I hung a sign outside on the door to my apartment, three floors up from the street: "Photographer for hire. Looking for women who want to be photographed in the worst way. Must be willing do whatever it takes for as long as it takes to get it done, or else don't waste my time. You get the experience but not the money. I get the money, I don't need the experience. Interested? See occupant inside apartment #9. Or go to Club Open 24/7 and ask for Benny the Jazz."
A few days later I woke up to some loud knocking on my door like a machine gun. I was sound asleep at 5 in the morning. Who could it be and why would they wanna see me? "Go the hell away!" – I yelled half asleep. I'd forgotten about the ad. "Hang on! Wait a minute!" - I said. I sat up in bed with a wool blanket and a white sheet wrapped around me just like in the hospital. I threw both feet on the floor with a hard thud. I pulled myself up without any help, barely standing straight. I rubbed my eyes to get the sleep out and looked around.
I walked over to the light switch and turned it on. I stood there some more, naked. I took some time to admire myself in the mirror. Winked. Flirted. "Not bad" - I thought. My tan, thin, young naked body may be all the rage but it was no way to answer a knock on the door unless I know who it is, and even then what the hell! My blue jeans hung over the back of a chair where I left them. My wallet was in my pocket but it was empty. I grabbed them off the chair and slid 'em on like slippery snake skin. I snapped the fly shut. They fitted loose but snug, hanging below my belly button to show just enough hair above my crotch to be interesting depending on who was interested. Low hangers. Hip huggers. Waist huggers. Whatever....... they fit like they belonged to a bricklayer.
There was another knock on the door even louder than the first. Didn't sound like cops. It didn't have that ominous wooden night-stick sound so familiar. "Hold on!" - I yelled, again. I didn't have a shirt but I didn't care. I liked the way I looked. I had new definition and muscle tone in my arms and chest so I didn't care about a shirt. Without a shirt it was still cold in here since I didn't have the heat on. Trying to save money. Another loud knock. "Bang! Bang! Bang!" I went to the sink. Brushed my teeth. Wet my hands, splashed my face and brushed my hair.
I looked around to check it out, turned the coffee on. Another knock. Wham! Bang! Bing! "OK! I'm coming!" - I yelled again. This time I walked to the door. Looked thru the tiny peep hole and opened it.
"Good morning!" - she said. I stood there bare foot and half naked and looked her up and down, undressing her with my bloodshot eyes. I saw she had small hands but big dark eyes with rings around them. I saw she had fake eye lashes scribbled on her forehead like a Jackson Pollack painting. I saw she had small feet with luxuriant red polish smeared between her toes. I saw she had long legs, stilettos and a lacy red French thong underneath her short skirt. I saw she had a small female body: narrow, slim, slender, white, pale and a little sickly. I saw she had teeny-tiny freckles all over her body. First impressions, I thought she had low blood platelets, about which I had some personal knowledge. I dismissed that idea as soon as she opened her mouth and wiggled her tongue. Her lips were perfectly luscious! But I wondered if she had freckles in her ears. I saw she had thick, long wavy red hair past her butt. It looked like she had a tight butt. I wondered if her pubic hair was red, too. I never trusted women with pubic hair a different color than the hair on their head. It reminded me of spaghetti in a dish of water.
Anyway, she stood at the door and glanced at my empty bed in the corner of the room, what I call my "photographer's studio". The cold air in the room hit us like a thousand needles. That made me think about Needles, California, how hot it was and how much I hated it. And that made me think about the freckles covering her face like ants covering a bowl of cat food. Needles had a lot of stray cats crawling out from the contaminated Colorado River, and everybody hated that! Which made me think about her eyes which were dark and hard to forget. I didn't hate them; I was afraid of them. That made me think about the old mattress I used to have when I lived on Van Ness. It never got wet except during sex, but after a hundred, two hundred nights who cared?
"Who are you?" I said. "Whaddya want?"
"I'm here to get my picture taken", she said.
"Whaddya talking about?"
"You need women to photograph, right? I saw your ad. Here I am"
Then I remembered. No wonder she smelled so good. She had creamy looking legs. My attention was glued to the muscles in her thighs and calves. Out of the corner of my eye I saw she looked around the room. She looked at the bed. "Where's the bathroom?" - she asked plaintively. I pointed to a door with a towel hanging on a hook. She walked over, opened it, went inside and shut it. A few minutes later she came out. Something must've pissed her off. Probably the dirty toilet seat. I felt like spitting. Everybody in the apartment building knew what she was up to except me. I wished I had a bathtub!
I felt like washing my feet. Her thighs were looking cold with goose bumps appearing under her skin. She was smooth as silk. A smooth operator. She had nightmares each night, the giant dirty hand that plucked her from her bed, carried her to the bathroom, and shook her out over the toilet...when she awoke in the morning, she realized they weren't nightmares, they were her life--the dream was that she had fallen asleep in the first place...She must have shaved her legs this morning. I ran my fingers up and down the backs of her legs, up and down the insides of her photogenic legs. I couldn't stop thinking about legs. The photo shoot would be all about legs, legs and more legs! Smooth black legs. Clean legs. White legs. No stubble legs. I figured she'd do just fine for the photos. I said - "Let's do it!"
But just to be sure she was the right one I asked her if she cried much lately. I had to know. It was important somehow. She said she cried the night before. I asked her how she did it. She stuck a fork in the bottom of her feet and sucked the tears out the tips of her toenails. She put her hand thru a plate glass window but couldn't cry. Couldn't bleed. Didn't know why. Ended up in Oakland in an apartment complex. I had friends there. As it turned out they were heroin users.
I tried it a couple times but wasn't into it. Junk was good to write poetry and stories like this one here, but that was about all it was good for. I got sick. I remember I was laid up in bed with my legs hanging outside over the side of the bed, just like in the hospital waiting for girls to come in, or nurses, or whoever...hallucinating they kissed me goodnight, tucked me in before I threw up in the waste basket. I wrote a poem about it on morphine, for pain, you know (LOL). Anyway, a shadowy apparition comes in my room, stands over me, looks down at me like the death angel or something worse. My shirt ripped open, unbuttoned to my waist. My legs hanging over the side of the bed like I'd stolen a motorcycle. My eyes blurry, wet, out of focus from dampness and fog stinging my face at a hundred miles an hour. Heroin and morphine made me look sexy. Ah! the painkillers. My good buddy, "Benny the Jazz", helped me mainline it. I couldn't go home for days. Now I'm getting off point.
I had the women ready and set up for the big photo shoot. We were in a beatnik hotel in North Beach, somewhere downtown San Francisco.... Every morning we'd walk down the hall to the showers. We'd make coffee in my room but we couldn't take a piss. We'd brush our teeth in the sink but we couldn't take a crap. We'd watch the news and polish our boots but we couldn't turn on the heat. Ms. Hotel Manager made us remove our gloves and wash our hands before getting undressed. She had a college education. It wasn't much of an education but just enough to know how to cook burritos at a carnival. Women always meant trouble for me but I couldn't help liking them for that.
A few days later I woke up to some loud knocking on my door like a machine gun. I was sound asleep at 5 in the morning. Who could it be and why would they wanna see me? "Go the hell away!" – I yelled half asleep. I'd forgotten about the ad. "Hang on! Wait a minute!" - I said. I sat up in bed with a wool blanket and a white sheet wrapped around me just like in the hospital. I threw both feet on the floor with a hard thud. I pulled myself up without any help, barely standing straight. I rubbed my eyes to get the sleep out and looked around.
I walked over to the light switch and turned it on. I stood there some more, naked. I took some time to admire myself in the mirror. Winked. Flirted. "Not bad" - I thought. My tan, thin, young naked body may be all the rage but it was no way to answer a knock on the door unless I know who it is, and even then what the hell! My blue jeans hung over the back of a chair where I left them. My wallet was in my pocket but it was empty. I grabbed them off the chair and slid 'em on like slippery snake skin. I snapped the fly shut. They fitted loose but snug, hanging below my belly button to show just enough hair above my crotch to be interesting depending on who was interested. Low hangers. Hip huggers. Waist huggers. Whatever....... they fit like they belonged to a bricklayer.
There was another knock on the door even louder than the first. Didn't sound like cops. It didn't have that ominous wooden night-stick sound so familiar. "Hold on!" - I yelled, again. I didn't have a shirt but I didn't care. I liked the way I looked. I had new definition and muscle tone in my arms and chest so I didn't care about a shirt. Without a shirt it was still cold in here since I didn't have the heat on. Trying to save money. Another loud knock. "Bang! Bang! Bang!" I went to the sink. Brushed my teeth. Wet my hands, splashed my face and brushed my hair.
I looked around to check it out, turned the coffee on. Another knock. Wham! Bang! Bing! "OK! I'm coming!" - I yelled again. This time I walked to the door. Looked thru the tiny peep hole and opened it.
"Good morning!" - she said. I stood there bare foot and half naked and looked her up and down, undressing her with my bloodshot eyes. I saw she had small hands but big dark eyes with rings around them. I saw she had fake eye lashes scribbled on her forehead like a Jackson Pollack painting. I saw she had small feet with luxuriant red polish smeared between her toes. I saw she had long legs, stilettos and a lacy red French thong underneath her short skirt. I saw she had a small female body: narrow, slim, slender, white, pale and a little sickly. I saw she had teeny-tiny freckles all over her body. First impressions, I thought she had low blood platelets, about which I had some personal knowledge. I dismissed that idea as soon as she opened her mouth and wiggled her tongue. Her lips were perfectly luscious! But I wondered if she had freckles in her ears. I saw she had thick, long wavy red hair past her butt. It looked like she had a tight butt. I wondered if her pubic hair was red, too. I never trusted women with pubic hair a different color than the hair on their head. It reminded me of spaghetti in a dish of water.
Anyway, she stood at the door and glanced at my empty bed in the corner of the room, what I call my "photographer's studio". The cold air in the room hit us like a thousand needles. That made me think about Needles, California, how hot it was and how much I hated it. And that made me think about the freckles covering her face like ants covering a bowl of cat food. Needles had a lot of stray cats crawling out from the contaminated Colorado River, and everybody hated that! Which made me think about her eyes which were dark and hard to forget. I didn't hate them; I was afraid of them. That made me think about the old mattress I used to have when I lived on Van Ness. It never got wet except during sex, but after a hundred, two hundred nights who cared?
"Who are you?" I said. "Whaddya want?"
"I'm here to get my picture taken", she said.
"Whaddya talking about?"
"You need women to photograph, right? I saw your ad. Here I am"
Then I remembered. No wonder she smelled so good. She had creamy looking legs. My attention was glued to the muscles in her thighs and calves. Out of the corner of my eye I saw she looked around the room. She looked at the bed. "Where's the bathroom?" - she asked plaintively. I pointed to a door with a towel hanging on a hook. She walked over, opened it, went inside and shut it. A few minutes later she came out. Something must've pissed her off. Probably the dirty toilet seat. I felt like spitting. Everybody in the apartment building knew what she was up to except me. I wished I had a bathtub!
I felt like washing my feet. Her thighs were looking cold with goose bumps appearing under her skin. She was smooth as silk. A smooth operator. She had nightmares each night, the giant dirty hand that plucked her from her bed, carried her to the bathroom, and shook her out over the toilet...when she awoke in the morning, she realized they weren't nightmares, they were her life--the dream was that she had fallen asleep in the first place...She must have shaved her legs this morning. I ran my fingers up and down the backs of her legs, up and down the insides of her photogenic legs. I couldn't stop thinking about legs. The photo shoot would be all about legs, legs and more legs! Smooth black legs. Clean legs. White legs. No stubble legs. I figured she'd do just fine for the photos. I said - "Let's do it!"
But just to be sure she was the right one I asked her if she cried much lately. I had to know. It was important somehow. She said she cried the night before. I asked her how she did it. She stuck a fork in the bottom of her feet and sucked the tears out the tips of her toenails. She put her hand thru a plate glass window but couldn't cry. Couldn't bleed. Didn't know why. Ended up in Oakland in an apartment complex. I had friends there. As it turned out they were heroin users.
I tried it a couple times but wasn't into it. Junk was good to write poetry and stories like this one here, but that was about all it was good for. I got sick. I remember I was laid up in bed with my legs hanging outside over the side of the bed, just like in the hospital waiting for girls to come in, or nurses, or whoever...hallucinating they kissed me goodnight, tucked me in before I threw up in the waste basket. I wrote a poem about it on morphine, for pain, you know (LOL). Anyway, a shadowy apparition comes in my room, stands over me, looks down at me like the death angel or something worse. My shirt ripped open, unbuttoned to my waist. My legs hanging over the side of the bed like I'd stolen a motorcycle. My eyes blurry, wet, out of focus from dampness and fog stinging my face at a hundred miles an hour. Heroin and morphine made me look sexy. Ah! the painkillers. My good buddy, "Benny the Jazz", helped me mainline it. I couldn't go home for days. Now I'm getting off point.
I had the women ready and set up for the big photo shoot. We were in a beatnik hotel in North Beach, somewhere downtown San Francisco.... Every morning we'd walk down the hall to the showers. We'd make coffee in my room but we couldn't take a piss. We'd brush our teeth in the sink but we couldn't take a crap. We'd watch the news and polish our boots but we couldn't turn on the heat. Ms. Hotel Manager made us remove our gloves and wash our hands before getting undressed. She had a college education. It wasn't much of an education but just enough to know how to cook burritos at a carnival. Women always meant trouble for me but I couldn't help liking them for that.
