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“Ok, sure. Shoot.” I sipped my Corona with lime and waited for the burn of criticism.
“I’ll bet you really love your mom. Would do anything for her, anytime. Am I right?” She shielded her eyes from the setting sun, meeting mine in victory.
I laughed, “Yeah, you’re right.” I smiled as she did a little happy dance in her chair.
“You’re very intuitive, Juniper.”
Every summer,our family hosted a Memorial Day party on the beach.
Bonfires, music and food. All welcome. Dad’s parties kicked off the summer and attended by the same people. Tourists and vacationers would sometimes stumble in, brought along by a guest or crashing the party altogether. That was also when my amateur photography began.
Those nights, I had taken my best shots. Candid, spontaneous photos. Raw, beautiful, and vulnerable. I found the most beauty was in the people who did not realise they were being photographed. Youth, happiness, and parties assimilated with joy. I caught so many in that blissful state of mind, party after party.
The nagging at the back of my mind was relentless. The nameless faces I captured, I kept every one of them and I still travel back to those times through photographs. All caught behind the lens of a camera. The one passion I should have chased, instead of giving up and giving in to my family’s insistence on marrying.
Just like Dad wanted.
I was popular in High-school. I ran track and played field hockey every year. Ski-in ski-out vacations at Lake Tahoe every winter. I refused to be with anyone who weighed less than I did. I needed a man who could handle my dangerous curves and voluptuous flesh. The same way I liked a petite brunette woman to handle my rough domination.
I could get just about any man or woman I wanted, but I didn’t want just one person. I wanted more than that. I still practiced yoga daily, but my taste for wine only increased with age. Ironically, my sex-drive was even more active now than it was when I was a twenty-year-old newlywed.
The only memories I have with my father, if you didn’t count all the galas and fundraisers for the club or the town, were photography. He had an eye for capturing animals in their wild glory. A cheetah mauling a gazelle, or a lion in a tree and on the prowl. I stood in awe in front of the hanging rows of photos, not yet developed- the excitement almost exploding out of my seven-year-old little body. He was cold, so I got bored with him and photography.
Sex was more fun; parties were even more fun. So, the blurry days of high school were over-sighted, with handsome older teachers and cocky football players in the beginning of their prime. I never kept my hands out of the honey pot; and I dipped my fingers inside every chance I got. Pubescent boys couldn’t wait to slide into a warm pussy and fucked me in locker rooms, while their friends watched.
And I loved it.
I loved taking in their tortured faces as they contorted with pleasure. They tugged on their cocks and watched me get rammed against the lockers by Chad, number thirty-four. I realised I had boundary issues with sex when I fucked my English teacher on his desk after detention. Then when you put together two attractive people with no boundaries? Things can get messy.
The image of a flickering fluorescent bulb overhead, while I smiled into the curve of his thick neck and blonde curls. I had my first orgasm with no help from my clit. Mr. White and I couldn’t keep our hands off each other, so much so that they caught us, and promptly fired him. I could graduate with honours, but not on stage. I had to hide my face during graduation. What a proud moment for me. The daughter of a wealthy yacht owner gets a beloved teacher fired.
The local papers had a field day with it, and by the time it was over and forgotten, my father hated me. Spent even less time with me than he did before. Shipping me off to a rehab for sex addicts (my mother’s idea, not his). I stayed for nearly nine months, enjoying being catered to yet not babysat day to day. The number of women I slept with gave me a high enough body count that would make anyone blush. I learned things about my body there that could only be described as divinity. Finding spirituality through body-shattering orgasms.
It was there that I started photographing people for the first time since I was a teen. Some of my favourite gallery displays were taken there, at that place. They say people with any addictions are just people with an addictive personality. It’s not just one addiction, it’s usually more than one. I might be half broke, but I could still pull off an epic party and wardrobe. I just needed to tell the right people and get lots of alcohol.
I should check the lockbox at the Marina. Maybe this party could be epic after all. Especially before the wedding. I needed to be around youth. Bright, hopeful youth. I associated my youth with fucking. Lots and lots of fucking. I hated men almost as much as I enjoyed sexual degradation and dominance. I sat on the back porch of the beach house, envisioning what it would feel like to live in another country. Learning an entirely new way to live, to thrive.
I took a sip of my champagne and thought back to Avery. It seemed like my mind always went back to him when I thought about love if I thought about passion. He saw me for all of me and accepted. He was always modest because he had his own demons, and drugs were his. The landscaper from my friend’s house, the tall Greek who I couldn’t help but run to my bag and dig out my camera for. I hadn’t wanted to photograph someone like that in years. His features were sharp and dark, emerald eyes and thick hair. His height and shoulder span alone made me want a shirtless photo of the man. But I restrained myself from asking.
He smiled at me after wiping his brow. My heart gently tugged, and my hands shook. I felt like my tongue wasn’t working right when I asked him if I could take the picture.
Now I scanned crowds for his face, thinking that maybe fate would allow me to capture his angular jaw once more.
I pulledon a green camo tee; the fabric stretched across my chest and fitted at the bicep.
I flexed into the mirror and looked at my sharp profile. If you took off the tattoos and pierced ears, I was my father. In personality? Total fucking opposites. Dad was a bit of a traditional guy. Raised in a traditional Greek family. I think that’s the reason he proposed to mom. He fell in love, got her pregnant and wanted to do the right thing.
Mom talked about our father as if he was a mirage. She fell for him fast, a ‘sex-haze’ for two straight weeks of vacation. Well, that sex haze led to Jeno and I.
Did she regret it all? Maybe.
But I know our father didn’t. And he would do it all over again. His traditional ways were keeping us from moving into the new house, and I was tiring of living out of a suitcase. Sick of sharing a room with my adult brother, keeping me up with his stupid fucking reading lamp. We couldn’t move in with his mystery lady until the divorce was final.
Dad had to make a show of his new bride— and new family. I wanted to avoid all of it. A week now, working six till four, mowing lawns and weed whacking around dog shit. It was Friday, and Leo would be here soon. Every weekend since we had moved, he had visited.
For the first time in our friendship, Leo hadn’t talked to me about a love interest at all. I think it was the first time we were both single. I thought maybe it was the move. He was too distracted by the change, didn’t want to bother me with Sacramento drama. But I wanted to know. I was curious about his love life, not just for comparison, but something else, too.
Jealousy, maybe?
