Chapter 13
Somewhere in that hectic schedule, I managed to squeeze in an assignment with a weekly national newsmagazine, my only attempt at photojournalism, and I hope, my last. I'd say never, except that word always has a way of turning around on me. Every time I vow to never do something ever again, I usually end up doing it. So I'll just let it suffice to say that I'm not looking forward to doing any more journalism stints.
'Why?' you may ask.
Glad you asked. Here goes:
This friend of mine in New York was a top editor for Headline magazine, one of the top weekly newsmagazines. At a party one night we got into discussing photojournalism. I was marveling that the photographers could come up with some of the photos they did what with the conditions they were taken under-split second action, riots and all. I was particularly praiseworthy of the men who'd done such service covering the Vietnam war.
Surprisingly, John, my friend who worked for the magazine told me that I could probably do a better job than nine-tenths of the newsmen he had on his staff my first time out. I tried to brush the remark off, but he was pretty much into his cups, insisting that this was the case.
"Sure some of the boys are good," he conceded, "but they're lucky most of the time. I mean you hang around a place where a newsworthy event is about to happen, you've got the situation for drama. And then you snap off about two roles of film of it, and then you might get a blurry, but dramatic photograph. But as far as composition . . . shit. These boys are a bunch of daredevils. To try and compare what they do with what you do, Donna (he was referring primarily to my book which had just been released), is like comparing a square dancer to a ballerina, a stock car jalopy racer to a Grand Prix Formula-One driver."
I broke in long enough to disagree with him, stating that each field had its particular merits, but to judge them one against the other is unfair.
"Unfair my ass," he fired back. "You both take pictures, don't you?"
"Yes, but. . . " and so it went, neither one of us able to get our point across to the other. I gave the matter little thought until he called me long-distance a few weeks later, once I was back in L.A.
"What you doing, Donna? Got something important?"
I did have to get some models together for a swimwear ad that I'd be shooting next week, but I admitted that I was enjoying one of my few light weekends other than that. But he reminded me of our discussion, telling me that he had an opportunity to prove to me he was right. . . about his thing about photographers.
I tried to put him off the subject, but he was really insistent, saying that he'd pay me this outrageous amount just to go cover this story that was breaking. I'd only have to go for a day, and I'd be paid whether I took a photo or not. But if I did, and it was accepted, he'd pay me double. It seemed he had this bet with a friend about it, and I really couldn't talk my way out of it, even though I wanted to.
He told me that I could go up with this guy named Paul, who ran the bureau in Los Angeles, then hung up before I even got a chance to find out what I'd be covering. I called Paul up, and he had been filled in on it. He was a very nice sounding gentleman with a deep Southern accent, and I do believe I would have stayed home if he hadn't used some polite persuasion on me, insisting that he didn't care about the photo assignment, but that he'd have hell to pay from our mutual friend in New York if I didn't go. There would be a regular Headline photographer on the scene, so they wouldn't be dependent on me for the photos. The whole thing was just to satisfy John's penchant for betting.
I packed up a small suitcase as Paul had warned me that we might have to spend a night there, and decided to take along one of my 35mm's just in case I decided to shoot for the hell of it. I didn't much like John's idea, but Paul had persuaded me that it might turn out to be fun. In fact, it was Paul that was the real reason I was going. If he turned out to be as sexy as the voice sounded over the phone, this would be something. Ordinarily, I don't follow whims like this, but since I had nothing special doing that weekend, I thought I'd give it a whirl.
Shit, I realized as I headed for the door when Paul rang, I don't even know where the fuck we're going!
It was true. I'd gotten so hung up arguing with John, then being gently crooned by Paul's voice, that I'd forgotten to even ask where we were off to. A fine reporter I'd make. I hadn't gotten the 'what,' or 'where,' but I'd gotten the 'who.' I really didn't care who the star attraction was at whatever the fuck place we were going. I just was hoping that Paul would turn out to be as nice as he sounded. I'd been busting my ass on this straight gig for over a week, and hadn't had a good lay in an even longer time. The idea of a stranger appealed to me every once in awhile, and from the way Paul talked on the phone, the honey literally dripping into the receiver, I had the distinct feeling that he might be game himself. I just had to see if he fit the bill, and as I walked to the door, I kept my fingers crossed.
"I'm Paul," smiled the handsome stranger offering me his hand when I opened the door. "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. My, you're everything John said you were . . . and much more."
I was so flattered that I could hardly speak-this man was not only handsome, he was perfect. He had a deep tan that went well with his jet black hair, salted with just a touch of gray. Around forty. Tall and lean. The biggest grin you've ever seen in your life-bingo.
He helped me carry my suitcase down to the car and we were off. He drove steadily, heading east from L.A. along the San Bernardino Freeway. He wore a light blue dress shirt and a rep tie, but he wore it casually . . . with grace.
I don't usually remember that many details about someone, but Paul is a special person in my life. As we talked, I began to ease up somewhat, realizing that he found me every bit as attractive as I did him, and why shouldn't he?
"I don't know about this assignment," he told me. "It could have been covered by our regular reporters. In fact, they're already up there . . . or down there, or whatever. If John hadn't insisted that I act as your personal bodyguard, I wouldn't be here. But I'll have to say, now that I see you, I'm glad I gave up my weekend at the beach."
I told him that I was glad to come along, but that I really had been forced into it by John. I admitted that I was going to call it off until I heard his voice.
Suddenly it dawned on us-that fucker. He'd set us up. He'd gone through all that elaborate ritual just to get us together. He was one of those guys who was unhappily married, but was always trying to get other people into the same rut. He'd always been asking me when I'd get married, and Paul told me he did the same thing with him. Paul had been divorced for six or seven years, and had fathered one son. We couldn't really prove it . . . not yet, but we had more than a sneaking hunch that he'd set this whole thing up for that reason.
"Well, I'm not so hot about marriage," I confided, "But I do like the idea of meeting up with you-whatever the circumstances."
Paul told me as much as the same, adding, "We ought to rig something up to blow his mind. Send back some picture dummied up of us being kidnapped or something."
"My," I fretted. "You mean this place is full of dangerous things."
"Not really," he said, "but it could be rough.
That's for the cub reporters to handle, not us." We'd gotten close enough to the Imperial Valley that we decided to take a look anyway. The story concerned a group of migrant farm workers who were trying to set up a picket of a cucumber field. It seemed that their leader, Cesar Ensalada, had run out of just about every vegetable to strike except the cucumber. He really wasn't trying to strike for better pay and working conditions-he wanted to wipe out all vegetables because he hated them. As a child, young Cesar was forced to clean his plate of all the vegetables, and now he was getting back at them.
"I feel we're going to succeed this time," he had told a reporter before the strike began. "Some day the man won't be around the house and the wife goes to the kitchen . . . no cucumbers. It could be a tragedy."
By the time we got there, the whole thing was over, the deputies having broken things up. The other Headline reporters had split for parts unknown, but we weren't really concerned with the story anyway. All the same, I got out and took a few shots of a cucumber that was lying in the road, telling Paul that he could send it to John and provide the caption.
"Well," he drawled, "why don't we find the nearest motel to get out of this heat, and maybe we can think of something."
I was all for it. We ended up driving all the way to Palm Springs before finding a suitable motel, but we wanted to do it in style. I was hoping that we could work out a good caption for John to go with my picture of the cucumber. Neither one of us were in the least bit angry at him. We just wished that he'd come up with an easier way for us to meet, rather than dragging us out into the terrible heat. And yet it did appeal to our senses of adventure.
Paul and I didn't have bathing suits with us, so we decided to cool off with a nice cold mutual shower.
"Might as well get to know each other," he smiled. "I've got a feeling this friendship's going to last a long time."
I hoped so. He surprised me by breaking out a joint and firing it up, taking a hit, then passing it to me.
"I hope you don't object," he smiled.
Well, you never know who's going to be turning on these days-he could have fooled me. But that only made it better. It was really good grass, and I was completely ripped after a few hits.
"Shower time," Paul called out, stripping off his pants and shirt, exposing a sleek, tanned frame that should have belonged to a man fifteen years his junior. He ripped off his shorts, exposing the fact that he'd gotten a little turned-on, thinking about me.
Well, as long as he wasn't shy, I could see no reason why I should be. I stripped down quickly and followed him into the bathroom, where he was already in the shower.
"Whew," he grinned, staring hard at my body as I stepped in.
And that's the last thing either one of us said for several minutes. We soaped each other down real good, the feel of each other's hands in the tingle of the cool shower spray getting us so worked up that we couldn't continue without balling.
We grabbed each other, our hands gripping hard so as not to let go of the slippery flesh. He walked me up against the cool tiles of the shower wall, bending down from the knees so he could give it to me standing up.
His prick was standing out from his body at a thirty degree angle, measuring backwards from the stomach. The other way it was, let's see . . . oh, I never was much good at math. But I knew enough to know that he had a good eight inches, the angle of the dangle being equal to the heat of the meat.
I spread my legs so that he could shove that big mother of his up there. I felt my body shiver as he entered me, pushing up inside my tenderest regions. And then he lifted me up in his strong hands, pinning my back against the wall for support. Somehow, as slippery as we were with soap and sweat, I knew he wouldn't let me fall.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and hooked them together above the ankles, as his strong hands cupped my smooth asscheeks hard. And then we began humping, fucking at each other with the wildest abandon I'd ever known.
My tits bounced against his chest as he kissed at my ears and shoulders. The spray bounced off his back, making little rivulets of soap run down our skin as he worked his hips up into me, making his prick do just what he wanted.
When we came, I had to hold on for dear life, but somehow he managed to set me down softly. I think we screwed each other in every way known to man that night, and on into a second night. We were both sort of down having to return to the great blanket of brown smog that Monday, but we decided to see each other as often as possible. I hadn't met a man like this since . . . well to be honest, I'd never met a man like Paul before. It was really a great experience.
Once in Los Angeles, we ran off a copy of the cucumber and wired it to John in New York. All it said was: "Thanks for the memories, Paul and Donna." We just couldn't bring ourselves to knock him after what he'd done for us.