Approved for all Audiences

BLONDIE

BLONDIE

Everything looks different through a lens. Brighter hues. Deeper meanings. Softer realities. A bed of roses is no longer just something to quickly admire as you walk by, to breathe in softly then turn your face from the fumes. Through a lens, that same bed of roses holds gravity. It's the center of your world, a never-shrinking candy you can return to devour at any given moment, but will only shock your taste buds at the first bite. Through a lens, there's no need to look for the story you'll be telling later. That picture, that capture, that IS the story. A picture, as they say, speaks 1000 words. However, my pictures have never been talkers. It's always been about the moans.

Enter green eyes, blonde hair, one hell of a bust and legs longer than the trespass you get for pulling out a flask at alcoholics anonymous. This girl has dirty written on her forehead in bold, the smirk on her face kicking the whole room into overdrive. I look down at the pile of clothes beneath my kitchen table. Black jeans. Cool blue flannelette. Ripped grey shirt that I'm sure shows more skin than it's maker/child laborer intended. To be completely honest, there's more rip than shirt. I've never been one to judge though. It's not like she's wearing it.

I take a step back slowly and admire the scene before me. The room's a tad messy, sure. Magazines sprawl across the coffee table flaunting anorexia and photoshop, complemented by a thick layer of dust. A heap of glass bottles sits in the corner, and the thin mattress next to them is covered by nothing but a thin shag carpet. None of this is gonna be in the shot of course. Instead, we'll focus on our centerpiece. A mahogany dining room table, tastefully adorned with the little blonde thing I mentioned previously. A bouquet of white lilies compliments the setting, setting off the works with an aristocratic beauty. She lays sprawled, her body draped across the wood in waves and her hair floating about her like a divine aura. One hand lazily twists a golden lock, the other pressed hard between her thighs, I could swear she was a renaissance painting waiting to happen.

I angle the shot toward her chest, which is currently sporting a lacy black number that grips onto her as if it's shrinking. Flash. That'd look good as a centerfold somewhere. She poses once again, this time her legs spread with the tips of her fingers running up her stomach, lurid but elegant, avant-garde in every respect. What a fucking catch.

Blondie relaxes and turns towards me, those big green eyes flashing like headlights. Sometimes you wonder what brings a girl into this kinda work. A lot of the time it's family matters, often it's because they don't have a choice. Young mothers who've been left with no hubby and a hungry mouth or two. Widows who spent all the insurance claims on tarot cards and spirit talks, desperate to talk to their dearly beloved one last time. I've seen it all, tragic backstory after tragic backstory, enough drama to fill thirty theatres. I'll always listen if they give me the option. It gives a grit to the shoot a camera could never provide.

We partake in our little masquerade for some time, she, the Venus de Milo, I, Alexandros. With every little snapshot, I'm weaving a new creation for the senses, something you can breathe in, drown yourself in, something real. Time flies by, how much I can't be sure, but after quite some moments I look past the curtains and see nothing but night. I turn back to Blondie and tell her the shoot is over, she can go home. I'll get her back tomorrow and we'll finish off the cam work. Edit after. She doesn't move.

I repeat myself, you can't stay here, I really need you out. Please. Leave. She stands and hops off the table, yanking at the back of her panties in a feeble attempt to make them more comfortable. To my surprise she walks straight past the pile of clothing she's supposed to be putting on and pulls open my fridge. She gets a beer and smirks again. For fuck's sake.

I really don't need this kinda crap night now but I say nothing. This girl doesn't even know my name, yet here she is drinking my beer and as of now, slumping onto my couch. You get the odd one like this, either too bored to go home or with no home to go back to. In Blondie's case, I'm gonna assume it's the first. Those green eyes are fluttering now. Dark fake lashes are batting up and down like goth butterflies who're afraid to touch the ground. I'm really not sure what she's trying to achieve. Probably another drink, since she downed her first the minute it touched her lips.