She told me to meet her at the bridge, so that's what I did. Funny thing was, I never did catch her name. It's one of those things that usually only happens in a dream, so when it's finally presented in plain view it's more of a "what the fuck" sorta thing when it actually happens. In the end, it seems that it was lost in translation anyways. What the hell am I talking about? Utter bollocks really. As I said, it didn't make sense at the time, it still don't make sense now. And I don't think I'll ever get a handle on it.
So there I was, right. Just finished arranging the last array of photos from the latest shoot in Florence. Figured I'd pop down for a curry and head back to the flat for the evening. Packed up the portfolio, and down I went. Had me usual Chicken Makhani and a pint of Taj Mahal. I flipped open the portfolio and I saw her. Where'd you come from, I thought. Right behind Allesandra was this bird I'd not noticed when I snapped the photo. Thing was, I don't recall her being there at all during the shoot. None of the crew saw her. Hell, nobody saw her. If we'd've seen her, no doubt Jamie'd have nabbed straight away and dolled her up. She'd made Allesandra look like me. Not that I'm bad looking for a guy, I've been told I'm rather attractive actually, but a Victoria's Secret model ain't supposed to look like a guy, not even a rather attractive one. Especially not the female variety such as Allesandra. Right... sorry. Off topic again.
So, there's this bird. A tad short for our tastes, a tad pale for our tastes, or for a Secret's model at any rate, but everything else was fucking spectacular. Long blond hair. Green eyes. Full lips. Curves and hip action that'd make a normal woman throw her back out of alignment. What? Oh right. Well, the photo caught her in mid-stride. Eerie thing was, it was like she was looking right at the camera. It was like Allesandra wasn't even there.
So anyhow, back at the flat in SoHo I pull out the shot and slide it into the magnifier. Every single thing about her was absolutely perfect, it was like I'd somehow shot an angel. Several fags later, I find myself still mesmerized. An entire ashtray later and I'm still looking at her. I pulled out my mobile and rang up Jamie. He answers after a ring or two. I ask him to pop round, I get the usual blabbering, motherfucks and discussions of the canine lineage of my mother, but he turns up as usual. Good thing was, he'd not been into the smack yet so the fat cunt was still lucid.
I showed Jamie the shot in the magnifier. " 'Kin 'ell," he says. "That bird wasn't there," he says. I just nodded. "Who is she" he asks. "I dunno" I answered. "But, I cannot take my eyes off of her," I said. "No shit," he says. Another ashtray went by and we both sorta shake our heads and realize we've been staring at the same green eyes. "Right," says he, "I'm for home."
The image just would not leave my mind. I'm wandering around my flat and hours are passing. I think I finally nodded off around 4am. I say I think, because it was one of those fitful sleeps where you cannot tell if you're sleeping or not. She just kept walking around in my thoughts. Slow motion. Regular speed. Split views as if there were mirror images of her walking side by side converging and then diverging. I know I did lay down in bed at one point, but I woke up in the recliner holding the shot in my hand.
After showering and dressing, I went back to the agency with the portfolio. I could not pay attention during the layout meeting. I kept going back to her in my mind. It was like I could smell her. Feel her. Those green eyes staring at me through the photopaper. Hours turned in to days. I carried the shot with me everywhere.
The company sent Jamie and I back to Florence early the next week. Ostensibly we were to lias with the Tuscany office about getting the girls into one of the vienyards or some irrelevant place. During the down time when Jamie the Fat-Git was off stuffing his face, I went for a walk. Before I realized it, I was there; standing on the Ponte Vecchio. I stood dumb founded, midstream, where I had stood not two weeks ago shooting Allesandra. The lighting was much different of course, the Tuscan sun had set for the day. I turned to gaze out over the Arno when my mobile rang. I went to pull it out of the holder on my belt, fumbled it, and watched it fall gracefully down into the brown water below. After a few choice Anglo-Saxonisms, there she was.
"That was bad luck, no?" she said in Italian accented English.
I must have looked a right arse at that moment with my mouth agape. I shook my head and mustered a smile and said, "Yeah." Such a profound statement. In the split second I had to think of something more worthwhile to say I sized her up: 5'6" tall, 120-130lbs 34c/24/34; the latest Trussardi leather; Louis Vuitton handbag; Prada heels.
"How did you know I spoke English," I asked. Pathetic bloody question, but it was all I could muster.
"Your terms of endearment for your lost telephone," she said with an impish smile and a coquettishly raised eyebrow.
"Ah," said I. "Right, yes, my apologies, I'm afraid I must look rather dim."
She merely smiled, shrugged and walked off. I turned to watch her go, she turned to see if I was watching. Another raised eyebrow coupled with a smile, a toss of her long blond hair and she turned into one of the shops on the bridge. A moment later my heart started to beat again. In a trance I walked in the opposite direction towards a wine bar.
I sat down on the balcony over the river and pulled the nearest bit of literature towards me. It was some nameless Italian fashion rag. I aimlessly leafed through it while drinking some non-descript red from Montepulciano. Medium bodied, not well balanced, not particularly memorable... and there she was again. I looked up and she's standing there in all her Trussardi glory.
"Is this seat taken?" she asked.
I stood up with a smile and said "Please," while motioning to the empty chair.
"Where have I seen you before," she asked me. "I know I have seen you someplace."
I smiled, thinking all manners of witty and Flemming-esque responses, but decided on, "I was at a photo shoot here a few weeks back."
"You are a photographer?" she asked with real interest.
I smiled and nodded.
"Ah yes, now I recall," she said and giggled. "You were in a taking pictures of models. They were very pretty." She giggled again. "You are a lucky man to be surrounded by such beauty."
"I do like my job," I managed to muster.
So then we just started to talk. We hit on everything. Fashion, travel, music, wine, cigars... Christ I think we even hit on the early Medieaval Church and Helena Bonham Carter. Everything I brought up, she knew. Everything she brought up, I related to. I can't describe it. It was like we were a perfect match. After several hours we were finishing each other's sentences. We laughed naturally. It was not like girls back in Britain whom I'd dated. Sure I'd had connections with many of them, or a semblance of chemistry, but this... this was something new.
Before I new it we were walking into Florence. A disco-tech, a Martini bar, and then we were walking near the Basilica Santa Maria del Fiore hand in hand. The conversation was easy and flowing. We walked rather closely and I often felt her left hip brush my right thigh. It sent chills up my spine and I prayed that it was doing the same for her. Her shoulder brushed my upper arm with greater frequency. Then we were back on the bridge. Right in the middle, where I first saw her. She stood with her back leaning up against the stone railing, her breasts arched out provacatively.
I tried to step in closer to her and she playfully turned out of my grasp before I could embrace her, but always her left hand touched right as she pulled away. I asked her where she lived, she merely closed her eyes slightly like a purring kitten, pursed her lips with a seductive smile and shook her head slightly. I walked up to her again and she spun herself into my arms with her back to me and swayed back and forth slightly, pressing the back of her head against my chin. We looked out over the quietly gurgling waters of the Arno. "I don't want this night to end," I said.
She merely squeezed my hand with hers and slid it up to her breast. I turned her head slightly and kissed her on the side of the mouth. I could see her deliberating and she sucked on one side of her lip, thinking. I slowly turned her around and ran my fingers into that wonderfully thick, fragrant, golden cascade. She closed her eyes for a moment and then our eyes met. It was almost like looking into that photo for the first time, but so much better. She was here. She was real. And she was in my arms.
Time seemed to stop. Nothing existed in the world but those eyes. Our faces moved closer together, she tilted her head slightly, and her eyes closed. Our lips met, and it felt like the excitement of one hundred Christmas Mornings. The kiss lasted forever. I think that she must have bit her lip a bit, because I could taste, very faintly, the coppery taste of blood. I had never met a girl that passionate. I'd never kissed a girl that passionate or passionately.
Then we were in a bedroom, hers I presume. The love making seemed to go on forever. It felt like every fluid in my body had been taken out and replaced with something electric. I tingled. I could feel every hair on my body, every nerve end. Fuck, I can still feel it now.
Those green eyes burning with a fiery intensity I've never seen before.
She's still in me.
She was gone the next morning, but there was a note stating to meet her on the bridge that night. As if anything could keep me away. I went there and she did not turn up. I walked around there all day and night and she did not turn up. I went back to her flat. It did not appear as if she had returned. I left a note with my contact information back in London and tried as best I could to convey how desperately I wished to see her.
I don't even know her name.
Last edited by Eveshka on Sat Jan 10, 2009 10:30 pm; edited 1 time in total
I didn't fucking know what was going on with me. I would awake and see those green orbs piercing into my soul. I could smell her all around. I could see her everywhere I looked. I could not get her out of my mind. The strange thing was, I seemed to begin to change.
It was like, I woke up one morning, wandered down to the studio, and suddenly things just started clicking. Spacial organization became a snap. It fuck all to do with past experience. I could arrange a photo layout or adjust lighting as if I were merely copying a photo already developed, airbrushed, and printed into a catalog. I could also SEE better. I mean, it was great for the career. I suddenly became the golden child in the photographers circle. However, I did not seem to react to women like I used to. Not that I was ever really I whore mind you, but I liked my birds as much as the next bloke. I visited my usual haunts, but found that I was comparing every woman I met, or with whom I spoke, to "her;" my muse.
As the weeks went by I started to wonder if she was real or if it really happened. I'd look at The Photo and it would all come flooding back to me. One day, as I was planning a layout with Allesandra who had flown in from Los Angeles (why all these Brazilian birds insist on living in that sess pool is beyong me) I got this strong urge to get to Trafalgar Square. I am as patriotic as the next guy, but I've never really been into the crusty oldies, so this struck me as a bit odd. Throughout the meeting I found myself spacing out thinking of Admiral Nelson on top of a great big stone fallus with autos driving round and round it.
Well, of course I went. How could I stay away? It was probably about 9pm as I made my appearance on the scene. I circled around the stone penis several times and finally sat down on the steps of the National Gallery. I blew a fag or two. On the third, a slender hand reached into my view and pulled it from my mouth.
"Those are very bad for you," said a voice.
"Wha?" I managed to say with some shock as I turned to see who it was. I really shouldn't have been surprised, and nor are you I imagine, but ... it was her.
She was mind bogglingly beautiful and so insanely radiant that she seemed to glow.
"I've not been able to put you out of my mind," said I.
She smiled softly, almost sadly, with twinkling eyes and said, "I know."
She looked down slightly, and said, "We need to talk."
So this fuckin bird says, "We gotta talk." So I'm thinking to myself, "Self, you need to talk to her." The only intelligent thing I could muster at this point, as my fuckin heart is beating itself out of my chest, was a slight grunt and a head nod.
"What happened to you that night," I asked. She merely responded with a sad smile and gently took my hand, leading me off into the night. We wandered down the Strand into the Savoy. I could not take my eyes off of her. Every time I looked over at her she would look away with a glint of glee in her eye. I felt electrified again. It felt like there was some kind of magic flowing from her small hand into mine. Before I realized where we were we had stopped. I looked out over the Thames. We were at the Savoy Pier boarding the Silver Sturgeon. As fucking strange as it may sound, I've lived in London me entire fucking life, and not once have I ever taken a "cruise" on the Thames. I mean, yeah, there's the river, but, I dunno, it's just there quietly passing through the ages. It's rather like a constant, than an entity. I mean, it's London, not Paris or, dare I say, Florence.
Her name was Gioia she said. She was originally from Domasco, but left there a long time ago. For some strange reason, I did not really care where she was from. I listened intently, but always there was an odd euphoric sensation just being near her which made it seem as if I wasn't taking part in any conversation at all, but listening to a poetry reading that was beautiful, but nie on fucking incomprehensible. She did not eat very much, and I was too nervous to have an appetite. We ended up on the top deck as we passed the Tower. She had her back pressed into my front and my arms were wrapped around her. I could only think of how sinfully good this felt.
"It is beautiful, no?" she murmured. She turned her head and nibbled my chin. I slowly turned her around so press my body into hers. All I could see were those green eyes twinkling at me. Such a life force. Again we were kissing passionately. Again that loss of time. Again that slightly odd, but at the same time delicious, taste of her mouth.
We ended up back at my flat by 3 am. We made love for hours. This was unreal. How could I have such a woman? It had to be too good to be true. And it was.
"I'm famished Gioia," says I with a laugh. "You drain me." She laughed as well and rolled over on to her side propping up that mind bogglingly beautiful body with her elbow. "I cannot go out anymore," she says. "I am a vampire and will burn with the sun," she says and playfully bites my nose.
"Well, I need to eat something," says I. "Come on," says I, holding out my hand. She actually looked rather put out now. For some reason my will just melted away and I felt no hunger anymore. I was afraid of displeasing her. It almost felt like I was back in school with my first crush, wanting to do anything in my power to make her like me.... and subsequently copulate with me.
"I cannot go out anymore," she said with a bit more force behind it. I cannot describe what happened next. I began to feel like I needed her again, which is what she wanted I suspect. But at the same time, I began to feel fear. Real fear. As if this bird would come with a tremendous price.
I slide back into bed with her and she kisses me. The passion starts to build. The juices start to flow and I scream out loud as I spurt inside of her. She leans down and licks the juices off of my member and I feel a little sting that turns instantly to the most intense blow job I ever had. Somehow I came again. I swear to God when she pulled away, I saw a dribble of red that was quickly licked away. I know that there was a fang as well. What the fuck?
Night turns into day and I sleep by her side through the daylight hours. I have the strangest dreams. Erotic, sensual, and utterly infuckingcomprehensible. I dream of castles in far off mountains. I dream of my bird shagging other guys... and girls. I dream of my bird dressed as if she were at a medieval faire. I dream of my bird drinking the blood of people, sometimes whilst polishing one's Longfellow, sometimes, from a pussy, but also sometimes savagely from one's neck, with the blood spurting uncontrollably and that poor bloke's lifeforce ebbing away.
I wake up bolt upright and see her laying next to me as if dead. Her eyes are closed and she's not breathing. I touch her skin and she's ice cold. I pull the covers off the bed and scramble to the floor with a yelp. The eyes, those wonderful, horrific green eyes, open and she sits upright. I recoil as her once beautifully flawless skin is bruised looking as if her blood had ceased flowing and pooled in her back, buttocks, and the backs of her limbs. She closes her eyes and the bruising quickly vanishes and a flush of colour returns to her.
"Fuck me," says I. She's out of the bed in a flash saying, "Shhhhhh, shhhhhh, Peter, shhhhhhh." Oddly enough I start to calm down. "This is normal for me my love," says she. "It takes a little bit to become presentable to ... to those not used to my lifestyle," she finished, rather lamely in my humble opinion.
"Do you love me" she asks. I answered, "yes," though I have no clue how could really love her as I know fuck all about her. But, the feeling I have for her, although I have never felt it's like before, is closest equated with love, or at least what I thought love was.
She moved towards me, delicately touched my chin with her warm hand, and kissed me softly. The kiss turned more fierce, more passionate. Before I know it we are at it again with me sliding in and out of her like nobody's business. Her tits are bouncing all over the place as she writhes in ecstacy. Then she draws her finger nail across one heaving breast and creates a small slice out of which oozes a trickle of blood. Why I did this next bit, I have no clue as I have never been into that sort of kinky shit. I started lapping up the blood as if it were chocolate sauce. She held my head to her bosom. I ejaculated with a force I had never felt before. All of my senses were in overload. I could hear things outside the flat. I could hear voices and sounds from the street. I could see things like I had never seen them before.
As I slid out of her I looked into those green eyes, blazing with triumph. They looked almost cat like, pupils were dialated and oval, not round. I took in her angelic face and saw her smile. A smile that clearly included two fangs that were slowly retracting into her gum line.
"I told you," she says. "I am a vampire." All the sounds and sensations I was experiencing, and hearing, and tasting, and enjoying, came to a dead silence. You coulda heard a pin drop.
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