“Ready-made for Russ Meyer—
assuming, that is, if Meyer was around and still at his peak.”

—Josh Alan Friedman,
Tales of Times Square, When Sex Was Dirty, I Goldstein: My Screwed Life

 WHAT LEADS US to do the wicked things we do? I mean, the truly perverse, heinous stuff? Is it the Devil? Or some self-destructive impulse? Some kind of illness buried deep in our bones? Or is it about hopelessness, in the end? 

   About desperation?

Hey, listen up.

Ain’t easy being a mama in this world. This much is true.

Being an artist who’s female is even worse.

Yeah, go ahead. Roll your eyes. Laugh.

But here’s the sick truth:

All I ever wanted to do was to make art. To earn the respect of my peers. To contribute something of cultural value.

I never thought the path I would take would earn me the contempt and ridicule of my family and friends, or, worse, land me in big trouble with the law.

Never thought the path I would take would go so far as to make me and my ex-best friend, Serena, the butt of some national joke, featured in opening monologues of the Tonight Show and Late Night—featured on the cover of The National Enquirer and The NY Post—my name and face dragged through the mud.

I was an embarrassment to all. Called a whore, a man-hater, a castrating dyke and a pornographer.

What could I say to all this?

During the trial—televised on Court TV—when I stood up in my own defense and cried, “But I’m a victim of circumstance!” the jury all laughed. So did the judge—also, a woman. Even my court-appointed lawyer chuckled a little. He tried to hide that fact. But I still caught it.

All right, so maybe I am an idiot.

But who would have known that things could go so wrong?

Should I call on God—or the Devil—to help me out, here?

Oh shit.

Where to begin?

>< >< ><

Serena.

I first met her as a photographer.

Photography is what I do. My love, my art, if you want to call it that.

Serena was fronting a band called The Sirens, probably the 3rd or 4th Lower East Side band she’d started since the age of 15.

Serena’s calling—or art—was performance. The Sirens was a post-punk performance band. By “performance” I mean they incorporated a stage show that was one part F.Y. performance art. She flipped the audience and used stage props like giant “labial” wings and fruit-colored jelly dildoes. Part of her job as performance artist/band leader was to provoke an audience, as well as entertain them.

Often, it was said, she did neither.

But, it wasn’t like she couldn’t sing. Don’t believe the haters.

Anyway, I was granted full access to photograph her band on tour. Her first national tour, which included six states, places like Austin Texas, Portland Oregon, Chicago Illinois … right back to New York Fucking City, where she and I are from.

We were both 19.

>< >< ><

Of course, rents being what they are in NYC, Serena couldn’t earn a living from her art. Her website, DIY-printed paraphernalia, and T-shirts helped, but they weren’t enough. My own photography earned me close to nothing. Serena was a little better off, but she still had to scam money, as I did, through temp jobs and the like. She even tried starting a cleaning service, which I was a part of.

That lasted three weeks.

People are pigs and when I found myself on my hands and knees scrubbing crystallized cat pee from a bathroom tile floor, I thought, “This is it: as low as it gets.”

(Little did I know.)

Serena? Forget it. She would get high half the time and not even bother showing up.

Oh yeah. She liked to get high, Serena. I forgot to mention that. I mean, okay, I did too, on occasion. But Serena took it to a whole other level.

And if there was yeyo around, forget it.

That fine white powder was her weakness. No shit.

I maybe smoked when someone lit a bowl—not to seem unfriendly. Even scored a little weed on my own, now and then.

Harmless shit.

I liked to drink, too, in local E.V. bars. I never turned down a Raspberry Stoli and soda. Especially if it was free.

But Serena? The word to use was “ravenous.” There wasn’t a drug on this earth she hadn’t tried. And I’ve seen her put away a dozen shots of Maker’s Mark in one sitting and still ask for more.

In the beginning of our relationship, she kept asking me for drugs.

“I don’t have any,” I would tell her. “No money either.”

“Yeah, babe,” she would laugh. “You and me both.”

>< >< ><

Call it a lifestyle issue, then, or plain bad luck, money was a sore spot, always.

Earning it honestly, of course, was out of the question. To do that meant killing endless hours as a wage slave, which she could no longer afford to do, or additional schooling to pursue better opportunity, the cost of which she could afford even less.

“Money makes whores of all of us,” my boyfriend Raymond once said. And I agree.

One way or another, we all have to find ways to make it.

Serena, being a resourceful gal, cooked up all kinds of schemes that didn’t finally involve having to take all her clothes off. One of her schemes, early on, involved taking out free ads on Craigslist.

Looking back on it now, I can be judgmental and say it was fucking weird, say it was wrong. So can she. Now.

But we live in a free market economy, which promotes exploitation, and capitalism is the breeding ground for corruption. What can I say?

Besides, there were other factors, other needs … ones you’ll hear about, as this true-life tragicomedy unfolds.

>< >< ><

So, yeah, it’s true. I mean, what you’ve probably heard by now.

But for the record I’ll repeat myself. Maybe this way I won’t have to say it again.

Serena took out ads on Craigslist.

Ads.

As a domina.

That’s a fact.

It started as a goof, I think, before she started taking it seriously, before she realized it came from a deeper need.

What makes us do the things that we do? You tell me.

What I mean is that there are needs, then there are needs below that. People often do things for a reason, but not one they can put their finger on.

At least not one they can put their finger on immediately.

But I’m no fucked-up psychologist, so don’t quote me.

Okay, so Serena took out ads on Craigslist as a domina.

What’s a domina, you ask? Another word, a cornier one, would be “dominatrix.”

Now before you freak out with images of whips and leather hoods with zippers and blood-drinking cults, chill out. ’Cause it wasn’t like that.

At least that’s how Serena explained it to me.

The ads were placed under the “strictly platonic” section, with headlines like “Selfless Devotees Wanted” or “Seeking Male Submissives.” In the ads, she would detail—straight out—what she was looking for: male, service-oriented subs who would run errands for her (like interns, come to think of it), and pay what she called “adoration tributes.” These involved small gifts (with the receipt), but never straight money.

Her lucky, selfless servant would then be rewarded, if that’s the right word, with small intimate tasks, like maybe rearranging her empress’s panty and lingerie collection, hand-washing her “special” underwear (thongs, usually) or running her bath or preparing a personal meal. Or her sub would be allowed some minor physical contact, such as washing her hair, maybe, or deep massaging her naked back, or feet. Only rarely would she grant them the opportunity to go further: like allowing them to kiss her in tender spots and other things she was a little vague about. There really wasn’t any sexual interaction, at least not in any conventional sense, at least as I understood it, and the subs never seemed to mind.

She told me, they got off on the idea of distance, of “serving a goddess”—even if that goddess didn’t exist, except in their own heads.

Not that Serena was a slouch in the looks department, let me tell you. With an angel face, thick wavy auburn hair, and a slender, long-limbed frame, she was eye-catching enough at age 13 to stand out from the crowd and do some modeling and minor runway work. By 15, when her figure filled out slightly, they no longer wanted her. And it wasn’t that she got fat at all—only that her hips and rear end acquired a less adolescent shape, and she looked like a real woman. No amount of dieting could change that.

But she was a natural beauty—straight out. A head-turner, with unnerving poise. And that attitude! As someone else once said, “Her presence through a room sent shockwaves.”

Me? I always said openly: “What I wouldn’t give for a punishing ass like Serena’s!”

But back to the domination shit.

These kind of ads helped Serena out, a little. And, in the beginning, she had a purely mercenary objective.

“It’s not like I’m a narcissist, or have a sense of entitlement,” she once told me.

Whatever that meant.

But as time went by she admitted that she enjoyed the idea of being “in control.” Somehow it suited her personality, she said. Or maybe it was a self-esteem issue. Or just the thought of having someone at her beck and call, 24/7.

Serena never had a daddy, maybe that was it.

But don’t quote me.

She was less into corporal punishment and that whole cheesy vamp with-a-whip thing, more into the psychological aspect of power-exchange and boundary play. When it came down to it, she said, from the sub P.O.V., it was mostly about “pleasing Mommy.” And she would sometimes express herself that way to subs: “Now Mommy wants you to arrange her things, all nice and neat.” And, afterwards she might say, by way of encouragement, “Good job! Such a good boy!” And she would pet their sorry heads while maybe they shuddered and sometimes cried to be touched that way.

Afterwards, she would remove the dog collar or whatever and send precious boyo on his way, while she slumped back on her busted couch in the solitude of her crib and poured herself a half a bottle of Makers. Or maybe blew a line, if she had it.

You better recognize this fact: People are complicated.

>< >< ><

Now and then, Serena tried straight or vanilla relationships, too. Especially early on, when she wasn’t on tour or off on one of her crazy, self-destructive binges. But somehow things never seemed to work out.

Raymond, my boyfriend, would call that “ironic,” I guess. Because Serena was so sexy and smart, you’d think she’d never have a problem.

But she had problems.

Boy, did she.

Alcohol and drugs could really change that girl, let me tell you.

But when she was straight she could be a sweetheart and a lot of fun. She had what you might call “a strong personality,” which went beyond cutting down haters, dancing on tabletops in bars, and doing lap dances on strangers as a goof. And her unpredictability, of course, only added to her allure.

“Allure”: I like that word. That’s one I picked up since spending much of my time alone these days, reading. Since learning to use a dictionary.

When I first met her, Serena, she was wearing a black tank top that read “kamikaze” on the front and “temptress” on the back, which seemed perfectly right, somehow.

One night, at some dive bar off Avenue C called The Dead End, she was approached by some longhaired LA type—the kind who still dressed retro-’70s in turtleneck and white pants—and was asked if she’d ever done any fetish modeling.

“Of course,” she replied.

“I’d like to see some of your work,” said the chump and handed her a business card with his email address. “I’m starting a new monthly magazine, and I’m paying top dollar for pictures. You have the right look.”

Of course she did.

The guy hung around some more, bought both Serena and me a few more drinks, and then reminded her to stay in touch, send some photo samples.

“I’m serious,” he said, and as if to emphasize the point, reminded her, “Top dollar!”

Serena turned to me afterwards and said, “Looks like you and me will be shooting some fetish photographs.”

I liked the idea, and a day later I was picking up rolls of film in Chinatown where it’s fucking cheap, then meeting Serena at Trash and Vaudeville, a trendy-hip boutique on St. Marks Place, where they sold all kinds of madcool, punky rock ’n’ roll wear.

Serena picked up a leatherette bustier, some black satin opera gloves to combine with fishnets and domme stilettos she had at home.

Oh my God, Serena looked mad sexy! And at her apartment she had one of her subs—a quiet guy I never met before, her current favorite—dress her in a number of mix-and-match outfits. “You bangin’-hot bitch!” I howled as she took a number of fucked-up poses and laughed.

We even got her sub into it, blindfolded him while having him wear a ball gag.

In one shot she took the equestrian position, riding her ponyboy while he gamely held her up on all fours.

In another shot, she put on her black gloss 4-inch stilettos and stood on his bare chest.

“This is called ‘trampling,’” she said, in all seriousness, trying to educate me.

I watched the heels pressing into his nipples.

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

“He doesn’t mind,” said Serena. “Isn’t that right, Baby?”

Baby—his nickname, as it turned out—issued a sigh, signifying he was all right.

“My sweet Baby is in subspace,” she said, talking for him. “That’s why he can’t answer.”

Later, she told me what “subspace” was: a headspace, like deep meditation, where a sub finds peace of mind.

Sounded good to me.

>< >< ><

So what about these first fetish photographs?

The same ones whose raggedy prints now trade on eBay for big dollars?

It wasn’t long before we heard back from Mr. LA.

And, as it turned out, he wasn’t full of shit like most of them out there—those trust-fund bohos and so-called producers with their empty promises.

He really did launch a new, edgy, kick-ass magazine. And it was no crap publication, but done on heavy gloss paper, in full color, packed with advertisements for leatherwear, body jewelry, and fetish apparel. There was even an arty DVD review section in the back and another portion dedicated to (don’t laugh) politics: “Why Washington needs an enema!” Like it was a fetish version of Playboy.

Serena didn’t make the cover, but was featured in a spread in-side. “Redangel NYC,” it said. I don’t know where they got the “red” from, unless they were referring to a song from that old-ass English punk band, The Clash.

In the second issue, there was more featured photos of Serena, these with Baby, and all three of us got paid. The byline stated, Serena Moon—front woman of The Sirens and entrepreneur.

There was even a tiny word on me: “Dolores Santana, NYC-based photographer and writer.”

Very flattering. Of course as far as “writing,” all I’ve done is blog once or twice on Myspace and write a few expletives in lipstick in public stalls that had no toilet paper.

“Expletives,” I like that word. I might’ve said “fuck words.” But the higher-ups here keep asking me to watch my language.

The truth was: I saw myself as a serious photographer—or had, ever since meeting my man, Raymond, a patron of the arts more than twice my age, two years ago.

Okay, “patron of the arts” sounds bad, I know. It makes Raymond sound like a sugardaddy and me sound like a golddigging whore.

Well, I’m no golddigger.

The truth is: Raymond was the first person to show more than a passing interest in my art.

After my first shared exhibition in a basement gallery on Ludlow Street called “Nada,” he contacted me by phone, saying he wanted to “acquire some numbered originals.”

Of course I imagined a horny old man in a raincoat, pulling his pud.

I ignored him, but he contacted me again, by email.

After assuring me he wasn’t just some scam artist, some old guy with a boner who wanted a date, I finally agreed to hook up.

We met at Ace Bar on 5th, in the afternoon, and I brought along my portfolio, and he picked out the ones he wanted. When it came time to leave a deposit, he paid—straight out—in cash. Very rare.

I told him I’d contact him when the prints were ready.

The next week we met again at Ace Bar, and he invited me for crepes at Le Gamin, across the street. It seemed innocent enough—and crepes weren’t exactly lobster—so I agreed.

All Raymond did was compliment me and build my ego. He mentioned some other photographers he’d known, like Nan Goldin. And prints he’d bought at auction, including a Paris years’ Man Ray.

I enjoyed talking to him. He was knowledgeable but not condescending, sophisticated yet down-to-earth, and old enough, at 44, to be harmless, practically. Not the best-looking guy—taller than me by a foot and downright wasted-looking, like some geek who’d never put on weight since junior high—yet enjoyable company nevertheless.

Two weeks after that meeting, he contacted me again, told me he had a collector who might be interested in buying prints. “Just lend me your portfolio,” he said. Yeah right, I thought. But he called again. “Hey, it looks like a sure thing. The collector saw the prints I bought. Dolores, let me help you. I’ll even put up collateral.”

Collateral? I thought. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I’ll put down my Rolex,” he explained, in a separate phone call. “As a deposit against the portfolio.”

A Rolex? Motherfucker is crazy, I thought.

It also meant, I guess, he was sincere.

>< >< ><

Oh, me and Raymond.

What a roller coaster ride.

Tell you one damn thing: the man knew a lot about art. And it went beyond photography, beyond painting—even beyond films and books.

Raymond was a true appreciator—a man of feeling, if you know what I mean.

It wasn’t just a cerebral thing with him, or a pose. I mean, he allowed himself to be transformed by art. And while I know that sounds dramatic, even corny or full of shit, it was the truth.

That man put himself out there.

I mean, Raymond not only watched a snoozy slice-o-life foreign film like Umberto D. as a film-lover, he cried watching Umberto D. And when it came to watching a corny gay opera like La Boheme? Forget it. Better bring a box of Kleenex.

Raymond was the most sensitive man I’ve ever known.

And, without even trying, I found a million ways to hurt him.

Not that I meant to do that. In the beginning. Or even later.

But we all have fucked-up, bitchy days.

We all need to acknowledge that, okay? Acknowledge our inner bitch.

We need to acknowledge our own selfishness, too, and get it over with.

Repeat after me: I am selfish, I am cruel. Let’s be real.

Raymond wasn’t overly defensive usually, but rolled with my regular mood swings like a man. And, sadly, there were plenty of times, like the insecure ass that I am, when I felt the need to test his undying loyalty and devotion.

This usually involved a tiny bit of abuse, I’ll admit.

Just a teeny bit.

Like the first time he hung out with me and Serena—and I saw how attentive and flirty he became around her, like he might’ve been carrying around a secret lust.

Bastard, I thought. He’s dying to fuck my best friend.

Don’t ask me how I knew this.

Women know.

I got up to use the ladies room, and when I got back, sure enough, they were both gone. “What the fuck!” I snarled.

Five minutes later Serena called me from three blocks away, saying how Raymond’s car had been towed or stolen—he lived in Brooklyn and would sometimes drive in—and that he was waiting for the five-0 to file a report.

Later, in my apartment, I laid into him, flying off into a bratty tantrum that embarrasses me to this day.

“Why were you taking Serena out to your car?” I demanded to know.

He explained that there was some art “in the back seat” that he wanted to show her.

I looked at him. “Oh what fucking dogshit.”

He tried to explain how he wasn’t interested in her romantically, though he admitted to finding her “charismatic and vivacious.”

“Oh fuck you—vivacious!” I wailed, even though I wasn’t sure at the time what that meant.

“Fuck you—charismatic,” I added, losing control.

On and on it went. I went. Because it was a one-sided assault, kinda.

I should’ve taken a Xanax maybe, but all I had in the house at the time was a little speed, which seemed like a bad choice.

Shaken, Raymond finally left my apartment to take the number five train back to Brooklyn.

“That’s right, get the fuck out, you pussy hound! Cunt-sniffer!” I shrieked at him.

And I went so far as to smash a framed portrait of Serena—one that I took at CBGB, on the Bowery.

The next day Serena called me, and we went shopping together.

>< >< ><

But before I paint Raymond out to be some kind of a long-suffering saint, let me just say he wasn’t.

Not always.

He had his own hang-ups and fuck-ass crazy moods. And sometimes his passivity tested my patience to the limit.

He started out as a painter early in life, but soon faced with the reality of starvation took up copyright law, which meant law school. Which meant a straight or square life, mostly. But he never lost his deep love for the arts and bohemia, and spent much of his free time checking out galleries, art openings, and slumming with creative quacks downtown.

His apartment in the brownstone he bought in Park Slope was ridiculous. One room was full of boxed purchases ranging from dismantled installations to paintings to self-published hand-sewn books to sculpture: his own private little Xanadu.

His living room was so crammed with shit you could hardly see his antique TV, which hadn’t been turned on or dusted in years. (We used his LCD computer monitor to watch rentals.) He practically lived in a different era, a more civilized one maybe, listening only to things like public radio and reading fat-ass hardcover books.

His taste in movies leaned toward the unconventional, wavering between self-conscious arthouse and tedious exploitation.

Breaking The Waves, Big Bad Mama, Breathless, Faster Pussycat! Kill!... Kill!… I fell asleep on the couch to most of these.

Raymond could sometimes be a total geekboy, getting all worked-up over nothing:

“Wasn’t that tracking shot clever?” he’d blurt. Or: “Check out that mod art design!”

My response was usually a loud yawn.

Shit, my mother thought he was crazy, and my daddy thought he was queer.

But I don’t give a fuck what my parents think, see? Otherwise, I never would’ve got into the arts in the first place.

Raymond had his drug problems in the past (yeyo in the ’80s, brown briefly in the ’90s) and times of sexual insecurity, it’s true. Which was often followed by bouts of self-hatred and self-abuse. And there were times when he took up a brush to paint a canvas or a camera to clock some urban photography—and he’d end up destroying his work and depressed for days.

Maybe he had too much passion and not enough release, maybe his expectations were a little too high for himself, but he often expressed the feeling of not fitting in, of feeling like a round peg jammed into a square slot, which made me want to love him.

It was Raymond who helped me get my second shared exhibit in another tiny gallery, this time in Soho. It wasn’t Raymond’s fault that the showing got panned in Art News and mentioned in a negative light in the Voice. (Even though he did get those fathead critics to review the show—and any press is good press.)

But I still took it out on him and blamed him for my current state of emotional turmoil and psychic distress. When I was finally called by a temp agency and offered the non-demanding, “stable” position of video librarian at MTV, a low stress, “get-well” job, I just took it. That was the period when I worked meaninglessly from sun up to sun down, crawled home in a daze for some small 420 and wondered in horror and amazement how other people managed to delude themselves into thinking that life had any meaning without art.

It was around this time that Serena called to drop a bomb:

“I just made my first porn film.”

“You what!” I screamed.

>< >< ><

Serena.

Always exaggerating. What she meant was that she’d just made her first feature-length streaming video.

Film had nothing to do with it.

SV was media viewed over the Internet, usually in edited chunks of a few minutes. It sucked if you had dial-up because it came over all choppy and shit. If at all.

I tried to get her to elaborate.

“So what are we talking here? XXX?”

“Yeah. XXX with shots of my bunghole being wrenched inside out by some donkey dong. Sure.”

I laughed, of course, because I knew she’d never tolerate that.

“I just got tired of all those requests for bondage shots.”

She was talking about what that LA publisher referred to as “the next logical step” in her becoming a known fetish model: shots of her blindfolded and strung up in suspension; shots of her helplessly gagged and hogtied.

Serena just didn’t see herself that way. If she wasn’t in a position to at least share power she wasn’t interested. Only thing was, chic domina spreads were actually just a small portion of that contained world. And, as Mr. LA had explained to her: “Men are generally more comfortable seeing chicks secured—in cuffs or rope.”

Mr. LA: the bleeding-heart feminist.

“So what’s in the video? Anything hardcore?” I asked.

“Are you fucking crazy?” said Serena. “Bitch, I’m desperate, but before doing that I’d join an escort service.”

“So?” I asked again, waiting for her to elaborate.

“So,” she replied. “It’s me in a leather corset, a Zorro mask, and thigh highs, riding pony mostly.”

“Baby?”

“No, unfortunately. Some asshole.”

“What happened to Baby?”

“Nothing happened to him. They just wanted to use their own submissive who of course kept whining every five minutes under the lights.”

She told me more: “I rode him around till he got tired. Then I wrestled him for a while, finally pinning him down.”

“Is that it?”

“Oh, one last thing.”

“What?”

I heard ice cubes clink in a glass. I could tell she was already drunk.

“I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“Cough it up, cunt.”

“All right,” she said. “I copped a squat.”

“You peed on him?” I was horrified.

“No, stupid. Just sat on him. On his face.”

I had to laugh. This tickled me.

“I didn’t want to do it. But they offered to pay me extra. On the spot.”

Now I was curious. “How much?”

“Two thousand.”

“How much?”

“Two thousand dollars.”

My mouth dropped. “Just to sit on someone’s face?”

“Well, I got paid five thousand total.”

“Five thousand!”

“Cash.”

“Just to cop a squat?”

“Well,” she said, a little embarrassed. “I also had to take off my G-string.”

>< >< ><

After that phone call I was fuming.

Here I was wasting my life as a nobody at MTV and getting paid slave wages—and there was Serena earning five grand in one day just to plant her behind on some fool’s face.

All while wearing a mask!

Damn.

Economics was a funny thing.

Ass + face = $$.

What a sick formula.

After that I was checking my own rear end in the mirror, wondering if I could get away with it.

True, Serena had a fabulous derriere: she was practically famous for it. But mine wasn’t too far off. Some StairMaster work, some light weights, maybe a little yoga—and it might tighten up.

Of course, I’d have to think about a Brazilian wax too.

I turned on all the lights, posed my naked ass in the mirror this way, then that.

But then there was the problem of the slight cleft in my right butt cheek.

That might not look so hot on video.

Fuck!

>< >< ><

The next day, over dim sum, I tried to get Serena to elaborate.

“Nothing much more to tell,” she stated, matter-of-factly. “A little domination, a little pony play, like I said. Then I did the face thing.”

“And you got paid?”

She nodded. “After I signed the release form, of course.”

Maybe it was the concept of supply and demand I didn’t get?

“And that’s it? That’s all you had to do?”

“That’s it.” She shrugged, beating me to a portion of dim sum I had my eye on. (I was always clumsy with a pair of chopsticks.)

“You didn’t have to suck anyone’s cock?”

“Nope.”

I was still in a state of disbelief.

“And you want to hear the funniest part?”

“What?” I frowned.

“The guy I was riding around—and whose face I ended up on?”

“Yeah?”

“That was the film’s producer, fucking pervert,” she said and broke into a big wide grin.

“You bitch!”

She shrugged. “He asked for it—literally.”

Okay, I thought. And apparently that was the first rule of free enterprise: JUST GIVE THE SUCKERS WHAT THEY WANT.

>< >< ><

Days later, I had the blues. Raymond hadn’t dialed me after a recent argument where I called him a giant pussy, and I had nothing to do in my apartment but clean my oldskool Cannon SLR. God knows I couldn’t afford to buy any film.

What I wouldn’t give for a little weed. Even homegrown schwag, I thought.

I called Ross, my local connect. Ross, part-time dealer/full-time whigger, sweatin’ to earn his sorry way through law school.

“Yo, if it ain’t my favorite customer, crazy D!” he answered.

“Yep, it’s me,” I replied. “And ‘D’ is for delicious!” Then I cut the comedy: “You holdin’?”

“For you? Always,” he said.

I gagged, rolled my eyes. “Listen … you know how I hate to ask but.” Then I took a deep breath: “Hows about you layin’ a dime on me? Letting me owe ya?”

“Like you owe me from last week?”

I groaned.

“Dolores,” he said seriously. “You know I’m runnin’ a bidness. Can’t keep lettin’ you slide!”

“Aw, you know I’m good for it,” I whined. “Just, I’m a little short. Expecting my check real soon.” After a silence I reminded him, “Didn’t I tell you I was at MTV?”

“Yeah? Kickin’ it with the ballers? All the mad-famous peeps?” And this question depressed me too, because the sad truth was that I was mostly kept isolated all day, hardly speaking to a fucking soul.

But I lied. “That’s right!”

“Yeah? Like, who you see? Crush Daddy?”

“Daddy?” I offered. “What? You want his autograph?”

“Am I twelve years old?”

“Just having some fun.” I laughed. “Just playin’ witcha’.”

“Hope you are.”

“No … I am.” Not. “Lemme call you back.”

“A’ight.”

Again I rolled my eyes, throwing down my cell.

Useless cracker.

>< >< ><

“Raymond, where the fuck are ya?” was the voicemail I left him. I was calling from work, and I hadn’t heard from him in nearly three days. No doubt he was in another one of his tormented, self-pitying moods.

“I’m hungry, Raymond. When are you taking me out to dinner?” I was joking of course, but secretly I was wondering what was up with him and starting to panic a little.

I called Serena a little while later:

“My job’s boring, ma—call me back!”

Of course, it wasn’t until I hung up that I remembered she wasn’t around either.

As she’d explained to me recently, maybe for the millionth time, sales for her last full-length CD had been fizzling. And now it was “do or die”—before her release went under completely, and she lost her measly advance.

So she was back to doing the artist’s thing:

The endless hustle.

Online, I looked long and hard for word of her latest release. On numerous sites the reviews were skimpy, uptight, and heavy on the snark, using the same words, over and over: “tired,” “old,” and “cliché.”

As in:

A woman with a guitar: tired.

A woman singing about a fucked-up love life: old.

A woman raging about the injustice of the new American conformity: cliché. No: uber-cliché.

It made me want to seek out these queens and set their hair on fire. I mean, shit, what did these self-important assclowns want—a CD that came with a complimentary blowjob?

Fucking know-it-alls.

Poor Serena.

She was out there, all alone.

Out there, completely exposed.

Risking her neck.

You would think that people would show more compassion.

A little support, now and then.

Yeah, you would think.

I loved her music—her ecstatic stage show, her raw singing style, her take-no-prisoners approach. Performance was supposed to be her life, but most people could only shrug and sneer.

Was there anyone in the world who wasn’t an asshole?

I called her up, left her a message, mentioning the fact that I remembered she was on tour and closed by saying:

“Love you, bitch! FUCK THE HATERS! Kick ass!”

>< >< ><

So Raymond.

Raymond didn’t call me back that day.

Or the next.

Even worse, or stranger still, he’d completely turned off his message machine at home.

I thought, WTF?

Now I decided to take a little action: a trip to Brooklyn. To investigate.

I was really starting to stress.

Before leaving the Village, I briefly considered swinging by the Strand Bookstore and doing an exchange for cash. My art books—the ones that Raymond had bought me—were worth money, but deep down I hated the idea of selling them.

“Raymond! Where are you?” I screamed over my cell, and then realized I shouldn’t’ve done that. I was always unleashing on him, being mad bitter and impulsive. But sometimes I couldn’t help it.

I loved him. Truly I did.

Only, now and then, I also wished he were less of a sop, it’s true.

I mean, for a grown-ass man and a fucking lawyer, you’d think he’d have a stronger backbone and better coping skills.

Like I said before, he was sensitive. Maybe a little too sensitive.

Any stupid crack or helpful suggestion from me could practically derail the man. I mean, shit.

To be honest, I felt like choking him half the time. At other times, I guess, I wanted to baby him, because he was in fact a big, overgrown baby. A 40+-year-old dork who half the time couldn’t stand up for himself, or to me.

Yeah, I know I sound like a bitch.

And sometimes it’s true, I am a bitch.

But we’ve already been through that.

Okay, so at 5:00 P.M. exactly, I packed my shit and hopped the snail-express F train to Brooklyn.

I collected enough coins from the bottom of my purse to pay for a slice of pizza, then I headed along Smith Street for some window shopping.

Brooklyn, yo! Cobble Hill, Carrol Gardens, Park Slope…. What I wouldn’t give to live there, along with all those privileged, over-educated folks and bed-head trust fund babies.

My own grandma left me the tiny closet that comprised my studio in the passé Lower East Side, and I know I should’ve been grateful for that. How else could I afford to take some temp job at MTV for little more than Mickey-D wages?

Sometimes, I have to really laugh at what folks in this country are expected to get by on.

But don’t get me started.

So I window-shopped. Yeah.

Window-shopped along Smith Street. Then, at Union Street, I turned right and took the long walk toward Park Slope.

This was the reverse-route Raymond and I would take on Sundays—our “lazy days” we called them—when we slept in, finally dragging our asses up at around noon to shower together, then head out to a café for flavored coffee and scones. On those days, after taking our sweet-assed time over breakfast, we’d head over to the park or take a marathon walk to Cobble Hill along Union Street, talking about this and that.

We’d hold hands like some nerdy couple you’d see in blown-out mad boring ’70s movies (the kind Raymond liked to watch), take a break to hug each other; and sometimes, in private, get our kiss on.

Afternoons, as things usually went, we’d swing by a Korean vendor and pick up items for a supper we’d cook together. Since we’d always make a salad first, I’d add pine nuts or dried cranberries to it, sometimes a whole sliced gala apple.

Yeah how corny, I know. How domestic. Crazy D, chopping up romaine lettuce and plum tomatoes and some red onion, a shredded carrot maybe.

Corny. But sweet, too. And cozy.

The night would end with some wild rutting (or at least I always hoped), sometimes a rented movie, sometimes both—simultaneously. Touching would lead to hugging, which would lead to smooching—maybe some earnest dry-humping, which often led to my feeling his lobster through his pants and raising an eyebrow—and all else that followed.

The closer I got to Park Slope, the more eager I was to see him.

Oh Raymond.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I reached 7th Street and saw a man wearing an Afghani pakol hat similar to the one I purchased for him on his birthday, wearing a leatherette jacket like the one I bought for him on Christmas, even wearing a tan fleece scarf similar to the one I got for him, on a whim, off St. Marks Place.

The man was facing away holding what looked like a bagged DVD rental in one hand. In his right hand were the fingers of a skinny blond twink, not unlike Paris Hilton. And, let me tell you, this girl was young! I mean, she made me feel like a hag—and I was already half Raymond’s age: twenty-two years younger, to be exact.

He must have felt my eyes boring holes in his back, because just after crossing the street he turned back unsuspectingly—and I saw it was him!

“Raymond!” I screamed. “What the fuck!”

His face dropped and he looked like he was about to faint.

“And who is this cunt!?” I couldn’t hold back.

Raymond looked completely flabbergasted.

“Well!?” My eyes were bulging, and I must’ve looked like a demon from hell.

“D-dolores,” he managed to say. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

I held up a hand—freezing him—unable to bear what he had to say next. Then I spun in place and marched weakly in the opposite direction with the entire world melting away.

After the first few wobbly steps I couldn’t even feel my feet.

As for the rest of the evening? I spent that in a numbed-out haze. Bumped into street signs, moped around like a drunk; managed, somehow, to finally find my way home.

Of course, once there I went straight to the toilet to pee—and right then also realized something else.

No, no. God, please.

Could it be?

I was drying myself off with toilet paper when I realized it.

My period was late by at least three weeks.

>< >< ><

“It’s over, isn’t it?” I asked him.

We’d just sat down, menus still in hand, but I had to get straight to the point.

I chose Veselka, on the corner of 9th and Second Avenue.

It was nearly a week before I finally had the presence of mind to arrange a “sit down” with Raymond and confirm the status and future of our relationship.

He grabbed my hand in some corny gesture he must’ve picked up from a ’40s melodrama on Turner Classics.

“Nothing’s over. Nothing’s ever over,” he said, practically crooning it.

I felt like smacking him, I swear to God.

“Yeah?” I said, suddenly standing on my feet.

“That’s what you think!”

Out I stormed.

>< >< ><

Of course, I called him later. Called him at home, after my cell messages weren’t being returned.

Called him. And called him.

But he wasn’t picking up.

Remember how I said that Raymond could be a sop, sometimes? A pussy?

He was screening his calls, the big chicken. And I kept hanging up, imagining that little blond bitch, giggling, in the room with him.

Finally I just left a brief message: “Raymond—I just need to talk.”

Two hours later or so, I guess he finally worked up the courage to call me back.

His voice hesitant, he mumbled, “Got your message. What?”

“So this is what it’s come down to, huh?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“A fuckin’ skinny, blond bitch!”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Dolores.”

“I know what I saw—you hand-in-hand with that little hootchie-doll.”

“Tiffany? She’s just a friend.”

“T-Tiffany?” I thought my ears would pop off my head.

“—Oh, Jesus Christ! Raymond, you have to be kidding!”

“Dolores, stop.”

“Did she come in a box—one of those fuckin’ inflatable models?”

“Oh, knock it off, now!” His voice sounded deep and strangely masculine. I allowed him to gather his testicles and explain.

“Here’s the truth,” he started, then hesitated.

“Just say it already!” I was on edge, already anticipating the worst.

He said finally, “I just need … a break.”

“Oh, of course you do!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Well, you just said it.”

“Said what?” I was already babbling.

“Is this going to be another one of those tail-chasing conversations?”

I blinked a few times, starting to feel the tears coming.

“I dunno,” I said, trying to control my breathing so I wouldn’t cry.

“Dolores, I love you. You know that.”

“Sure.” The tears came anyhow, even as I tried to control them.

“It’s true. You mean a lot to me.”

“Uh-huh. Right.” I covered the speaker on my cell with my thumb while I wheezed a bit.

“It’s just that lately … well, things have been a little over-the-top.”

“Over-the-top,” I managed. “Yeah.”

“You know as well as I do it’s true.”

I didn’t know what to say. No snappy comebacks came to mind.

I took a while, making sure to cover the speaker whenever I thought I might slip with a tiny sob. “Over-the-top Dolores. Yep, that’s me!”

“Listen, honey, let’s meet up again. I hate having this kind of discussion over the phone. You know I’m not a phone guy.”

Not a phone guy. This nearly cracked me up for some reason. Maybe I was just looking for a distraction. Something to grab ahold of.

I laughed finally.

“What?” he said, startled.

“Sure,” I said, growing angry all of a sudden. “Sure fuckin’ thing,” I said, my tears drying up.

He must’ve heard the change in tone because he said, sorta mild, “That would be a good thing to do, right?”

“Oh yeah,” I said, and I couldn’t control the sarcasm entering my voice. “That would be a good thing. A sit down.”

“A ‘sit down,’ right,” he said, sounding a little uneasy.

“A sit down,” I repeated. “Right. Just you and me and Barbie.”

“Don’t get crazy,” Raymond warned.

“Who’s getting crazy?” And I started laughing like some insane person. “Let’s have a powwow—just the three of us. And later we can all just hop into bed together.”

“Dolores, you know me better than that.”

I laughed again. I couldn’t control it.

He said, “You’re creeping me out, right now.”

“Just do me a favor, big boy.”

“What’s that?”

“I left a buncha shit at your place—like two years worth of shit.”

“Yeah?”

“Just toss it all in a big box—and send it. Can you manage that? I couldn’t bear the thought of Ashley sifting through my stuff, especially my granny underwear.”

“Her name is Tiffany.”

“My bad. Tiffany. Tiff-a-neee…. Tell me, are her tits as fake as her name? ’Cause they sure looked unnaturally hefty for a girl her size, I couldn’t help but notice.”

“Okay, Dolores. I’m hanging up.”

“Sure. Just don’t forget to send my shit, grandpa.”

“I’ll bring it over in person, if you like.”

“No. That’s all right. The U.S. snail mail service is adequate. Thank you.”

“All right, then.”

“’Cause actually,” I went on. “I’d rather not have to look at your chump face, like ever again.”

“I know you’re angry right now.”

“Oh, you don’t know. You don’t know what I’m feeling. Not really.”

“We’ll talk about it another time.”

“What are we, lesbians? Who needs to talk? In fact, you know what?”

“What?”

“Who needs this shit, at all?”

And, with that, unable to bear it, I hung up.

I almost threw my cell phone across the room too. But caught myself.

I couldn’t afford to buy a replacement.

>< >< ><

The next day, without any callback from Raymond, I phoned in sick.

MTV be damned.

Damned straight to hell.

Especially now.

Now that I saw my check. And, after cashing it, I was finally able to pay back my junior dealer what I owed, and pick up half an ounce on top of that.

Lawyer-boy even volunteered to deliver it straight to my door, then hung around, like the mooch that he was, to help me smoke it. Hence, fully earning his ridiculous moniker, “Madblaze.” Which he also claimed was his new professional “MC tag.”

Whatever.

At some point, maybe out of sheer boredom, I thought to ask him if he dealt in other goods.

“Like what?”

“Shrooms?”

He looked at me, his eyes crinkling as he released a puff of smoke. “You know I ain’t no two-bit connect.” And, to prove it, like a magician, he opened his jacket and plucked out a double baggie. “I was just about to drop this off with my man, Seb. You know Sebastian, right?—also known as ‘Shaggytooth’?”

“Don’t know him, don’t need to know.” I took back my bowl, tossed him the bills.

He coughed a bit and chuckled, looking a little embarrassed. He managed to dig out five singles, which he passed to me. “’Shaggytooth,’” he said, “also goes by the name of ‘Baby.’”

Of course that rang a bell. But I wasn’t about to say anything. It may not have been Serena’s sub, but some other dude by the same name.

“I know lots of babies,” I said, trying to throw him off. “All of them men.”

“Yeah, but this Baby likes to wear dog collars.”

Okay, so then it might’ve been Serena’s sub, after all.

“Hope I won’t be depriving anybody,” was all I said.

“Nah, I gots more,” he said, flashing me his grills.

“How is it, these days, that a NYU law student can wear blond dreads and gold caps?” I wondered aloud.

“Why?” he asked. “You prejudice?”

>< >< ><

When I later met up with Serena at Zero bar, she thanked me for not mentioning her name to Ross or “Madblaze.”

“I owe that prick a lot of money,” she admitted. “A lot.”

“I figured that,” I said.

When it came time to talk about her partly-aborted tour, she tried to put on a brave face, then lastly admitted that it had sucked.

“I’m thinking of dumping the band,” she said.

“Really?”

“Really,” she said.

“No hope, at all?”

She frowned and gave me that look, which was all she really needed to say.

I downed my PBR and felt bad for her.

She said, “Dolores, why don’t you learn to play a bass guitar?”

I snorted. “What? Why?”

“’Cause I need you. You’re my bitch.”

I was flattered, of course. “Yeah. I’d be like the female Sid Vicious: go out in a blaze of glory.”

Serena laughed. “Why not?”

“Don’t think so,” I confessed. “I have a hard enough time snapping bass guitarists, let alone trying to be one. I’m a fuckin’ photographer, remember?”

“I know,” said Serena. “I could just use some good company next time. At least if we didn’t make money on the road, we’d have some fun.”

“Yeah yeah. You and me ‘as a team.’ I heard that before.”

“When?”

I reminded her. “The cleaning business?”

“What about it?”

“We started getting high. Then you started getting high alone?”

“Oh that was a bullshit job,” she said, shrugging it off.

I had to laugh. “It was our own business!”

“Yeah,” she said, “but cleaning people’s houses?—Fuck that.”

She had a point, of course. And I agreed. “But, at the same time, it was at least something. Gave us some control over our lives. This other shit. This nine-to-five? has got me beat. I mean, spiritually, financially…. I haven’t even taken a single photograph since my last exhibition—talk about fabulous disasters!”

“Oh, Dolores, forget that.” She sipped her Maker’s, then mentioned, off the mark: “That guy might be back in town.”

“Who?”

“Mr. LA—the guy with the magazine.”

“What the fuck does he want?”

“Heard about my last little raw impromptu adventure.”

“Which raw adventure?”

“Splitting my crack? Y’know, ON THAT PRODUCER’S FACE?”

I laughed. “Oh that.”

“Yeah,” she continued. “Anyway, he told me he’s going into video production himself. Branching out, so to speak.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Perv central, I’m telling you.”

She said, “What?”

I said, loudly, “HE WANTS YOU TO SIT ON HIS FACE TOO?”

Serena didn’t bother answering that one. Just cut me this evil look.

>< >< ><

So, great.

Serena was off with the LA publisher, which right off made me fucking jealous.

Me? I was stuck back at home taking the pregnancy test I bought at Duane Reade.

Is there anything more nerve-racking than taking a pregnancy test? (How about not having insurance and taking a pregnancy test? How about not having a boyfriend because he dumped you and not having insurance and taking a pregnancy test?)

I peed on the little fucking strip.

Now, just try to guess what the results were.

Here’s a hint: At this time in my life—this crazy juncture—what was the WORST possible thing that could happen?

Now guess what the results were.

Just take a guess.

>< >< ><

“I feel like killing myself, I swear to God,” I said to Serena, later, over my cell. “No money. No boyfriend. No career.” I took a pull off my bowl, choking a bit.

“Why don’t we take a vacation or something?” Serena suggested.

I coughed. “Serena, I got no money! I’m way behind on my student loans, my bills, and everything else!”

“So what? Let’s drive up to Maine or something. Have some lobsters.”

“Lobsters?” Was she trippin’? “You sick or something?”

“Don’t be a twat. I’ll pay.”

“Can’t have you do that.”

“Dolores, I’m your friend.”

“I can’t.”

“I can borrow the tour van. You just need to get permission at your job. Those people at MTV are cool, right?”

“What channel have you been watching?”

“Well, fuckin’ take off anyway, call in sick.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Fuck ‘can’t.’”

I thought about it. Maybe I could fake a virus for a few days. One or two, near the weekend. Enough for a trip.

“Maybe,” I said.

“That’s the bitch I know. The old Dolores! Crazy D!”

I gave it more thought. “Yeah, fuckit!”

“That’s what I’m talking about. Fuck MTV. Fuck the rat race. Let’s take a trip. Shit, I’ll bring along Baby. Maybe we can even turn it into a photo opt. An ‘on the road’ thing, with a little B&D and humiliation.”

“I should buy some film.”

“Hell yeah, girl! I’ll spot ya. What are you waiting for?”

“Bitch,” I cried. “You got me hyped!”

>< >< ><

To play it safe, I called out mad early on a Thursday morning, and that same day we hit I-95 on the road for New England. Destination: the state of Maine. Way north. Baby at the wheel of the old-fart Chevy Caravan, The Siren’s tour van. Serena, lead singer, dead asleep in the back, her hair strewn across a pillow. Me, riding shotgun, dozing off. A greasy road map on my knees.

I’d been to Maine before. With Raymond. But I tried not to think of those times, except for once when we were supposed to go camping in Acadia National Park but got caught in the pouring rain.

We ended up in a hotel near Bar Harbor, in some room that had some fishy smell or maybe it was mildew, but I soon took care of that by producing a granny smith apple.

“What the hell is that?” asked Raymond.

“Our antidote to misery!”

I took out a BiC pen from my purse, then punched a hole halfway through the stem and another through the middle, clear through. “See?”

Then I packed the hole from the top with dro. “Tah-dah!” I said, “We’ll smoke out the stink!”

Despite his arty leanings, Raymond could sometimes be uptight and on occasion frowned at my little weed habit, but this time I convinced him it was earned; hell, we were on vacation, right? Didn’t we just drive a thousand freakin’ miles? Plus, he admitted, using a fresh apple was cute. Of course, I knew he would think that. And that was only phase one of my plan.

“We’ll smoke it, eat the apple, then go get some fresh lobsters in Bar Harbor,” I proposed.

Naturally, I made sure he got good and high.

And, instead of lobsters, we ended up staying in.

Having what I’d call a real vacation.

Sometimes the right combination of green and alcohol really loosened up his inhibitions and Catholic guilt, and he was able to cut loose on me, block out his “sweet” nature, get in touch with his inner predator, you might say.

I kept blowing apple-scented smoke into his mouth as we kissed, begging for a good roll.

And that night he was able to take charge of me, tune into my fantasy of being ravaged, and really unleash. All I remember was porn dimly blinking on the TV monitor and that hazy feeling of being oh so helpless, “forced” into this position and that, his cock working, feeling harder and thicker than it felt in ages.

Raymond turned into a caveman as he finally took me good, yanking on my hair and growling, “Take it! Take it all!”

Nice.

It was a raw, unselfconscious avalanche of passion. And I loved it.

His domination and power were so total it made me scream!

Just as entertaining for our neighbors, I’m sure, was this running dialogue as he plowed me:

Him: So—so you’re my dirty girl?

Me: (gasping) Your sweet, dirty, nasty girl!—that’s what I am!

Him: (grunting) And you like this, huh?—like it when I take charge, uh?

Me: Yeah, I do!—Take charge with your BIG fuckin’ cock!

Him: (panting) ’Cause you need it, right?

Me: Sure do, killa’! Need it!

Him: Need a good, hot FUCK!

Me: Need it! Want it! (pushing hard against him) Gotta get me some! FUCK ME, ughhh!…

Things got so freaky and wild that we probably had the whole hotel listening—so nasty hot that I imagined the pay-per-view porno actors through the TV screen breaking off just to watch us—Raymond and me: two fiends—busting it XXX—reinventing the dirty act.

Ah, the healing power of sex.

>< >< ><

Reaching Maine took about forever, driving at legal speed.

Once there, it took about another million years to reach up north, where we wanted to go. Beyond that was Nova Scotia and Canada—if we wanted to escape Jesus country, once and for all.

Along the way, I touched my stomach, wondering what was going on in there, imagining a tadpole with Raymond’s face.

It made me melancholy.

Raymond. What a prick.

Raymond. What a dickhead.

Raymond. What a sop.

Raymond. What a shit.

Raymond. The sweetest man I’d ever known.

Raymond. Who believed in my art and did everything in his power to encourage me.

I almost cried, thinking about him.

Asshole.

Then I thought of that Paris Hilton clone.

I still couldn’t believe it.

It was so disappointing to discover, in the end, that your man was not one in a million, but just like any bonehead, young or old. Take your pick.

I turned away from the passing scenery to gaze at Serena, who was still asleep in the back.

Baby, her sub, was still at the wheel and would be the entire way.

Baby.

Baby Love, as Serena sometimes referred to him.

That little weirdo. Serena’s boy.

Or bitch.

Okay, I liked him.

He was even kinda cute in more ways than one, if you want to know the truth.

Sweet faced and innocent. Easy-going and steady. Selfless and kind.

Not that he was my type really.

Baby had been driving us the whole way in focused silence, now and then glancing back at Serena, her royal highness, who was dozing under a comforter.

Now and then, Baby even smiled at me.

Baby had large eyes, that was one thing.

Large, calm, deep eyes.

At one point we stopped at a gas station, and I fell asleep. When I woke up we were back on the road, and I realized that Baby had bought me breakfast, completely unasked for.

Of course, he’d meant to provide for Serena, sleeping beauty, first and foremost.

But still it was thoughtful of him. And generous.

“Aren’t you the gentleman?” I remarked.

“No big deal.” He shrugged, looking back at the road.

Serena stirred at that point, probably smelling her food, which consisted of an omelet on a toasted roll, juice and coffee. “Are you hitting on my Baby?” she asked, stretching and yawning.

“Fuckin’ right I am,” I told her. “You better watch out!”

“Communal property,” she announced. “Help yourself.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me,” said Serena. “Share and share alike. Make him do anything you want.”

WTF? I thought. “That’s a bit much, Serena,” I said, feeling embarrassed now.

But Baby seemed totally at ease with this, even chipper as he passed her back her food, keeping an eye on the open road.

“Did you eat anything?” she asked him.

He smiled. “You first.”

“Right,” she acknowledged. “Of course.”

All this made me feel awkward, I’ll admit. Too many head-games to wrap my mind around this early in the morning.

“How much longer?” I asked Baby, meaning our estimated time of arrival in butt-fucking Egypt.

“Two and a half, maybe three more hours?” he said, turning to me.

After that he fell silent, concentrating on the task at hand, which was driving—getting us all there, safely.

In fact, there wasn’t another sound in the Caravan as I recall, until Serena, at the end of her meal, let loose with a monster belch, like the slob that she was, saying, “Oh yeah. That hit the spot. Now this bitch’s going back to sleep!” then mashed her face back in her foam pillow and almost immediately began snoring.

>< >< ><

The first thing we did, once in Bar Harbor, was to confirm the hotel room, which Baby had hooked up for us.

Then we parked on a side street, and casually rolled out from there.

It was a cute tourist trap basically, though not worse than San Francisco, which was about fifty times larger.

We strutted about, the three of us, checking out the so-called authentic folk art in various boutiques and souvenir shops.

Baby bought us all pumpkin flavored ice-cream, and then we headed toward the main park, which was sort of like the town square, where there was currently something referred to as “an art fair.”

No matter where you went in the U.S., the art at these things was always the same. In a word: “nice.” In a word: “pleasant.” It was the kind of art that didn’t rock the boat; the kind of art that said nothing, challenged nothing, showed no darkness or grit, but just lay there like a hollow fuck-me decoration.

Overall, it made my stomach turn.

Art, my ass.

Serena noted my sour expression and suggested, “Why don’t we get the hell out of this outdoor mall and take a boat trip?”

“Good idea,” I replied.

The three of us took a little nature tour around the many tiny islands comprising this part of Maine.

“Oh look, there’s an eagle!” our tour guide cried at one point. We could barely hear him over the put-put noise of the boat engine.

We looked in the direction he pointed, strained our eyes.

“Do you see anything?” asked Serena.

I couldn’t see dip.

Baby pointed to a tiny clump of shit stuck up in a tree. “That’s a nest,” he said.

I squinted and could barely make out what looked like a stuffed animal propped in a tree.

Nature. You gotta love it.

At least there were no people around, except for half-wits like us, trying to scope out invisible animals and pretend like we were getting in touch with the natural world.

I kept coughing because of the diesel fumes of the engine.

“And look!” said the tour guide excitedly. “Over there! Seals!”

I strained to make them out, but it just looked like a bunch of rocks.

>< >< ><

After docking, we had pizza, then did more exploring, this time for a non-franchise neighborhood bar.

Along the way, I asked Serena about her encounter with the LA publisher and the future of her fetish model career.

She confessed, “I’m not sure we’re on the same page. That’s what I told him.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“He gave me a sample DVD to watch. I didn’t like it.”

“Why not?

“It went from verbal abuse to face-slapping to punching to trampling; finally to dick-sucking and straight rutting.”

“No-fuckin’-way.”

“Exactly! And that’s what I told him, Mr. LA! Is this your idea of a fetish video? I made it clear! NO straight porn, NO penetration, I said. And if you want me to show my behind? Put up some of this—” Serena rubbed her thumb and index finger together. “’Cause that other shit—That’s not what I’m doing, at all.”

“And what did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything but looked disappointed.”

“They’re all about exploiting ‘’da bitches.’”

“Tell me about it. And they all want the same thing,” said Serena. “The same thing. I told the fucker: ‘Let me have creative control.’ He says, ‘You wanna direct?—After only one fetish video of your own?’ I said, ‘Why not?’ As if I couldn’t handle a little production of my own. As if I couldn’t provide something of better quality. Or like I couldn’t enter the head of a real domina and relate to a real sub!” She snorted.

“Yeah, what a stretch!” I had to laugh.

“Fuck, Dolores,” she said. “We should just do it ourselves.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“You know about photography,” she reminded me.

“Yeah, still photography. Not moving image.”

“But you know how to frame a shot, at least. You know about lighting. So what’s the big deal?” she said. “We could rent a high-end video camera for a day. I know someone who could edit it later.”

I was doubtful. “I don’t know, Serena. It sounds like a lot to do. I might fuck it up.”

“So what?” she said. “It’s only video. It’s cheap. We can re-shoot.”

“Where would we even film it?” I said. “I live in a closet. Your place is a squat, practically.”

Baby interjected, “You can shoot it at my place, in Williams-burg.” He’d been so quiet the whole time, it startled me to hear his voice.

“That’s right!” said Serena, brightening up. “Williamsburg!”

“I’d have to think about it,” I said, not really liking the idea. “What about a script?”

Serena laughed. “A script?”

“We’ll need one, believe it or not. Or we may end up running out of ideas. Inspiration is never there when you need it.”

“Inspiration?” Serena said, making a face.

In the next moment she turned to Baby. Playfully tripping up her unsuspecting victim.

He hit the open pavement hard—dropping backwards. And, as soon as he was down, she mounted his chest, way high. “How about this?” she offered.

“Hey,” he protested, finding her ass practically on his face.

“Right.” Serena laughed, leaning forward and tugging his hair. “Like you don’t love it!”

>< >< ><

Skipping the bar, we went straight to our hotel room.

Actually Serena and Baby went up first. I followed later, after stopping by a liquor store just up the block.

As it turned out, the room was a honeymoon suite, spacious and pleasant, with a huge TV and an inviting king-size bed.

Just as I entered, I saw that Serena was having her toes done. Painted a coppery brown.

Baby had paused to open the door for me, then with a focused look on his face, went right back to his task, on his knees.

Serena, watching some forensic show, was reclined in an overstuffed chair, feet up, playing the bitch goddess.

I almost felt like I was intruding on a weird private moment and even lurched, but Serena assured me with a wave and a wink that everything was hip, smooth—just lovely. Evidently this was part of some common head-game between them.

“You gotta let people be who they wanna be,” Raymond once told me, and more and more I understood that to be true.

So Serena and Baby had a Venus in Furs thing going. This was how they played together and relaxed.

Who was I to judge?

Going one step further, Serena tried to suck me into their little vortex.

“Need your toe-nails painted?” she asked me, slyly.

“Not right now.”

“’Cause Baby wouldn’t mind,” she insisted.

Baby seemed to be fighting back a smile. Actually he looked happy.

“Isn’t that right, Baby?” she asked him, teasingly.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he said, rolling with it. “Not at all.”

“See? Baby likes to put his talent to good use. Don’t you, Baby?”

“Uh-huh,” he replied serenely, delicately applying the brush. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Then he bent over and planted a kiss on the top of her naked foot.

Serena seemed to get off on it too.

Whatever rocked their boat.

I stood there like an idiot before saying, “Look what I got!” Raising a liter bottle of Citrus Stoli from a brown paper bag. “This should last us, dontcha’ think?”

Serena smiled. “Now ya’ talkin’, babe!”

“Should we put it on ice?” I suggested, trying to get into the swing of things.

“Baby?” she directed.

Right away grabbing the nearby empty ice bucket, he sprang for the door. As soon as the hotel door closed, I mentioned, “Look at what else.” Pulling out two separate baggies from my jacket: one with a quarter of weed, the other a double of shrooms.

“Oh yeah?” said Serena. “How about this?” And she produced an eye-popping amount of coke, all snowy and white—close to a half a baggie. The bitch.

“Damn, yo! You plan on skiing or something?”

She laughed. “That’s the idea!”

>< >< ><

The night was a sludgy blur, that’s all I can say.

The shrooms put me in a mellow-sexy mood, where all I felt like doing was kissing and melting into someone.

I offered shrooms to Serena, but she passed in favor of the booze and yeyo.

“Oh Serena,” I sighed, laying back on the bed.

“What, honey?”

“I wish Raymond were here,” I said, frowning.

“Forget about him for tonight,” she told me.

“It’s just that I feel like…”

“I know what you feel like,” she said, then threw a glance at Baby across the room, winking him over.

Focused on her, he climbed the bed. Baby was high too, I could see. His eyes were shiny and soft.

She told him: “I want you to play with Dolores.”

“Huh?” I said.

“Just play,” she said, smiling.

“What are you talkin’ about?” I argued, feeling funny.

“Shut-up,” she told me.

Baby looked willing, as I sat there tense and blushing.

“Go on,” Serena demanded. “Just kiss her.”

That was the last thing I remember before I felt him near me, the moment suddenly feeling gushy and surreal.

And I just let myself go with it.

We touched lips for a while, Baby and I, then Serena directed him to take off his top.

He did so, dutifully, revealing his tight chest and what looked like a gymnast’s body.

Hello.

My face felt hot.

He smiled innocently as he held my gaze.

Did I mention how large his eyes were?

I could melt into those eyes.

Oh yeah.

Melt.

We kissed, soft and slow, slow and soft, like little kids, molding to each other’s lips.

On shrooms, kissing seemed like an organic activity, no other way to describe it.

Occasionally, I’d blink and see a mild hallucination, usually a flashing image dyed in primary colors or metallic glitter—maybe some reference to artwork or a childhood vision. But mostly I felt a deep empathy, a fluidness and warmth that made kissing intensely pleasurable. Like two pairs of lips that almost became one: infinitely sensitive with anticipating each other’s movements.

On it went, our kissing, like one sweet breath, passed back and forth. For hours.

So luscious. So nice.

>< >< ><

Continued!..

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