It was all that I had left of her. One photograph. The rest of her suddenly left one day, and I was alone. She took everything with her when she disappeared. Like a whirlwind, she swept up all the memories and her things and carried them with her out my apartment, out of the city, and seemingly, out of this world.
I guess she forgot about the photograph. If she had remembered it, she would have taken that too. I kept it in a desk drawer in my home office. When bad days happened and my creativity evaporated into the smoggy city air, I took it out and grabbed a towel. I was always careful and never let it worsen from pristine condition. It was my favorite photo of her. She was stunning. She was a goddess in that shot. My friend took the Polaroid. He specialized in erotic photography. He set the stage for my girl to be the star in that perfect black and white.
She got all dolled up that day. She wore heavy, charcoal liner that accentuated her deep, blue eyes. Unfortunately, the photo wasn’t in color to capture those sapphire irises. Nor did it show the sinfully scarlet lipstick that stained her perfect lips. But I could tell how light her hair was. Her naturally blonde hair fell over her shoulder in huge, glamorous waves. Her jet black “naughty attire” — as she called it — contrasted against her pale, unflawed flesh. A tight and very expensive corset encased her voluptuous breasts and tiny waist. Garters divided her lovely, petite ass; the black stripes connected daring lingerie to racy stockings.
It was a huge change, yet she looked comfortable in the smutty garments. She ditched the long, cotton dresses and the simple braid she wore everyday for all nineteen years of her life. She loved feeling the air against her skin and the wind whipping her hair around. It was the taste of freedom she was looking for.
I had to whisper that word to her often. “Freedom,” I said when she hesitated. “Freedom,” I said when she was too scared to try. “Freedom,” I said when I saw Satan reeling her in. The fun started when the devil finally claimed her soul. It was the same word I whispered to her when she ready to pose for that photo. She breathed deeply, nodded, smiled as the devil seduced her, and then laid her body over my lap.
The angle of the picture was slightly high. All anyone could see of me was my downward tilted head and my right open palm set about twelve inches above her ass, ready to strike for the second time. Her head was cocked back; her eyes were trying to look behind her at my threatening hand. There wasn’t fear or pain in those eyes. They were innocent, pensive, and curious. She was dealing with the overwhelming feeling of sexual pleasure settling in instead of wincing from pain. And what the photo also didn’t show was the fresh, pink handprint I marked her with seconds before.
The rest of the story of that photo remained branded in my mind like how the photo was branded on that Polaroid paper; both would stay forever. But as time slipped by, it seemed to be a vivid fantasy. The photo was the only proof that she existed. It was the only thing that made that summer real.
One month after that night, she was gone. It was a miserable two months after. I mourned her loss by downing every bottle in my liquor cabinet and getting so drunk that I was crying her name over and over. It took a while for the sharp pain in my chest to subside. Ever since I came home that night to find her missing, I felt my body flare up in physical agony. She packed up the plain clothes she came in and took the trashy apparel with her. All the makeup, pearls, and mementos were gone. It was as if she wanted me to forget her.
The photo was my savior. Without it, we were nothing. I thought she would stay and stay with me forever. That’s what I assumed the night I took her. She seemed so happy. We seemed to be connected. I never knew a woman so willing to be spanked as I was willing to spank her.
The temperature was gradually dropping to the lonely, frosty winters I’ve endured before. I spent most of my time looking out my window, trying to find motivation as I watched New York turn from summer to fall. My typewriter had seen more action that summer than any other, even with her around. She wasn’t that much of a distraction. She was my muse, my creative energy. After she left, my writing suffered to the point where typing a coherent sentence was a struggle.
I thumped my head against my desk. There was no hope for my career, not with her still in my head. I chucked my pencil across the room and swiped my notebooks off the desk in a small tantrum. I was losing money. I was close to not being able to pay my rent. I needed her beside me. I pulled open my drawer and grasped the photo in both my hands. My frustration made me tremble and almost made me crumple the picture. I let it fall from my hands before I could damage it. One last desperate option flashed in my mind. I knew what I had to do.
With a nod, I tidied up the mess I made. I was going to find her and bring her kızılay escort back to where she belonged.
In less than an hour, I had my bags packed. I gathered my maps and notebooks. I searched my memory for any clues that would lead me to her. Her sexy lips muted the words that came from them. I could barely hear her when she spoke. I could only concentrate on her lips, breasts, and ass. Finding her was going to be a hell of an adventure. I had very few leads.
On the way to the garage to my crappy, barely used car, I made a mental list of tips that would help me. Once inside my vehicle, I opened one notebook.
Instinct told me to start heading west. I grimaced at my shitty car. I didn’t know how many miles it had left in it. I had no money to buy a new one and no way to trade it in. The radio buttons were sticky, the heater barely worked, the a/c was just as useless as the heater, and the grimy driver side window was almost stuck in place. My hand hurt like hell trying to roll it down. It didn’t have any of the bells and whistles they have now. My piece of shit from the early eighties was severely made fun of. I told all of my wealthier friends to fuck themselves. It was only 1995. Give me some time to catch up with technology.
And how I wished technology was at a place where I could easily search for her. I wish there was some console where I could type in her name and the car would whisk me away to her, only by punching in a few words.
I pulled the cap off my pen and started to write.
“Brittany…” I wrote at the top and underlined it. Then I crossed it out. That was her nickname, the one we chose together, the name of her alter ego.
“Angela…” I wrote just below it.
Angela what? I strained to remember her last name. She only told me it once when we met. I thought it was something Irish…
I skipped the last name and wrote down her physical details.
“Light blonde hair. Blue eyes. C cup boobs.” I tapped my pen on the paper. “Gorgeous smile.”
Next, I wrote a heading titled: Family. She spoke little of them, but those details I remembered somewhat clearly. She grew up in a strict, religious family. Amish? Mennonite? I couldn’t recall. I knew her father sent her to the real world for a summer to experience the sin around her. She told me he was confident she would fly back to their pious nest after the summer had ended. How could he have been so right? She was never happier — she told me that.
Pennsylvania was my first try. Maybe I would find her somewhere in the Amish country. I threw the notebook aside and started the car. I peeked at a map and headed west. I hoped luck would be with me and that she was really that close all along.
After a few hours, I turned south as recollections started to come back to me. At Philadelphia, a memory sprang to my mind of a conversation we had that made me turn away from Pennsylvania.
We watched the sunset on the roof of my building until the sun had gone completely. She shivered as the cool breeze picked up piercing through the summer heat. I put my arm around her and held her close.
“The lights are quite pretty here, but-“
Partially drunk, I unintentionally interrupted her. “Are you even allowed to use lights at your home? Do you shun all technology?”
She turned to me, lips pursed. “I never said I was Amish or anything like that! My father is just deeply devoted to his faith.” She added a strange afterthought. “No one dresses like us from where we’re from.”
The hint was an enormous clue to me. She wasn’t in a religious community; that erased a few small possibilities. The bad news was that she could be anywhere.
I got a hotel room in Philly for the night. But as I lay in the dark, my mind wouldn’t relax. I needed my rest before I could continue my search, yet my mind kept pushing me to get going. Jerking off released some of my pent up frustration. With her photo in my hand, I gave it everything I got. The release subdued my physical energy enough for me to sleep.
Most of my dreams were jumbled and random, but a few clear ones provided some more hints. One memory of her stuck out through the mess of dreams that night.
Brittany stood at my window, palms pressed on the sill, taking in the sights of the city. “It’s a beautiful day today,” she said in a sing-song voice, talking to herself.
I peeked up from my typewriter. “It’s fucking hot as hell.”
She shook her head, rolling her eyes. “You don’t know what hot is.”
I laughed in a wicked, mocking way. “You don’t know what hot is, my dear. If you keep interrupting my work, your little ass will be quite heated.”
She strolled over and leaned over my desk. Her big, wavy hair fell over her shoulders. Her cleavage met me at eye-level. “I don’t believe you.”
That little taunt earned her time over my lap.
I brought myself back from the past. That day was one of the best with her. She kolej escort was feisty. I loved it when she playfully prodded me into pinning her down and letting her have it. I could have played that game all day long with her.
I sighed and looked at the map. Ohio was my next destination. I just had to keep moving until the clues became clearer.
While driving, her words played in my mind. She specified living someplace hot, hotter than a summer in New York. Was it humid or was it dry heat? Like a desert? Or like Florida?
Before I got too far on the road, I steered south to Miami.
I spent the next couple days hopping from one state to the next, aiming for Atlanta. My car started to rattle in Tennessee. I held my breath, hoping to make it to a big city before the damn thing broke down. I skirted around South Carolina. I knew for sure she wasn’t there. I told her I grew up just outside of Charleston and she became animated with questions about the coast…
…the EAST coast.
I wanted to bang my head on the steering wheel for forgetting such a significant detail. I headed for Atlanta just to stop and rest. I was almost there anyway. I felt some kind of relief that I eliminated a huge chunk of the USA. But that meant going west. My lovely automobile rumbled violently just as I pulled into a hotel. I ignored its protest.
While eating a convenience store dinner, I studied a map. My mind punished me with jeers: why didn’t I listen better? Was her ass that tantalizing that I couldn’t focus? Was I that confident and stupid believing she would stay with me forever?
I went to bed, pissed and more upset that I couldn’t focus.
My car thought it was hilarious to scare me the next morning by refusing to start. At the second turn of the key, it roared with laughter. The prank made me want to kick it to death. I decided not to worry about breaking down. If it happened, it happened. I would deal with it then.
New Mexico was my next destination. If I had no luck there, then I would move on to Arizona. And if not there, then California. My gut feeling told me California was a waste of time. I remembered how enamored she was with glamour. She went on and on about movie stars and their apartments in New York and beach homes in Los Angeles.
To make her happy, I bought her a fur coat and a string of pearls to give her a taste of sophistication. My fury burned thinking about her disposing of those elegant and costly items. All of that money down the drain. If I found her, the brat was going to get it good for destroying those things.
“Not California,” I said in confirmation. She had never been to Hollywood. She admitted that she never came close but said that she always wanted to go. I remembered the grin on her face when we talked about Hollywood.
“And I want to live in a big beach house!” she said and hooked her arm into mine as we strolled through Central Park. “I would give anything to see mansions right on the sand.” I smiled at her childlike dreams and held her closer. “I would just want to see beach sand,” she said with a frown. “And the beach.”
California was huge, but I took that as a sign that she didn’t live in the Golden State. Who lived in California and never saw a beach? Since the chance was small, I didn’t pursue it.
What was left? Nevada?
The stinking motel I stayed in was pricy for its low quality. Being in the middle of nowhere, they could rob desperate and weary people looking for a place to stay. My cash was running low. So was my patience. My annoyance with her made everything else gloomy. I hated Texas, but I couldn’t come up with a reason why. I just did. My car didn’t take to Texas either. It sputtered the whole way through yet purred in New Mexico. I took turns cussing at it then gently encouraging it.
My anger kept rising. I needed her more than anything. I hated the hide-and-go-seek game she was playing with me. My memories were the only tools I had to whittle down the US to where she would be. But they stopped coming to me. I gave into my darkening mood and spent a little cash on booze. My drunken state embarrassed me as I spent the night hugging the bottle and crying.
My attitude continued to worsen the next day. A lost family asked me for directions to the Grand Canyon. I gave them the finger. Later, I regretted retorting with a comeback, something about their blindness in seeing my New York license plate.
I needed a release. I needed to spank her for all the grief she had caused me. Suffering from mental anguish, I stayed on the road, hoping a clue would appear.
I made it to the California border.
All my hope to find her had been in vain. The country was too vast to find one person. Memories of her had faded into the abyss. I stared at the photo and shook my head in despair. I didn’t know where to go from there. The California desert didn’t entice me to explore the state further. The palm trees, beaches, and California maltepe escort sun only a few hours away couldn’t revive my spiraling mood. I decided to drown my sorrows in gambling, booze, and a kinky woman or two. I headed to the most depressing and exciting place on the planet — Las Vegas.
But the action along the strip couldn’t raise my spirits either. I cruised along, eyeing the grand hotels and the bustle of tourists in the afternoon. I started to search for a place to stay. After parking in a lot, I walked the streets. The only reason why I kept my head up was to stare at the massive hotels and peek into their doors. The lights of the slot machines caught my eyes. The sounds of the jingling of jackpots could be heard from the street. Cigarette smoke wafted from the doors. It was an overload of the senses, yet all couldn’t tempt me into joining in on the fun. The sin didn’t look that welcoming at the moment.
I asked natives and tourists for the cheapest hotels. I ended up far from the strip in a crappy motel. Once I threw my bags in, I decided to head back just as the sun was setting. I pocketed forty bucks, five nickels, and seven quarters all for gambling with an additional thirty for drinks. The two hundred in my other pocket was for a woman, if I happened to find one. I was hoping that woman would allow me to play rough so my fetish would be sated.
The volcano spectacle in front of The Mirage pulled me into its casino. I took my time at the slots and spent a few minutes at the blackjack tables. I went through three drinks. And in three hours, I lost every penny. I exited the loud, smoky room and inhaled the air outside. The neon lights surrounded me. It was damn beautiful. I walked along the strip, slowly sobering. When my legs had enough exercise, I headed back to my car. I tried the key ten times. My car responded with silence.
“No…” I broke down in sobs and gripped the steering wheel. I banged my head into it. All of my anger came out in uncontrollable tears. I never felt that helpless in my life. My brain was too tired to create a plan. Crying was the most favorable option at that moment.
I jerked in surprise at the knock on my window. A woman with long, black flowing hair peered through with a concerned look on her face. I blinked away some tears and rolled the window down.
“Hey there, hun. You ok?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.” My eyes couldn’t help looking her up and down. Hundreds of sequins sewn onto her skimpy dress sparkled even though the lights in the garage were dim. They had me mesmerized until I came to my senses, realizing her profession.
“I’m sorry. I’m not interested tonight.”
She cocked her head. “I’m an exotic dancer, not a hooker.”
I turned my attention to the dashboard in front of me. “I apologize. I’m not having a good night.”
“Apology accepted.” She leaned over and rested her arms on the door. “What’s the matter with your car?”
“It’s a piece of shit.”
She giggled as she looked it over from front to back. “I can see that.” I barely smiled and rubbed my forehead. “Would you like a ride somewhere?”
I usually turned down aid, politely, unless it was forced upon me. I started to shake my head.
“Ah c’mon. You sound like you need some company tonight — not THAT kind of company — just someone to talk to.” Her offer sounded good. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll help you get your car to this mechanic I know who can fix anything. But for tonight, you need a place to rest.”
“I’ve got a room already,” I said, gradually giving in.
“Then, we’ll go there.” She opened the door and extended her hand. I took it.
“So, what brought you here?” The exotic dancer sipped at a water bottle and sat on the bed next to me.
“A woman,” I said and got up. I pulled back the heavy drapes covering the room’s window.
“You came all this way from New York for a prostitute?” she asked with a mocking smile.
I shook my head. “Not just any woman. And I never said she was here in Vegas.”
“Where is she then?”
I sat back down and stared at the lights outside. “I don’t know. I somehow ended up here after giving up. She’s gotta be close. I just don’t know where exactly.”
Lydia folded her hands on her lap. “Tell me what she’s like.”
I did. I told her the story minus the spanking part. I didn’t need the kind soul next to me to judge me and call me a pervert. She listened, rarely interrupting. After my story, I returned my sight to the window. I studied what I could see. The strip, gloriously lit up, was a beacon in the empty desert around it. I saw the airport and wondered how much it would be to fly home. I thought about ditching the car. If someone could get it running, they could steal it without consequences.
The plane landed in front of a lit up pyramid set at the beginning of the strip. “What’s that?” I pointed. “The pyramid.”
“The Luxor. Just opened up a couple years ago, I think.” Her eyes didn’t hold the same amount of awe that mine did. It was massive, tall, and drawing me in.
“Is there a way to get to the top?”
“Um…” she squinted, trying to recall. “I don’t know if they let just anyone at the top. I could be wrong.”
“I gotta do that. What a view that would be.”