Somewhere along the way, I decide that drinking is the best way to cope – best being the operative word. Sure, I go to sleep happily sedated in some whiskey-induced high that distorts the shit my life seems to be wallowing in. It brings out all the things I wish I could be. Makes them amusing and in a way, entertaining.

Problem is, the shit is still there every morning, stagnating, bedside, with a middle finger in my face and a nasty fuck you grin.

Hangovers are no deterrent. I’m a freelance photographer, so I am by no means tethered to a nine-to-five; if those even exist anymore. I live in my own world. And most of the celebrity talent I work with appreciate that. In a way, it’s empathetic. We each feel trapped for our own reasons and while the bottle is my escape, my lens seems to be theirs.

It is Wednesday, I think. The days all start to blend together. I am staring blankly at my reflection in the vanity mirror. My palms press against the cool granite supporting most of my weight while my world is spinning. ‘Who am I?’ Below the exterior, below that dim glow of my pale skin, below the success. ‘Why can’t I fucking see you?’

I squint at the mess of purple ombre hair on my head and then down to my bare chest, skipping my face altogether. Tits barely big enough to fill an A-cup. Pinkish red areolae dotting my blanched canvas. I change the angle, cocking my head to one side and wonder, ‘What time is it?’

My phone buzzes and breaks the trance; a text. The banner notification on the lock screen reads, Robert M.  Robert is a two-time Oscar-winner that I photographed years ago. My mind swirls with thoughts of what he could want. ‘Same as what they all want.’ I swipe the screen to open the message:

Doing an indie. It’s being shot in Tuscany. Starts next week. Need a personal photographer. Interested?

I leave the phone next to the sink, then pad my way to the living room to stand in front of a floor-to-ceiling wall of glass, naked. The drapes are pulled wide-open and I press my forehead to the window, legs spread, hands stretched out above me like I am preaching to a crowd. My tits, my cunt, my body, me… bare for all of Manhattan to witness.  

Twenty-two stories below, a cab lurches to a stop nearly hitting some guy in a designer business suit. From this height, I’m not able to physically hear the blare of the ensuing horn, but I know it does. Business-guy slams an open palm to the hood of the cab, yells something, then moves on. I follow him along the pavement until he reaches the park.

Nature. Even that seems forced, obligatory, so people won’t go stark raving mad over miles of industrialism.

I think back to the start when I was a nobody, before my posh two-bed condo overlooking Central Park. Back to Robert, the actor, well established in the industry. I landed him by sleeping with his publicist.

You see, publicists are the gatekeepers – most often they are the ones deciding who shoots their clients. So, after dinner and some drinks, I let him fuck me. Shallow, I know, but I got to shoot his client, Robert M; two-time oscar winner nearing his sunset and looking for a boost.

That gig put me on the map and I never had to whore-out again, never for work, anyway. But, it’s something that Robert M had said, an exchange we had as we were wrapping up the photo shoot. It worms its way to the surface of my mind as I stand there in my picture window overlooking the city, pondering life.

“Photoshoots are like going to the fucking dentist,” he had said. “I know it needs to be done, but I get anxiety-sweats for days leading up to the appointment.”

I pointed him to an assortment of liquor on my bar. “My version of novocaine and you are welcome to self medicate, but…” I stared down at the rear display on my Canon Mark IV, “I’m certain I’ve got what I need.” I spun the camera and flashed him the image. The depth and character were fucking amazing and I hadn’t even edited it yet. He smiled.

“That's just it, kid. You have a way about you.” He was putting on his Canali herringbone overcoat, which brought out the flecks of grey on his chin. “I looked over some of your work before I agreed to come,” he continued as he straightened his collar. “All good photographers have an eye. It’s what separates them from the masses, right?”

His hands were in his pockets, the question was rhetorical. I remember being struck by how gorgeous he was, raw and debonaire. A lifetime of Hollywood stories embedded into the crevice of each wrinkle. I flipped the camera back up to my eye, squinted and snapped.

“Your ability goes beyond just being able to see,” he went on. “You take hold of your subject in a way they never feel, seducing out their ineffable essence. You grab it, full-force, draw it from the ether and present it to the world.” His visage never changed. “You’re like a goddamn marinate with that lens, young lady.” He spun away.

“Do you want to see the proofs before I send them to Randy’s office?”

“Not necessary. Just promise me one thing.” He paused at the door and looked back at me. The look in his eye cut to my core; chin raised in steeled confidence. “Give me that edge. It’s what I came here for.”   

That edge. I have a way of finding it. Celebrities, athletes, dignitaries, they all come to me searching for their inner beauty.  And I am able to show it to them.

“Hey, Siri!” I bark into the glass. Two dings chime from the bathroom. “Send a text to Robert M.”

The ubiquitous voice rings back, “OK. What do you want to say?”

“I’m in.”

“Your message to Robert M says, ‘I’m in’. Ready to send it?”

“Yes.”

~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~

My eyes are still closed as I wake. I listen to the gentle hum of an air conditioner that is tirelessly working to keep my bedroom cool. It’s pacifying and cradles me as I drift in and out of consciousness. The top sheet covers the lower half of one leg, then twists up laying by my side exposing the rest of my body.
 
A ray of sun pierces a thin space between the window shade and where it fails to butt into its surrounding sill. The beam emits a warmth that cascades over my exposed chest. I stare up to the cracked stucco ceiling and contemplate getting up as my slumber slowly slips away.

I arrived at the Tuscan villa the night before, well past midnight. When we approached, it was lit and striking. It reminded me of a large Italian-style mansion you might see nestled in the hills of Bel-Air.

Robert’s agency made all the accommodations. A private jet took me from Teterboro to Florence where a charter-van hauled me and my camera to the small town of Ponzano. As I had landed, and service restored to my phone, a message had come through from Robert:

Welcome to Italy, kid. Van should take you to a quaint little place we rented in Chianti. Get settled, taste their wine, I’ll see you sometime tomorrow. Ciao!

The place is the Vineyard at Villa Palacio, a refurbished, seventh-century monastery. The exterior of the building is all stone, as is most of the interior, aside from where they’ve modernized it with sheetrock. My curiosity of the surroundings beyond the villa mixes with the fact that I’ve already slept away most of the day – jetlag on top of my already fucked-up sleep schedule. I get up, slip on a top, and drearily make my way to a paned-glass door which leads to a balcony off my bedroom.

I step out into the Tuscan air, black lycra panties and cotton tank-top to match. Bare feet absorb the sun-soaked warmth of the masonry. The transition from the cool airconditioning to the humid, late-afternoon heat of Tuscany in August gives me a soothing chill.

Twenty-five acres of working vineyard floods my view. Row after row of gnarly grapevines stripes the rolling hills, softly bending with the contour of the earth. The broad leaves of the vines,  a deep rich green, reflect the golden hue of a fat setting sun. In the distance, elysian fields of sunflowers crane their heads to catch the dwindling light. I palm the railing, rise to my tiptoes and fill my lungs with her petrichor, sweet and dewy and heavy.

Some workers here and there file in with the day's harvest. Two thick elderly women pass below; scowls etched deep into their weathered leathery faces. Each is clothed head to toe in traditional garb as if the heat itself is too intimidated to affect them. Their gloved hands share the burden of an overflowing basket of bulbous purple bounty.

Not far behind them, movement catches my eye. A girl wearing a cream-colored, crochet sun-hat; perhaps a throwback to the seventies. It strikes me, seems out of place, as if she’d spotted it in a thrift store bin and whimsically decided it made for the best headcover. She tilts her head up to face me.

The sun catches the brim of her hat and cascades a tangerine shadow softening her face. A vivid and telling look that captivates me, but only for a moment before she turns to venture deeper into the vines. Warm waves of her brown tresses foam luxuriously down her back, swaying with each bounce as she steps.

She trails her fingers over the leaves and dances barefoot through the sodden clay. Her tan legs are tall and thin, like the wooded-over stalks that twist up into the canopy of green and purple. She spins again to walk backward as if she feels me staring at her.

Her face is lit with a devious innocence, I can see it clearly. An air of avidity behind eyes that speak to me a thousand silent ways. She is carefree and mischievously playful. Like a bird, flitting from branch to branch in search of life, the life she needs to feed her.

She appears to be my age.

To my left, stairs lead from the balcony to the grounds below. I snatch my camera and float down to follow her, needing to capture this bird with my lens.

I keep my distance, but she knows I am there, watching. She puts on a display, pulling her hat down to shield her face then raises up with a smile and a pinch of her lower lip. My heart races caught like a rabbit in her tantalizing snare.

Bird-girl beckons me to come, then scurries away before I can approach, disappearing through a picket of cypress trees. I give chase with a hasty walk, but the stare of a passerby suddenly makes me aware that I am still only in my panties, and a tank.

“Ciao.” I nod to him.

“Ciao, Bella.” He nods back as I pass. I can feel his eyes follow.

A somewhat nervous chuckle bubbles up from my tummy – the first in as long as I can remember. It’s followed by another, then another even deeper, and soon I am laughing like a crazed loon, cradling my camera and skipping. Unsure of where I am going. Unsure of who I am following, but steadfast in my half-naked pursuit.  

The cool muddy earth feels wonderful as it squishes between my toes. I pluck a grape. Its skin is smooth and thick and I squeeze it, pressing out the juice and seeds from its flesh. My fingers stain with its nectar and I bring them to my lips for a taste. Bitter, not at all like its sweet-smelling appearance.

By the time I catch up to Bird, she is sitting on a gentle knoll by a small pond. The grass is wispy and wild looking. A few straggling sunflowers sprout here and there, volunteers carried by the wind to set root where they landed. A perfect watercolor backdrop.

I don’t have my light meter, but it’s just before sunset, the golden hour. I make a few adjustments to the shutter speed and aperture and snap several pics. Bird slides back onto her elbows. She is calm, at ease, one leg bent with her chin tucked to her chest. I swing around still at a distance to get a perpendicular view. She looks to me as if to pose and smiles in acceptance of my ogle.

I squat to sit cross-legged, leaning my back against a nearby fencepost. Bird is inviting, she shows no signs of wanting me to keep away. Yet, I feel comfortable just watching, observing, taking her in as she seemingly settles into her element. The camera sits idly by my side.

She turns her gaze back to the landscape. Her smile wanes. I seem to have disappeared from her thoughts. My mind tries to play out what she is thinking. Tomorrow’s events? The repetitiveness of life in general? A past love? A current love? Maybe that waning look is just her contentment being out in nature, syncing with its harmony and balance, surrender.

The ponder of her thoughts leads me to my own. We strive so hard to get more, want more. More money, more power, more success. We fucking push to the point of over-consumption, but, in contrast, the nature that now surrounds me defies that. I begin to see it. These vines and flowers will only grow as thick and plentiful as the water and nutrients they are provided.

Bird fidgets. I spot her slipping a hand into the unbuttoned waist of her jaggedly cut jean shorts; frayed like she’d snipped them with a pair of pruning shears. She knows full well I can see her, she doesn't seem to care. From my angle, I can see the muscles ripple in her slender forearm as her fingers feel their way beneath the fabric. I fantasize about what those fingers encounter as they explore.

A tuft of hair, perhaps, neatly kept but untrimmed, dark and thick. Warm, wet folds, probably musky from a mix of arousal and the heat of the day. I breathe in deep through my nose and close my eyes for a moment.

As I open them, I see Bird now fully reclined. Both legs bent pressing her heels into the ground to lift her hips, wiggling them free from her jean-short bondage. I was spot-on about the tuft of hair.

Bird’s shirt is next to go. A loose-fitting powder-blue t-shirt that is easily pulled up and off. I spin my head side to side, half-expecting a crowd of onlookers to start filing in for the show. As far as I can tell, we are alone. And, as far as I can tell, it wouldn't have mattered to this girl if we weren’t.

She is gorgeous. Comfortable in her skin, but not in a flaunting, egotistical way. Her hands slowly gather some perspiration from her flat stomach to massage it into each breast. Dark areolas outline spired nipples, thumbs and index fingers connecting to pinch them.

My pulse races. I’ve watched lovers stimulate themselves before and the turnon is always tremendous. But this experience is different. Bird seems to be pleasing herself not only for me, not only for her, but with and for her surroundings. My breath quickens to match my heart, nipples press against the soft cotton top, my pussy heated and moist.

I slide my fingers beneath the material of my panties, gently teasing over my labia. One digit dips through the wetness, then up to rub my increasingly needy clit, eyes never leaving Bird.

She arches the small of her back, pushing her shoulder blades into the grass and dirt. Her eyes are closed and I try to imagine what color they are. Yellow-brown, like the earthy pigment of raw sienna, or a crystal blue like the open waters of the Mediterranean. Wide and wondrously inquisitive, reticent when she wants them to be, but boisterous and unafraid.

I slide my middle finger inside me, trapping my swelling clit under the butt of my palm, pressing. My other hand pulls my shirt up, just enough to crescent over the top of my tits. Now bare and exposed, I take pleasure in the silky softness of my left breast, squeezing and raking my dark polished nails against the flesh. My pussy pulsates and clenches against my slowly swirling finger, walls thicken with excitement.

A pouty moan escapes my lips. I study her face to see if she heard it. She seems consumed by her reverie, completely uninhibited by self-awareness. Uncaged. Free.

The sun is now touching the horizon and begins to paint the sky with a high-impact orange, perfectly balanced against her naked creamy white frame. From my angle, I can see the profile of her mons pubis, nicely capped with her thick and wispy hair. Her fingers teasingly run through the fur before settling them between her thighs.

I am unable to see exactly what she is doing to herself, but her body language reads like an erotic narrative. I immerse myself in her story, pushing another finger inside my cunt. The gentle sounds of her pleasure waft on the breeze filling my mind with increasingly perverse thoughts. I begin to subtly gyrate my hips, grinding my clit into my hand, fingers walking over my g-spot.

Watching her, reading her signs, listening to her moans, I can tell she is close and I am right there with her. I pull myself from my tight wet hole to attend to my clit. Perfectly positioned under my lubed-up middle and ring fingers, I press and pop my erect nub between them. My other hand tweaking my exposed nipple adding an alternating sting of stimulation.

My pace increases, sliding the slick pads of my fingers back and forth across my button. Bird’s body seems to lock. Her mouth gaping in a silent scream of pleasure while her legs clamp together to trap her hand. It's like she’s momentarily frozen in her orgasm and I quickly close my eyes to sear it to my memory.

The image teases my mind and I think of her body, what it must feel like. Hard in places and silky-soft in others. I’m tempted to slow my pace, to savor it, to edge a while longer but I can’t hold back. I start rubbing harder, round and round, then pushing lower, folding over to penetrate once more. My heart is racing and I feel my walls tighten, forcing my body into an arch as I give myself over to my orgasm.

I sit there, eyes still closed, letting my body calm on its own. I love that moment, that glow, the insurgence of euphoria that nuzzles every muscle immediately after.

I slowly retract my fingers and blink my eyes open.

Bird gets up, her clothes gathered in her arms. She stares at me and I smile awkwardly, pulling my tank top back down over my tits. She smiles back, slips on her shirt and shimmies up her jean-shorts. A wave of panic washes over me as I wonder what I will say.

I get to my feet, standing still. Waiting.

She shifts, hat in hand, gives a slight shrug of her left shoulder, then pivots and silently walks away. I want to call out to her, but something inside stops me. Something inside is satisfied with watching her frame disappear from sight into the Tuscan mist. I reach for my camera.

The air is cooler as I stroll back to the villa. It's not yet dark, but the workers have all gone to wherever it is that they go. My head is buried in the camera’s rear display flipping through the day’s shots.

“Hey, kid.” His voice startles me. I jolt my head up.

“Oh. Hey, Robert. When did you get in?”

“Just threw my bags in the room. Nice place, huh?” He stretches his arms wide and looks out past me to the purplish haze now settling on the vineyard.

I don’t answer. I just stand there, dumb, hands to my side, satiated and still half-naked.

He looks back to me, inquisitively. “You may wanna throw something on before dinner. The old ladies here will spit in your soup.”

I walk past him to my balcony stairs.

“Hey, kid!” he calls to me as I reach the first step. His tone is more serious. “You brought that edge, right?”

A smirk bends into my lips. I stare at him for an uncomfortable amount of time. My gaze drops back to the pics on the camera’s rear display and I continue up the stairs.

“Actually,” I say, head down, loud enough for him to hear, “I’m thinking of taking up birdwatching.”

He belts out a laugh. “Fucking birdwatching? Does it pay?”

“More than you could possibly imagine.”