Somewhere along the way, I decide that drinking is the best way to cope – best being the operative word. Sure, I go to sleep happily sedated in some whiskey-induced high that distorts the shit my life seems to be wallowing in. It brings out all the things I wish I could be. Makes them amusing and in a way, entertaining.Problem is, the shit is still there every morning, stagnating, bedside, with a middle finger in my face and a nasty fuck you grin.Hangovers are no deterrent. I’m a freelance photographer, so I am by no means tethered to a nine-to-five; if those even exist anymore. I live in my own world. And most of the celebrity talent I work with appreciate that. In a way, it’s empathetic. We each feel trapped for our own reasons and while the bottle is my escape, my lens seems to be theirs.It is Wednesday, I think. The days all start to blend together. I am staring blankly at my reflection in the vanity mirror. My palms press against the cool granite supporting most of my weight while my world is spinning. ‘Who am I?’ Below the exterior, below that dim glow of my pale skin, below the success. ‘Why can’t I fucking see you?’I squint at the mess of purple ombre hair on my head and then down to my bare chest, skipping my face altogether. Tits barely big enough to fill an A-cup. Pinkish red areolae dotting my blanched canvas. I change the angle, cocking my head to one side and wonder, ‘What time is it?’My phone buzzes and breaks the trance; a text. The banner notification on the lock screen reads, Robert M. Robert is a two-time Oscar-winner that I photographed years ago. My mind swirls with thoughts of what he could want. ‘Same as what they all want.’ I swipe the screen to open the message:Doing an indie. It’s being shot in Tuscany. Starts next week. Need a personal photographer. Interested?I leave the phone next to the sink, then pad my way to the living room to stand in front of a floor-to-ceiling wall of glass, naked. The drapes are pulled wide-open and I press my forehead to the window, legs spread, hands stretched out above me like I am preaching to a crowd. My tits, my cunt, my body, me… bare for all of Manhattan to witness. Twenty-two stories below, a cab lurches to a stop nearly hitting some guy in a designer business suit. From this height, I’m not able to physically hear the blare of the ensuing horn, but I know it does. istanbul travesti Business-guy slams an open palm to the hood of the cab, yells something, then moves on. I follow him along the pavement until he reaches the park.Nature. Even that seems forced, obligatory, so people won’t go stark raving mad over miles of industrialism.I think back to the start when I was a nobody, before my posh two-bed condo overlooking Central Park. Back to Robert, the actor, well established in the industry. I landed him by sleeping with his publicist.You see, publicists are the gatekeepers – most often they are the ones deciding who shoots their clients. So, after dinner and some drinks, I let him fuck me. Shallow, I know, but I got to shoot his client, Robert M; two-time oscar winner nearing his sunset and looking for a boost.That gig put me on the map and I never had to whore-out again, never for work, anyway. But, it’s something that Robert M had said, an exchange we had as we were wrapping up the photo shoot. It worms its way to the surface of my mind as I stand there in my picture window overlooking the city, pondering life.“Photoshoots are like going to the fucking dentist,” he had said. “I know it needs to be done, but I get anxiety-sweats for days leading up to the appointment.”I pointed him to an assortment of liquor on my bar. “My version of novocaine and you are welcome to self medicate, but…” I stared down at the rear display on my Canon Mark IV, “I’m certain I’ve got what I need.” I spun the camera and flashed him the image. The depth and character were fucking amazing and I hadn’t even edited it yet. He smiled.“That’s just it, kid. You have a way about you.” He was putting on his Canali herringbone overcoat, which brought out the flecks of grey on his chin. “I looked over some of your work before I agreed to come,” he continued as he straightened his collar. “All good photographers have an eye. It’s what separates them from the masses, right?”His hands were in his pockets, the question was rhetorical. I remember being struck by how gorgeous he was, raw and debonaire. A lifetime of Hollywood stories embedded into the crevice of each wrinkle. I flipped the camera back up to my eye, squinted and snapped.“Your ability goes beyond just being able to see,” he went on. “You take hold of your subject in a way they never feel, travesti istanbul seducing out their ineffable essence. You grab it, full-force, draw it from the ether and present it to the world.” His visage never changed. “You’re like a goddamn marinate with that lens, young lady.” He spun away.“Do you want to see the proofs before I send them to Randy’s office?”“Not necessary. Just promise me one thing.” He paused at the door and looked back at me. The look in his eye cut to my core; chin raised in steeled confidence. “Give me that edge. It’s what I came here for.” That edge. I have a way of finding it. Celebrities, athletes, dignitaries, they all come to me searching for their inner beauty. And I am able to show it to them.“Hey, Siri!” I bark into the glass. Two dings chime from the bathroom. “Send a text to Robert M.”The ubiquitous voice rings back, “OK. What do you want to say?”“I’m in.”“Your message to Robert M says, ‘I’m in’. Ready to send it?”“Yes.”~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~My eyes are still closed as I wake. I listen to the gentle hum of an air conditioner that is tirelessly working to keep my bedroom cool. It’s pacifying and cradles me as I drift in and out of consciousness. The top sheet covers the lower half of one leg, then twists up laying by my side exposing the rest of my body. A ray of sun pierces a thin space between the window shade and where it fails to butt into its surrounding sill. The beam emits a warmth that cascades over my exposed chest. I stare up to the cracked stucco ceiling and contemplate getting up as my slumber slowly slips away.I arrived at the Tuscan villa the night before, well past midnight. When we approached, it was lit and striking. It reminded me of a large Italian-style mansion you might see nestled in the hills of Bel-Air.Robert’s agency made all the accommodations. A private jet took me from Teterboro to Florence where a charter-van hauled me and my camera to the small town of Ponzano. As I had landed, and service restored to my phone, a message had come through from Robert:Welcome to Italy, kid. Van should take you to a quaint little place we rented in Chianti. Get settled, taste their wine, I’ll see you sometime tomorrow. Ciao!The place is the Vineyard at Villa Palacio, a refurbished, seventh-century monastery. The exterior of the building is all stone, as is most of the istanbul travestileri interior, aside from where they’ve modernized it with sheetrock. My curiosity of the surroundings beyond the villa mixes with the fact that I’ve already slept away most of the day – jetlag on top of my already fucked-up sleep schedule. I get up, slip on a top, and drearily make my way to a paned-glass door which leads to a balcony off my bedroom.I step out into the Tuscan air, black lycra panties and cotton tank-top to match. Bare feet absorb the sun-soaked warmth of the masonry. The transition from the cool airconditioning to the humid, late-afternoon heat of Tuscany in August gives me a soothing chill.Twenty-five acres of working vineyard floods my view. Row after row of gnarly grapevines stripes the rolling hills, softly bending with the contour of the earth. The broad leaves of the vines, a deep rich green, reflect the golden hue of a fat setting sun. In the distance, elysian fields of sunflowers crane their heads to catch the dwindling light. I palm the railing, rise to my tiptoes and fill my lungs with her petrichor, sweet and dewy and heavy.Some workers here and there file in with the day’s harvest. Two thick elderly women pass below; scowls etched deep into their weathered leathery faces. Each is clothed head to toe in traditional garb as if the heat itself is too intimidated to affect them. Their gloved hands share the burden of an overflowing basket of bulbous purple bounty.Not far behind them, movement catches my eye. A girl wearing a cream-colored, crochet sun-hat; perhaps a throwback to the seventies. It strikes me, seems out of place, as if she’d spotted it in a thrift store bin and whimsically decided it made for the best headcover. She tilts her head up to face me.The sun catches the brim of her hat and cascades a tangerine shadow softening her face. A vivid and telling look that captivates me, but only for a moment before she turns to venture deeper into the vines. Warm waves of her brown tresses foam luxuriously down her back, swaying with each bounce as she steps.She trails her fingers over the leaves and dances barefoot through the sodden clay. Her tan legs are tall and thin, like the wooded-over stalks that twist up into the canopy of green and purple. She spins again to walk backward as if she feels me staring at her.Her face is lit with a devious innocence, I can see it clearly. An air of avidity behind eyes that speak to me a thousand silent ways. She is carefree and mischievously playful. Like a bird, flitting from branch to branch in search of life, the life she needs to feed her.