I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years, and most of them I haven’t been very good at. So when I decided to become a professional photographer, I didn’t let the fact I barely know which direction to point a camera stand in my way.
While working in the porn industry, I soon realised that the snappers were raking in the big bucks, while I was making chump change putting together the words that nobody reads. So I rented a flea-bitten room in the cheapest hotel in Newcastle, put an ad on Gumtree, and headed along with my point-and-shoot camera in my pocket and a smile on my face. Little did I know, I was in for one of the weirdest nights of my life.
Four ladies responded to my ad, which had proudly boasted that it was open to women of all shapes, sizes and ages – and I sure got a mixture. In fact, it was like a freak show was passing through my room that night.
The first lass was barely 18, and had a bit of an emo look about her. Rhonda also had a nice set of tits, which she didn’t hesitate to drag out for me. While I took photos with one hand and pushed my boner down with the other, she told me that she wouldn’t be able to shoot any explicit shots due to having her period. I told her that sucked.
“Not really,” she grinned. “I’m turned on by blood, so when I’ve got my period I get really horny and have to fuck a lot of blokes.”
I found this quite interesting and asked her to explain further. Apparently she’d spent her youth haunting the local hospitals, getting off on seeing poor bastards wander in with massive head wounds, or with their intestines spilling out onto the concrete. She liked that sort of thing so much that she was studying doctoring at university, and would become so turned on while watching medical documentaries that she’d drag fellow students out of the lecture theatre and bonk them senseless. And people say I’m weird for asking girls to dress up as Mal Meninga during sex.
As soon as she left to suck off someone with a paper cut, the next lass rocked up. I’d seen photos of Pixie, and they were awesome. She had model good looks and a cracking body, and I wondered whether I’d be able to do her justice with my limited shooting skills. It turned out the camera from a broken Nokia 3210 would’ve been the best way to do her justice, because it appeared Pixie had been hitting the drugs hard. Her eyes were sunken in her skull, her bones were sticking through her skin, and she looked a mess. Best of all, she wasn’t alone, and I struggled to hide my iPod and wallet as I led Angel and her shaggy, toothless, meth-addicted boyfriend into the room.
It was sad because she had been so beautiful before the drugs got their hooks ino her, and she’d obviously modelled a fair bit in the past, because she knew all the positions (even the one where she put both her ankles behind her head). Once I’d taken all the photos I could handle, Pixie and her handsome hobo fella locked themselves in the toilet for a few minutes to smoke ice in the bathtub, then fucked each other senseless while I sat on the bed
listening and wanking wondering where it all went wrong.
If Angel was too skinny, that certainly wasn’t a problem with the next lady, Fran. When talking to Fran on the phone, she’d wanted to clarify two things. “You say any shape and size, but I just want to let you know that I’m 15 stone,” she said hesitantly. I don’t have a clue what a stone is, so I told her it was fine. “I also don’t shave,” she added, and I threw up in my mouth.
When Fran showed up, I learned that 15 stone is actually quite heavy (around 95kg), especially when hanging off a woman who stood about 5’1″. To top it off, Fran was in her 60s, covered in prison tatts, and smoked like a chimney. “I’m really going to earn my money today,” I thought as I led her up to my room.
Things only got worse as I closed the door and Fran took her gear off. Her tits almost hit the floor and her muff was hairier than an Armenian bloke’s back. Right above the smashed orange that passed for Franny’s fanny, was a tattoo explaining that it was the property of a local motorcycle group. I apologised to my camera and started shooting. The stench was so bad that my eyes were watering and, as she spread out on the room’s lounge, I assumed I’d be getting a dry cleaning bill for that in the near future.
“I hope my husband doesn’t find out about this,” Fran told me, while pointing her cheesecake arse at my wincing face. “He’s a hardline Islamic fundamentalist and he doesn’t let me out of the house much. I had to tell him I was going to a job interview, and he’d kill me if he found out the truth. He’d probably kill you, too, if he found out.” With visions of a little brown fella blowing me up with a homemade shoe bomb dancing in my head, I took the rest of the photos and Fran mercifully put her clothes on. After she’d left, I found a slip op paper with, “Call me written” beneath her phone number. I threw it in the bin and briefly considered lighting the bin on fire.
After my brush with death, I settled my nerves with a few glasses of wine while waiting for the next lady to show up. She was late, so I managed to guzzle a fair bit of booze – but not nearly as much as she did. When Sienna turned up she was rolling drunk, her teeth stained red with wine and her eyes spinning in her head. Never one to refuse a girl passage to my room simply because she was as pissed as a porcupine, I led her up the stairs and asked her to strip off.
Sienna was in her mid-30s and not a bad sort, but when she pulled another bottle of wine out of her bag and started smashing it, I knew there was something wrong with her. As I snapped away she never let go of the bottle, and I ended up with dozens of photos of her skolling from the bottle, spilling wine on the bed, and generally acting like a bridge-dwelling wino. When she finished the bottle, she took out another and knocked that off in record time. I didn’t know whether to be disgusted or ask her to marry me.
When we were finished, Sienna asked me out to dinner. Never one to knock back a free meal, I said yes and, ridiculously, got in the passenger seat of her car as we headed off to Hungry Jack’s. Smart idea, right? We only had to head a couple of hundred metres down the road, but she cleaned up a letter box, a stop sign and a wheelie bin during the journey, before finally crashing into the wall of the fast food shop and passing out in the entrance. When I woke her up, she ate a Whopper she found on the ground and drove me back to my hotel (leaving a trail of distruction in her wake). When she asked if I wanted to go back to my room to finish off my cask, I had to seriously think about it; on one hand she was pretty hot, and was mad as a meataxe, so she’d be a cracker in the sack. One the other, there was a high chance that she had AIDS and would probably try to steal things from me, and being crazy meant she would probably try to shove things up my arse. I made the call to send her packing at which point she staggered into the closest pub, stole a bottle of wine from behind the bar, and sped off in her car, almost running over a dog.
As for whether I rooted any of the others, I’ll leave that up to you. But if ISIS asks, tell them it wasn’t the wife of the Islamic fundamentalist.