Peter Liu - Watering Heaven

When I dropped him off, he turned to me intently and asked, “What’s the moral of the story, man?”

“Don’t fall in love with strippers?”

“Don’t try changing people, because you can’t.” He gave me a grin. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Hey,” I called out.

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever feel — do you ever feel like everything we do is fake and we just lie to make up things visually?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Do you ever get tired of it?”

He laughed. “Dude, that’s our job as photographers.” He gave me a pat on the back. “I think you’re suffering from breakup depression. There’ll be some cute girls tonight. We’ll have fun.”

He hopped out, grabbed his bags, and strolled up to his apartment.

II.

It was evening when I met him. I got into his Jeep, a manual transmission with a stubborn, raucous engine.

“What’s been up with you?” he asked as we headed towards Burbank. Tara — a model I’d worked with, who was his friend — had told him I didn’t want to shoot nudes of her.

“I felt uncomfortable about it,” I said.

He burst into laughter. “You’re talented, but you gotta learn how to have fun once in a while.”

“I don’t want to shoot nudes.”

“There are perks with this job, you know? You’re the only photographer I know who doesn’t want to date models.”

“It’s not like I don’t want to date them. It’s more like I’m working with them and I feel self-conscious if I hit on them.”

“And they know that! That’s why they’re attracted to you. You gotta use that to your advantage man. Me, they know I’m a sleazebag. But it’s okay. I’ve had my share of good times.” He described some of his encounters with the models.

“They let you do that?” I asked.

He laughed. “You wouldn’t believe it. A lot of these girls are voyeurs deep down. It’s the only thing that gets them excited. If you make them look prettier than they are, they’ll love you for it. Think about it, man — we know more about the way they look than they do.”

We arrived in the neighborhood, spotted the house with a faded sign that read Agency . We entered, saw four stalwart men clad in leather and rings. “WELCOME!!!” they warmly greeted me.

The hostess, a woman with thick black hair that reached down to her knees, kissed Rick on the cheek.

“This is an associate,” he introduced me. “He’s one of the most talented photographers I know.”

“Not really,” I said.

She gave me a kiss on the cheek. “No need to be modest. Help yourselves to anything you want.”

I got orange juice, walked into the living room. It was filled with the most diverse set of women I’d seen. Each had distinctive marks — one with a tattoo across her chest, another with red hair and seven piercings in her face. There was a model that wore a cape with half her head shaved. She was saying, “They didn’t tell me they were gonna hang my body from the ceiling. They wrapped my arms and legs, pinched my nipples with these clippers that really stung, and it was cold as hell. I was hanging bare-ass naked, but they got into a big argument about the lighting. I was like, guys, can we hurry this up?” Everyone burst into laughter.

In another circle, they were talking about the travails of corsets and aluminum garters. “Did you hear how Jessica had two ribs removed?”

“How much did your boob job cost you?”

“I had the doctors drain twenty pounds from my stomach.”

“How you doing?” Rick asked.

“Fine.”

When a pair of models passed by, he called them and introduced me. They looked through my book of photography. “These are really beautiful and mysterious,” they said. “You really like the noir look, huh?”

I nodded.

“And what are the backgrounds?”

“I recreate urban legends,” I answered.

“Why those?”

“I think urban legends are an outlet for the psyche and it’s a representation of something real that people don’t like to deal with consciously. You guys have a portfolio?” I asked.

One of them handed it to me. All the pictures were Goth nudes displaying bondage, S&M, artistic pornography in which they looked like they were in pain. “These are great,” I said.

Rick took me out to the backyard for a breath of fresh air.

“Don’t be so tense,” he said. “You gotta get used to this kind of thing.”

“This isn’t my style,” I said.

He laughed. “Go and mingle. Remember, you don’t have a girlfriend anymore. You’re allowed to have fun.”

There were pockets of social activity, people sucking on their cigarettes and chatting about the quirks of particular models. It was cold, thick clouds making it gloomy, atypical weather conditions on a LA summer night. I headed for the tent they’d splayed out back, took a seat. Across from me were two girls. One had dirty blonde hair, looked like she was in high school with thick eye shadow and mascara surrounding her pupils. She was pale with a grungy shirt that slit above her belly, revealing a pierced navel. She waved exuberantly when I sat. Next to her was a very attractive girl with darker skin, a bit more rounded, though not plump. She was smoking a thin cigarette, but wasn’t looking in my direction.

I introduced myself.

The blonde was named Jenna and the other, Desdemona.

“You’re a photographer?” they asked.

“Yeah. You guys are models, right?”

“Yep.

“You guys have a portfolio?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Jenna said. “I’m looking to make contacts so I can make one.”

“I just came along to keep her company,” Desdemona added.

“What about you?” Jenna asked.

I handed her my book. She went through page by page.

“You idealize women,” Jenna said. “It’s funny how it’s always one way or the other.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the photographers here fall into two categories. Guys who despise women and debase them, and guys like you.”

“Photography is about extremes,” I said. “That’s what makes it interesting. Who wants to see pictures of ordinary women?”

“I do,” Jenna said, then laughed. “No, you’re right. This is beautiful work. I’m not knocking it.”

I grinned. “Thanks.” I took the book back from her. “How long you been modeling?”

“I just started. I’m actually from West Virginia and I’m thinking about moving out here to get my career going.”

“How’s your journey going?”

“Pretty good. I made some contacts at a convention and saw some celebrities.” She named four people from TV shows I’d never heard of. “I found out about this party through harakirigirls.com.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a really popular site. They do lots of the Goth, bondage kind of stuff. It’s really big and I wanted to be one of the models. She’s,” referring to Desdemona, “one of the models. She’s crazier than me though and can do it all. She was just in bugxxx.com.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s where a model gets paid to be taken captive for a weekend.”

“Captive?”

Jenna laughed. “You want to explain?”

Desdemona seemed irritated but said, “Basically, the guys put you up in a really nice hotel for a day, capture you and take photos for two days. They’re really long and grueling but it looks a lot worse on camera. They’re actually really nice and they take good care of you.”

“What kind of stuff do they do?”

“Anything short of actual penetration.”

“Penetration?” I said, confused.

“Use your imagination,” she said.

“What about you?” Jenna asked. “How long you been doing photography?”