I'm gonna take you home with me.
Nov. 29th, 2008 01:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sweetsalome There is something highly ironic about the bunch of under aged girls getting dressing up and going out for 80's night. Of course the whole thing is lost on the girls as they do shots of raspberry Smirnoff in their dorm room while getting ready to go out. Music turned up loud, the girls dance up against each other, shaking their hips and tossing their hair in time to the music. Only pausing once and awhile when one of the more sober ones remind the others that someone was going to catch them if they were too loud. Which only set the girls to giggling, and a round of over exaggerated 'Shhhhhhhhh's' which were lost under the music anyway.
For all the other girls in the group, these Friday nights out were to wind down from the long week of classes and lessons that pack their every waking moment so they could get into that college, to land that perfect job, that perfect man. For Salome, this is a chance to go hunting. She loves watching the other girls get ready, in their short skirts and low cut tops. Them getting drunk and high is just icing on the cake, their inhibitions shot to shit, none of the other girls mind posing for her camera or stealing kisses from one another. Who needs to be a predator when all the prey are so willing?
Once interested in art, Salome has fallen into a rather odd hobby of photography, it was completely on accident but now she doesn't go anywhere without her digital camera. Where the post modernists used violent color and huge canvases to covey the utter helplessness and emotional void after World War II, Salome uses the pictures to show the disintegration of her generation and their various . . . coping methods.
Smart and talented girls and boys her age are reduced to their 'natural state' after a few hours with her and her camera. At least that's what Sal calls it, strip away the posh school, the money, the fancy cars and you're left with drug addicts, bulimics, and queer for pay little prince and princesses. Girls kneeling on club bathroom floors, trying to get that last few specs of coke from the grimy tiles. Boys sucking dick for tabs of acid are her bread and butter. She never uses the pictures for blackmail, no this is art. Sometimes, they get sent to daddy the conquests do anyway.
They pile in a cab and head downtown, deeper into the city to the usual club, the one they don't even need to flash their fake I.D's at since they are there every weekend anyway. It's a ritual getting into the pounding club, first to the bar for the tequila shots before a few of the group break off to head to the bathroom. That's where the real partying starts, each stall is it's own little pharmacy, dealing cures for whatever ails you. Why bother shooting up when you can get prescription pills that send you to the same level of heaven without that pesky risk of AIDS. Just remember daddy frowns at bruised tract marks when you come home for Christmas break.
Even Salome doesn't resist the temptation and the outlet that these people deal out. Her head is spinning stepping into the throbbing crowd but everything becomes crystal clear after a line or two. All of a sudden it doesn't matter if she's failing a class, or can't maintain a healthy relationship for more then a week. It really doesn't matter that for Christmas break she's going to get a good smack and a fuck from her dad. She's invincible and anyone who gets in her way will be destroyed.
Feeling much better she goes back out to the dance floor, moving with the girls she came with. Arms wrapped around the skinny red haired girl she has French with. Celeste has an eating disorder and loves to dance with older men who grope her without so much of a protest from her. Salome loves the girl because she believes that deep down, she's just as fucked up as Sal is. She has more then one set of photos of Celeste in various states of undress writhing on her sheets, fucking herself or whoever happens to stumble in to the impromptu photo shoot.
Sal gets pulled away from the group by a man she's never seen before, he looks like all the rest of them and whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh. It's a bored laugh though, everyone is the same, the same voice, the same hair, even the same unsatisfying touch. The orgasm is there (sometimes) but it all seems so fake. The same remade movie, over and over and she is intensely disinterested in what the man has to offer her until he mentions his car out in the parking lot. She turns around in his arms and finally looks him over, he's handsome, decent body but she already knows that his cock isn't anything spectacular.
Men who know how to fuck don't have to offer cars to pretty, barely legal girls, they just have a confidence about them that is unmistakable to miss. It's unmistakable because it's rare.
She'll go with him, but only if she can take his picture. He hesitates and she rolls her eyes and flips her hair as she turns to walk away since she's a busy woman. When he grabs her arm she stops turns back to him with a smile so fake it may as well have been painted on.
He agrees to her terms.
The reason why people don't like being photographed is because they can't control how their image turns out on the other end. Sure, they can suck in their stomach, tilt the head to get rid of that double chin and accentuate their cheek bones - but for the most part the subject can never control the outcome. Plus, no one wants to see what they really look like. So people stiffen up in front of the camera, they look away and they talk.
Sal hates when they talk. He talks, so she turns up the radio to drown him out.
She photographs no name, no face before she fucks him. Just like she thought, he is completely unremarkable when it comes to sex and she fakes it in order for him to let go of her, and so she could get her leg off the damn emergency break. He pants in the leather seat of his Mercedes and gives her a grateful smile before offering her his card. At no time during this encounter has she offered her name or made a suggestion that she would even want to see him ever again. However the card will be handy to put a photograph to a name, and so she takes it.
He tells her to give him a call when the pictures are done. Yeah, she'll get right on top of that.
The next morning she wakes up in her own bed, alone and feeling like complete shit. Hungover from everything she had to drink, she feels the familiar crash that comes from coming down. It's not as bad as it could have been since, believe it or not she can show some restraint. Still the pain is never easy to handle after being without for so long, and it takes her a moment to readjust to her new state.
If the coke brought everything into focus, then being sober forced her to see the bare, naked truth that surrounded her. The messy room, the feeling of confusion and shame that came with the fragments of memories from the night before, and the night before that.
It's her mission to get rid of these memories while photographing everything around her in the hopes that someone will see the mess and the chaos and make sense of it all. That someone can figure out where everything went wrong, and if they can't, then let it serve as a warning.
A warning for someone else, because she's going to go out and do it all over again next weekend.
For all the other girls in the group, these Friday nights out were to wind down from the long week of classes and lessons that pack their every waking moment so they could get into that college, to land that perfect job, that perfect man. For Salome, this is a chance to go hunting. She loves watching the other girls get ready, in their short skirts and low cut tops. Them getting drunk and high is just icing on the cake, their inhibitions shot to shit, none of the other girls mind posing for her camera or stealing kisses from one another. Who needs to be a predator when all the prey are so willing?
Once interested in art, Salome has fallen into a rather odd hobby of photography, it was completely on accident but now she doesn't go anywhere without her digital camera. Where the post modernists used violent color and huge canvases to covey the utter helplessness and emotional void after World War II, Salome uses the pictures to show the disintegration of her generation and their various . . . coping methods.
Smart and talented girls and boys her age are reduced to their 'natural state' after a few hours with her and her camera. At least that's what Sal calls it, strip away the posh school, the money, the fancy cars and you're left with drug addicts, bulimics, and queer for pay little prince and princesses. Girls kneeling on club bathroom floors, trying to get that last few specs of coke from the grimy tiles. Boys sucking dick for tabs of acid are her bread and butter. She never uses the pictures for blackmail, no this is art. Sometimes, they get sent to daddy the conquests do anyway.
They pile in a cab and head downtown, deeper into the city to the usual club, the one they don't even need to flash their fake I.D's at since they are there every weekend anyway. It's a ritual getting into the pounding club, first to the bar for the tequila shots before a few of the group break off to head to the bathroom. That's where the real partying starts, each stall is it's own little pharmacy, dealing cures for whatever ails you. Why bother shooting up when you can get prescription pills that send you to the same level of heaven without that pesky risk of AIDS. Just remember daddy frowns at bruised tract marks when you come home for Christmas break.
Even Salome doesn't resist the temptation and the outlet that these people deal out. Her head is spinning stepping into the throbbing crowd but everything becomes crystal clear after a line or two. All of a sudden it doesn't matter if she's failing a class, or can't maintain a healthy relationship for more then a week. It really doesn't matter that for Christmas break she's going to get a good smack and a fuck from her dad. She's invincible and anyone who gets in her way will be destroyed.
Feeling much better she goes back out to the dance floor, moving with the girls she came with. Arms wrapped around the skinny red haired girl she has French with. Celeste has an eating disorder and loves to dance with older men who grope her without so much of a protest from her. Salome loves the girl because she believes that deep down, she's just as fucked up as Sal is. She has more then one set of photos of Celeste in various states of undress writhing on her sheets, fucking herself or whoever happens to stumble in to the impromptu photo shoot.
Sal gets pulled away from the group by a man she's never seen before, he looks like all the rest of them and whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh. It's a bored laugh though, everyone is the same, the same voice, the same hair, even the same unsatisfying touch. The orgasm is there (sometimes) but it all seems so fake. The same remade movie, over and over and she is intensely disinterested in what the man has to offer her until he mentions his car out in the parking lot. She turns around in his arms and finally looks him over, he's handsome, decent body but she already knows that his cock isn't anything spectacular.
Men who know how to fuck don't have to offer cars to pretty, barely legal girls, they just have a confidence about them that is unmistakable to miss. It's unmistakable because it's rare.
She'll go with him, but only if she can take his picture. He hesitates and she rolls her eyes and flips her hair as she turns to walk away since she's a busy woman. When he grabs her arm she stops turns back to him with a smile so fake it may as well have been painted on.
He agrees to her terms.
The reason why people don't like being photographed is because they can't control how their image turns out on the other end. Sure, they can suck in their stomach, tilt the head to get rid of that double chin and accentuate their cheek bones - but for the most part the subject can never control the outcome. Plus, no one wants to see what they really look like. So people stiffen up in front of the camera, they look away and they talk.
Sal hates when they talk. He talks, so she turns up the radio to drown him out.
She photographs no name, no face before she fucks him. Just like she thought, he is completely unremarkable when it comes to sex and she fakes it in order for him to let go of her, and so she could get her leg off the damn emergency break. He pants in the leather seat of his Mercedes and gives her a grateful smile before offering her his card. At no time during this encounter has she offered her name or made a suggestion that she would even want to see him ever again. However the card will be handy to put a photograph to a name, and so she takes it.
He tells her to give him a call when the pictures are done. Yeah, she'll get right on top of that.
The next morning she wakes up in her own bed, alone and feeling like complete shit. Hungover from everything she had to drink, she feels the familiar crash that comes from coming down. It's not as bad as it could have been since, believe it or not she can show some restraint. Still the pain is never easy to handle after being without for so long, and it takes her a moment to readjust to her new state.
If the coke brought everything into focus, then being sober forced her to see the bare, naked truth that surrounded her. The messy room, the feeling of confusion and shame that came with the fragments of memories from the night before, and the night before that.
It's her mission to get rid of these memories while photographing everything around her in the hopes that someone will see the mess and the chaos and make sense of it all. That someone can figure out where everything went wrong, and if they can't, then let it serve as a warning.
A warning for someone else, because she's going to go out and do it all over again next weekend.
