He laughs and sits down next to you on the metal railing that runs along the wall outside the bar.
“So you decided not to party with Charlie, then?” he asks.
“He didn’t send you out here to drag me back in there, did he?”
“No way. He doesn’t pay me enough to do that kind of work.”
“Yeah, you know, it was fun and all, but he’s not really my type.”
“Well, he is my boss, but between you and me, you made a good call.”
“I think so, too,” you say. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Can I offer you a lift home?” he asks, stepping toward the curb.
“Won’t you be missed inside?”
“Nah, I’ve been sent on a run,” he says. “I can take you anywhere you want to go. They won’t miss me for a while.”
“A run?”
“You know, a run.”
“Like for drugs or something?”
“Do I look like the kind of guy who’d do something like that?”
“Well . . .”
“Seriously, it’s nothing illegal. You can trust me. I’m an ex-cop.”
“I’m guessing that running after rock stars is more lucrative than rounding up drunks or solving murders.”
He shrugs. “This job has its perks.” He points a remote toward the curb and presses a button. You watch as the lights on a sleek black sports car flash in response. Your jaw drops, and he grins at your reaction.
The car sits low to the ground, its mag wheels and custom paint job catching the light from the bar’s neon sign. “Is that a 350Z?” you ask.
He nods approvingly. “You know your cars.”
“It’s the Gran Turismo special-edition model, isn’t it? Didn’t they only make a few hundred of them?”
“How the hell would you know that?” he asks, looking at you in admiration. “But yeah, you’re spot-on.”
“Isn’t it the one with the additional horsepower?”
Now he’s really floored. This is fun, you think, trying to dredge up more car facts. No need to tell him that you only recognize it because one of your exes was a Top Gear fanatic who subjected you to thousands of hours of sports-car porn.
“Wish it was mine,” he says. “But luckily for me, Charlie is usually too wasted to drive it, so I get a lot of time behind the wheel.” His phone rings, and his hand darts into his pocket to retrieve it. “I have to take this. Won’t be a minute. After that, I can take you wherever you need to go.” He walks over to the corner so that he can take the call in privacy.
You picture yourself tearing through the late-night streets with him in that gorgeous car. And, the car aside, he’s not at all bad-looking. Even though he’s huge, he clearly works out, and you suspect every inch of that body is pure muscle.
A taxi pulls up in front of you, interrupting your thoughts, and the driver gets out and leans over the roof of the car.
“Finally! That must have been the world’s longest five minutes!” you say to him, hands on your hips.
He looks at a piece of paper he’s holding, his face confused. “Mr. Cornetto?” he asks.
“No!” you snap. “I called you almost half an hour ago. Your guy said you’d be five minutes!”
“I’m afraid this taxi is for a Mr. Cornetto.”
“I think you must mean me,” says a voice from behind. You whirl around, ready to confront whoever is trying to steal your taxi, and you’re taken aback when you see the sexy salt-and-pepper guy who rescued you from Chest Wig earlier. Mr. Intense. The guy who smells like a blend of cedar and leather. The one who could give George Clooney a run for his money. Miles, was it?
“Oh, it’s you,” you say. Then redden with embarrassment. At this rate, you’re going to slay him with your wit.
“Is everything all right?” he asks, looking from you to the taxi driver.
“Everything’s fine. I was just waiting for a taxi, but this isn’t it.”
“Well, there’s no reason it couldn’t be,” he says. “Why don’t we share it?”
“No, I wouldn’t want to impose—it’s fine, really. He offered me a ride, too,” you say, indicating the bodyguard on the corner, who’s having some kind of altercation with whoever’s on the phone. “And anyway, you already helped me out once tonight.”
“Are you sure? Your friend looks like he’s got his hands full.”
He’s so attractive that you struggle not to stare. Dropping your head, you notice you’re still clutching the “Immaculata” invitation. Your thoughts buzz as you try to decide what to do next.
If you go to the art exhibition, click here.
If you share a taxi with the George Clooney look-alike, click here.
If you take a ride home in the sports car with the bodyguard, click here.
You’ve decided to check out the exhibition at the gallery
AT THE ENTRANCE TO the gallery, the image from the flyer stares down at you from an enormous poster, the word “Immaculata” splashed across it. You’re definitely in the right place.
You walk into the viewing space, and are struck by the low, intimate lighting, the only bright spotlights reserved for the vivid images hung around the room. The area isn’t packed, but it’s busy enough, with small clusters of people dotted around the space, chatting, drinking sparkling wine, and taking in the art.
You wander over to the first piece of work. It’s a modern-day photographic version of those lush flower paintings by Georgia O’Keeffe, the ones that look like vaginas. This fleshy rose-colored bloom really does resemble the real deal. You peer more closely and almost squeak out loud: you’re not looking at a flower but at an actual vagina—or rather, into one. You glance around to see if anyone else has noticed and is as taken aback as you are, then crane forward again, fascinated in spite of yourself. Yup, that’s a pussy right there up on the wall.
Maybe you’ve got it wrong. Maybe you have a dirty mind. You move hastily to the next picture. Oh my god. This time it’s a shot of a woman’s naked pelvis, from the waist to the thighs. The subject is sitting back, relaxed, legs half open, a thick and lustrous black bush between them, one hand trailing casually across her inner thigh. You gulp, but can’t help noticing that the pose looks natural and powerful.
The next few photos, all color-saturated so that the skin glows, are variations on this theme: in some, the focus is so close that you can see the grain in the skin, the fine hairs on the belly; in others, the focus is blurred so that the pussy shots really do look like Impressionist roses and lilies, in every shade of scarlet, pink, mocha, and maroon.
Finally you come to a larger picture. This shot shows most of the woman’s lower body as she lies back on a rumpled bed, her legs apart and her pussy rosy in a nest of thick, dark hair. The faintly curving tummy and one breast, nipple on the alert, stretch away into the background. It’s not at all pornographic, though. There’s something intimate, almost reverent in the way her body is presented.
You put your hand on your throat and are surprised to find you’re sweating lightly.
You’re still staring when a hand slides lightly down your arm. “Enjoying the show?” a voice says huskily in your ear. It’s the woman from the bathroom in the bar, whose face is on the posters.
“Oh, hello! Um, yes, very original,” you manage. “Are you the artist? I mean, the photographer? Did you have trouble getting the models . . . to pose?” You know you sound like a babbling idiot, but this woman unnerves you.
She laughs, a smoky, furred sound. “Not really. In fact, rumor has it this model was a pleasure to work with.”
You’re confused. She puts her hand on the small of your back and turns you toward a photo in the corner. You stare in amazement: it’s her. And in the photo, she’s stark naked, and everything, and it really is everything, is on display. The woman in the photograph gazes proudly out at the viewer, her neck held erect, her gravity-defying breasts decorated only by an ornate silver cross that dangles between them. She’s sittin
g on a sofa, one leg relaxed, the other dangling over the arm of the couch.
You’re completely tongue-tied. You flounder a bit and eventually come out with “Are you Immaculata?”
“That’s what my mother named me. My friends call me Mac, though.”
You turn to look at her—anything to drag your eyes away from the photo on the wall—and you notice that her chandelier earrings have little silver-and-jet skulls dangling from them.
“So, what do you think?” she asks, drawing your attention back to the incredibly intimate photographs, some of them more than six feet high.
“They’re—they’re—quite something,” you stammer. “I’ve never seen anything quite like them.”
“Thank you,” she says simply. “I like them, too.”
“I think it’s really brave of you to expose yourself like that. I don’t know if I’d have the guts.”
“Why not?” she asks, turning toward you. When she focuses on you, it’s as if there’s no one else in the room.
“I don’t know. It’s so . . . so . . . intimate, I suppose.”
“Intimate, yes,” she says, “but also liberating. It was a real rush, to tell the truth.”
“You didn’t feel shy or embarrassed?”
“Not at all. And Cat made it easy.”
“Cat?”
“The photographer. She works with Jan Kollwitz. He’s the famous one, but he says that in a few years’ time she’ll be serious competition.” She’s talking as if you should know exactly who she means, and the Jan guy’s name does ring a vague bell.
“They’re around here somewhere. Oh look, speak of the devils!” Mac raises a graceful arm and signals at a couple across the room. The woman is surrounded by congratulatory folk and is accepting compliments and an endless series of cheek kisses, while the guy is hanging back, smiling proudly. He’s not conventionally handsome, with that craggy profile and those deep-set eyes. But he’s definitely attractive in that antihero sort of way. He’s casually dressed in blue jeans and a gray sweater with a crew neck. She’s younger, her shining hair cut into slanted wings, and she’s simply dressed in a pearl-gray silk shift over narrow black jeans, with flat paisley pumps. She keeps turning to her partner, laughing up at him and nudging his arm.
“They make a good couple,” you say, and Mac gives her throaty laugh again.
“Oh, that’s funny! But it’s a mistake a lot of people make.”
You’re even more confused. “Why is it funny?”
“Cat is gay and Jan is very, very hetero. In any case, he’s her supervisor. He’s been mentoring her for a while now; she works on a lot of his shoots. This is her degree exhibition for her masters in fine arts.”
You barely have time to rearrange your mental furniture before Cat comes over, Jan following her.
“Oh, thank god for you,” Cat says, hugging Mac. “I thought I was never going to get out of that conversation!”
“Congratulations on the show,” you say.
She grins. “My examiners are either going to have collective heart attacks or give me top marks. We’re not sure which way it’s going to go yet.”
Mac smiles again, that suggestive beauty spot on her cheek tugging upward. “My friend here was asking how it felt to expose myself. Me, I recommend it.”
“Well, it helps that you’re a natural exhibitionist, being a dancer,” Cat teases. She turns to you. “Mac’s an old friend. I wanted to do something experimental, and this is an idea we’ve been batting around for a while. And she was willing to let it all, er, hang out. But Jan is really the expert here at photographing women’s bodies.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Jan says, looking slightly abashed. You like him for it.
Cat turns to you. “If you’re interested, you should give it a try.”
Mac smiles, teasing and challenging: “You never know, you might get a thrill out of it.”
You shake your head instinctively.
“Don’t tell me you’re not a little tempted?” Mac says.
“Seriously,” Cat interjects thoughtfully, “I think you’d really work well as a subject.” The three of them focus on you, and your stomach flips.
“Jan, wouldn’t she be perfect for that black-and-white series you’re doing? Look at the texture of her skin!” says Cat.
“Hello, people, I’m right here,” you say, flustered but also flattered.
Cat laughs. “Listen, I have to go and circulate, people to see, funders to schmooze. Mac, please come and prop me up. I need the moral support. Jan, why don’t you tell this lovely girl more about your project?” She heads off, summoned by a small gang of enthusiastic admirers.
Mac reaches for your wrist, her fingers cool on your skin: “You really should think about it, chica. It would be good to see . . . more of you.” Then she glides after Cat.
There’s a pause, and Jan seems in no hurry to break the silence. Instead, his eyes travel slowly over your face and body, as if he’s committing you to memory. You start to feel self-conscious, but at the same time, there’s something oddly exciting about being the object of such intense scrutiny. The seconds drag by, and you search for something to say.
But before you can speak, he says, as if reaching a decision, “Cat’s right. You would make a good subject. The way your neck curves, flows into your shoulder . . .” He takes another long look at you. “So do you think you’d be interested?”
“Oh, no, I don’t really . . . I mean I couldn’t . . .”
“Because if you were, I’d really like to shoot you.”
“You would?”
“Of course. Not exactly like this, of course,” he says, gesturing at the collection of lush nudes hanging on the walls. “This is very much Cat’s style. I’m busy with a series that has some similarities, I suppose, but the feel, the textures are different. It’s a study of different parts of the body.”
“Oh?”
“Like the neck, for example.”
“The neck?” you parrot, stroking yours and then feeling a little foolish.
“For me, there’s something more deeply suggestive when you go beyond the obviously erotic parts of the body. The line of the neck, the inside of an elbow or the dips between barefoot toes—those can be way more sensual than the sexual organs themselves. You know what I mean?”
You half nod.
“Maybe it’s something about the curve of the collarbone, or the tension of the calf. And all those parts of the body where the skin hardly ever gets touched. The parts that are the last places to see the sun. That’s where the skin is softest. Like here,” he says, reaching for your hand and turning your arm over. He runs his thumb across the soft inner skin in the crook of your elbow, making you shiver. “That’s what fascinates me.” His slightly gravelly voice tapers off.
He shakes his head, snapping out of it, as if hearing himself for the first time. “Sorry,” he says, with a self-deprecating smile that takes you off guard. It instantly transforms him from an intense artist into someone much more approachable. “I get carried away sometimes. That must have come across as a lot of pretentious crap. The truth is, I’m better behind the camera.”
“No, it’s actually quite interesting. I’d never thought of it that way.” He’s right, there is something erotic about those neglected parts of the body.
“So what do you say? Would you allow me to take some shots?”
You shake your head instinctively. “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I’m not sure . . .”
“They wouldn’t be nude shots; you’d be wearing a robe. And I’d only be shooting you from here.” He indicates from his chest upward. “And maybe an arm, or the back of your leg, if you’re willing.”
You clear your throat, intrigued and flattered by the idea of being photographed by this man. It might be fun, as long as nobody ever knew it was you. And if you didn’t have to get entirely naked, it wouldn’t be too embarrassing, would it? It’s not every day a famous professional offers to take your photograph. You coul
d always ask Melissa to come along with you. She’d think it was hilarious. Or you could always politely bow out if you changed your mind.
“Sure, why not?”
“Excellent!” he says. “This is going to be great. Let’s get out of here.”
“What, now?” Your voice comes out as a squeak.
“Why not? I’d love to escape. There’s an art critic hovering over there who’s been dying to bore me to death all night.”
“Hold on a second. How do I know you aren’t a serial killer who’s going to post pictures of my dismembered body all over Facebook? Where are you taking me?”
He laughs. “We can ask Cat to come along once she’s finished circulating, if that would make you feel more comfortable. Besides, I need her help cutting up the bodies.”
He relents at the expression on your face, pulls out his wallet, and hands you a business card. Beneath the name “Kollwitz” and a cell-phone number, there’s a studio address. If you’re not mistaken, it’s just around the corner.
You flip the card over and on the back there’s an image of Angel Dean’s face. You recognize it—a black-and-white version of the one on the cover of Cosmo a couple of months ago.
“You took this?”
A nod.
“You’re kidding. But if this is your average model, why on earth would you want to photograph me?”
“Why on earth wouldn’t I?” he says.
You stare at him, your mind racing. Should you take him up on his offer? You scan the gallery for Mac and Cat. Maybe you should just stay here for a little longer, take a look at the rest of the photographs. Then again, this is all rather unfamiliar territory for you. Perhaps you should go back to the bar for one last drink (and another look at that very cute bartender).
If you decide to go off with the photographer, click here.
If you decide to turn down his offer and stay at the gallery, click here.
If you decide to head back to the bar, click here.
You’ve decided to go with the photographer
YOU WAIT JUST INSIDE the entrance to the studio, in the dark, while Jan turns off the alarm system and flicks on a couple of lights. Your heart’s thumping the beat of a frenetic house track. He’s not a complete stranger, you tell yourself. There is no way he’s a real, live serial killer. He’s a famous professional photographer, and he’s shot Angel Dean, for heaven’s sake. And you know for a fact that she’s still alive. Thin, but alive.
A Girl Walks into a Bar Page 4