of the ominous nature of the place where we had settled on our little trek. He then turned to face me, and He kissed me, with the urgency of one releasing something suppressed. I kissed Him back. We left the park, and sat in my car listening to music for a while. And then He left, and so did I.
Some days later, He called me to invite me to a concert in the city. Double Dagger. I agreed, and on the evening of the show, met Him in the city. He was drinking a forty. I had a Red Bull. We went into the concert and submerged ourselves in a hardcore wonderland. All the other attendees were students of the art college, girls with unnatractive, brutally short haircuts, boys in dirty flannel. The smell of body odor threatened to overwhelm. I felt out of place, in my clean black jeans, black laced top, long hair and stillettos. However, I enjoyed the concert immensely.
I drove him back to his campus that night.
"last night, if i recall correctly
there were explosions in the city.
It was somewhere between stoplights...
when their multifaced lenses burned
a neon shade of poppy red.
I never saw it coming;
but all at once it burned through me.
It began, flared upon my lips
and coursed through my self -
down my throat and through the veins in my fingertips.
A soft, hot flame
as if branded with an iron steeped in the
licking tongue of passion's breath-
which, at that very moment
(the one in which the world stopped turning)
i felt colliding with my own exhale.
And so deeply i then inhaled, hoping
for something far more sacred to be
sucked, to be buried
between the pockets of my own
marlboro basted lungs.
silent riots broke out within my very synapses;
And then... air meets my lips;
Alas, the chill of that empty air.
Bright lights dazzle my eyes
which have temporarily
forgotten how to see.
And as they recall how they were born to function
they are met with a cool kelly green.
The world resumes, never to recall
the moment of suspension.
The staccatto rhythm in my chest
makes me wonder if i ought to seek medical attention.
I return slowly to
the car, the street, the stoplight
as the dust settles,
My toes press in pretty stillettos
upon the gas pedal.
The world spins swiftly
as though nothing ever happened;
My thoughts spin with it,
but unable to forget.
There was small-scale devastation in the city last night.
If, for certain, the world ceases to spin-
if only for a moment-
for a single soul...
who are we to deny it occured at all?"
We met up later that week at the art college in the city. He brought me to His dorm room, a cluttered place of organized chaos and art equipment. He pulled me to his room, and we sat upon His bed listening to peculiar music and chatting idly. He kissed me, pushing my back to the mattress, pulling himself atop me. I kissed Him back. He insisted I stay the night. Unwillingly, I told Him I simply could not. He kissed me and I could taste the whiskey on His lips. And I kissed him back with vigor. He ridiculed me for not staying the night as He kissed me, and I stammered my apologies and unwillingness to leave upon His mouth and tongue. We then left the room and He walked me to my car. He pressed me against the door and He kissed me, and then he turned and walked away without a single word.
The following week, He invited me to his new house in the City to do a photo shoot. He layed a black sheet upon the floor. I sat in the corner petting a python left by the previous owner. He told me the python was named Richard. He held the snake for me as I undressed, and then handed it back to me as I layed on my back on the sheet. His eyes studied me in a new light, a meticulous and disenchanted light. He positioned the lights upon me and proceeded to shoot, as I held the lovely little python, and whispered soft words to it. He stopped taking pictures after about an hour, and I redressed, relinquishing the python to its tank. He layed upon his mattress. I stroked His blonde hair. I wanted Him to kiss me. But He did not kiss me.
"So how did they turn out?" I inquired about the pictures some weeks later.
"I deleted them all. I hated them."
"You deleted them?! And you didn't even show them to me?"
"Yeah. They were just bad. I hated them."
"What?! What was wrong with them?" I was highly affronted.
"You just don't fit the image I wanted. You aren't like the people I usually shoot."
"I didn't fit the image you wanted?! What image is that?!"
"You were just too "classically pretty" for it, okay?"
"I was too pretty for your photographs?"I asked, musing at the thought, taking in the convoluted compliment.
"Well alright then."
I drove down to the city that night, and knocked upon the door of His new house. He answered the door, wearing only a pair of tight black jeans, half empty bottle of whiskey in his left hand. His chest was bare and pale, his hipbones protruded - sexually inviting. He invited me in and we sat on the wooden floor for a while and listened to a band with whom we were both friendly. He tipped a measure of the liquor past His thin lips, while I doodled absently on a notebook.
He made his way across the floor towards me He kissed me, pushing only the notebook from my lap, and thrusting His hand . I kissed Him back, breathing in stale cigarette smoke and cheap alcohol.
He kissed me hard, and it hurt. So I stabbed him in the neck with my pen. It probably hurt a lot more. He started to writhe, and clutched at where the Bic protruded from His windpipe, choking on the viscous and wonderfully red blood that poured liberally from the wound. He attempted to cry out, but this would not do at all, so I utilzed the black bandanna he often wore and gagged Him with it. I wrenched the pen from His throat; it was slippery between my fingers. I gazed into those lovely gray eyes and smiled. His fruitless blows upon me waned less enthusiastic as the reflective red pool on the floor grew steadily. I pulled the bandanna from his mouth, and He gurgled mutely at me, blood coursing from his lips. I kissed him, and relished this new taste upon his lips.
I stood and walked to his desk. I picked up his camera. I tossed the pen lightly onto His still chest. I positioned the lights. I took His picture.
Several days later, I developed the film, however, I scrapped the pictures. I hated the way they turned out. He was just too pretty for the photographs.