In the beginning there is always dark....
I wake up in the dark every morning, always before the light has hit the sky. I can hear the city outside far down below my darkened suite. It doesn't matter which one, they all wear the same face.
I lay in the dark, remembering, in some half awake fantasy. "He" is there. My body comes alive as my brain tortures me with images from somewhere deep in the darkness. It's been this way for years now, it doesn't matter where I go. I cannot escape those dark seductive images from the past, they go where I do. I wake and feel the ghost of memory haunt my skin. Knowing that the next lover will not soothe the craving I feel, knowing the next touches will disappoint me. Knowing they will never be "him."
I touch myself in a futile effort to satisfy my longings. I let the images out of their tightly locked box in my brain, only briefly while I bring myself to climax. I see his eyes, I feel his skilled fingers on my skin, I can almost smell his sent in the air.
In a moment it is gone and I lock the images away once more. I feel the all too familiar feeling of reminiscent disappointment as I taste the juices on my fingers. I lay like this for a quiet dark eternal moment, alone, I am always alone...
"Where are you?" I ask to the dark knowing it will not give me any answers...I fall back into sleep and dream. I dream of him, my dark lover the one who showed me what it was I would always need. Let me feel what it is I would only feel with him, briefly we had a passionate affair when I was younger. It ended just as brilliantly as it burned and we have not spoken since, no lover has ever compared to the intensity I felt in his bed, from his touch....
The daylight is brimming on the horizon as I pull myself from the warm sheets and head for a scalding shower. There is much work to be done. I freelance write and photograph for a few European publications, mainly articles to do with up coming artists. You know, who's the next big thing sort of stuff.
Most of them are the same, arrogant artistic moody types with little or no talent. Occasionally I stumble across one that has real ability but most of the time I am let down. I just do the job and move on to the next one. From time to time I sleep with one of the artists, I find they make decent lovers. Most have attention to detail that eludes the common man, I find myself wondering about the one I am supposed to meet today. Will I be let down again? Will there be real talent and drive? Will there be some lusty fire that is ready to explode into the world? Will we fuck until our bodies are dust? Will I find what I am searching for? I won't let myself hope for too much, knowing that disappointment is lurking like a stalker around the next corner.
The magazine has faxed over the information that I need, strangely it's not very much. Just a contact name of "Claire" and a phone number. I don't think too much on it though, this is a relatively new magazine that I am writing for. Probably some young pretty intern got distracted into giving a blow job in the fax room for her superior and forgot to send the rest of the information. I smile as I think of it, cute blond ringlets and big blue eyes thinking that she will be kept on past the summer for sure now.
I pick up the phone and ring the number, a pert English accent answers. "Yes, this is Claire." she says.
"Hello, this is Sabina..." I am about to tell her who I am and which magazine I am writing for when she interrupts me.
"Of course, the writer, we have been expecting you." she says " be here at three o'clock." she commands. She gives me the address to the warehouse. I am slightly taken aback, most of the time they don't know who the hell I am and have to reschedule. Someone must have faxed her over more information then they faxed me.
I start to ask her the name of the artist I am supposed to meet when I realize the line is dead. She had to be an agent, there is no denying the arrogance of an agent when they think their artist is what's hot. I set the phone down and think they are trying to manipulate me into some mysterious illusion of this artist...it's all about image in this world.
I set out to get ready, knowing that it will take me sometime. I am particular in the details, things have to be just right. Perfectly shaved legs, jasmine oil with a hint of scent without being overpowering, no nicks in my finger and toenail polish. Silky black colored thong back underwear with matching garter, stockings and bra under a sleek dark gray skirt and tailored matching jacket. Long legs ending in heeled shoes made in custom Moroccan leather. My long copper hair pulled back in a loose braid with tendrils falling down framing my face.
When the time ticks down I take a cab to the address Clarie has given me. Over the years I have been to countless warehouses in industrial sectors of every major city you could possibly think of. Some where out there is an artist's manual that has commandments in it the first being "Thou shalt procure a warehouse in which you will live, work and possibly die."
The cab pulls up out front and I am not surprised by what I see, a large steel gray warehouse with a small wooden door on the left side. I pay the cabbie and get out to be greeted by the beginning drops of January rain. I grab my bags and briskly I walk to the door and open it, I look for the lift and spot a sign reading "Elevator non-operational please take stairs." it has a big red arrow pointing to flights of dimly lit stairs.
Equipment bags and all I pound up the stairs, my skirt extended taunt across my thighs as I climb up the stairs. My heels echoing out across empty space. When I reach the top I see a big heavy metal door with a twisted iron handle. I knock loudly and listen for some reply, I hear a sliding of what I imagine to be a lock and the door swings open. A tall blond woman with sharp features steps out, the English accent tells me she is Claire. She smiles at me and looks me up and down like she is accessing me, like she is taking me in.
"Go in," she says "have a look around, he should be here shortly." she smiles at me again and starts to walk away from me. "I really must run, please make yourself at home." she dismisses me with a wave of her hand and starts to walk down the stairs I have just come up.
