Serendipity? Happenstance? Coincidence? - a study in destiny

soulchump

Really Experienced
Joined
Aug 27, 2002
Posts
217
This is a thread that has been designed as a closed thread for Pearl Necklace and Soulchump to explore possible random meetings in life . . . somewhere.

If the story moves you, and you feel utterly compelled to participate in some way, please PM either co-author to present your ideas. We remain open to playful experimentation, as part of the serendipity.
 
Friday cocktail

Look at me right now. At this moment, when you look at me, you may actually think I lead an enviable life.

Actually, a guy sitting alone in a bar never seems that enviable. Even if the bar is in Amsterdam, and it's 2pm on a Friday when other people are stuck at their jobs. That part's enviable, but any guy drinking alone before 4 in the afternoon . . . or any time really . . . he just seems like an alcoholic.

But let's say that you knew me, back home. Let's say you knew that I was a travel photographer on assignment, and that I was having a drink to celebrate the completion of a shoot (in this case, photos to show off the city's preparations for the 50th Anniversary of the Anne Frank museum). Let's say you thought I was a pretty smart guy for thinking ahead. For knowing the surge in tourism would mean the city had already started crankin' out festival ideas and building architectural highlights . . . all that. Stuff to coincide with Anne Frank. I photograph them first, I sell the story, I beat the other guys.

Let's say you knew all that. Then you might think it was an "international life of luxury" that led me to this bar and this drink.

Maybe you'd think it's cool that, in early 2010, you might actually see my photos in a bunch of the travel mags. Or not. You might not read that kind of thing.

AmsterdamDM_468x315.jpg

Just in case you don't, that's one from the Red Light District. I'm not saying I spent a whole lotta time there . . . but they've got their own special events during the festivals, if you're making travel plans.

I am enviable in that way, I guess. Within this tiny travel photo scene, I've got a name. There's about 8 or 10 of us playing at this level, depending on who you ask. But even those of us who do this "full-time" only sell enough photos to get by. That's the not-so-enviable part. All this hustle, never a rest. At least I live doing what I love -- seeing the world with my own two eyes, and making it look better than it is for the people who stay at home wishing. It's an art, in a way.

I guess having a home base is important too. I'm from the states. It's easier to tell people around here that it's New York . . . but it's Jersey. New York is for the bullshit photographers. Fashion, and whatever.

So do I lead an enviable life? I don't really care. I just see too many people thinking I do. But not you . . . all you see is a guy on a barstool, alone, on a Friday afternoon, sipping a Heineken.

By the way, my name's Ed. But that's not how you'd see it written anywhere. It usually disappears into the background like this: photo by Edward Travers

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Friday's Fabulous Festivities.

One of the things I've quickly come to realise over the first few months of my "Big OE" - the Kiwi tradition to bugger off to England for a few years to have an Overseas Experience - is that its not all its cracked up to be.

No one ever tells you that you'll miss silly things like chocolate or Coke Zero because for some reason they taste different. Or that coming to Summer means nothing, theres not always going to be sun and don't dare think it'll be hot. And that fabulous job with the agency you sorted out before arriving, they'll give you a day or two's work per week but not enough to get by. Good thing I have family to help me through.

I fan my face as I sit on the virtually empty but stiflingly hot bus. My iPod sings to me, telling me its Easy.. Easy Like Sunday Morning. But its Friday night. I'm on my way home from work to make a salad for dinner and watch a movie. Is this what an OE is about? I thought it was about drinking in pubs and going around Europe and fun?! But that requires money..

I glance out the window and as often happens am reminded why I wanted to come here. I see a building thats probably older than New Zealand and grin. Can't find history like that in NZ. The job I've taken at an Educational toy shop means I can save up to go and see Europe, see history, on the weekends. Its worth it. I'm in England. England. I've wanted to come here for years and I finally have.

I walk to the house, semi-detached, not crammed together as most are here. Only now my iPod says I'm Just A Girl.. I'm Just A Girl In The World.. Thats All That You'll Let Me Be. Grinning as I see a squirrel - sure they're a pest but not to someone who has never seen one - gong inside to make dinner.

Dinners made, I've changed into shorts and a singlet because tonight it actually feels like Summer. I sit down to watch 300 as I eat. Hmm.. Gerard Butler as King Leonidas and all those lovely half naked men with hard muscles. They can come and fight for my honor anytime they like.

I eat my salad and realise other people are going out to bars to dance and drink. I might be too if I was at home in New Zealand with all my friends. But for the moment, for tonight, I'm just happy to be in the UK.
 
Hotel Beds

Waking up in a hotel bed has its pros and cons. The pro is, I almost never make my own bed . . . ever. The con is, this weird taupe-brown-tan patterned shit on the bedspread makes me forget where I am because they all look the same . . . which is to say they look exactly like the damn carpet that never changes either - a pattern loud enough to hide stains and quiet enough to maintain some dignity, in the nicer places anyway.

Another hotel bed it is, then. Looking out the window is always the first thing I do, just to confirm. Oh . . . yeah . . . Amsterdam. Can you find the giveaway?

Amsterdam.jpg

Yeah, they're pretty proud of their Amstel here. Like I said, I'm more of a Heineken guy, which made me less than popular with the bartender yesterday, since it's Dutch. I suppose I gotta find something less corporate to drink anyway . . . like my Starbucks boycott. I've been clean & sober off that shit for 4 years now. Feels great.

I'm pretty fired up today. Booked a layover in London on the way home, just a few hours to get a couple shots of the London leg of the Red Bull Air Race for an on-going piece. Those fuckin' pilots are some scary people, but I got to hand it to them.

Speaking of pilots . . better get my ass to the airport . . should be a short cab ride. Just need to get my coffee first. No, I didn't boycott coffee . . . just Starbucks. Makes finding coffee an adventure - I like that.

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OOC: Thanks for your landmark posting honors, Pearl. Far too kind.

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Seeing the Sights.

I run my fingers through my shoulder length red hair, smiling at myself in the mirror. My blue green eyes are framed by long lashes with just a touch of mascara on them. I smooth my hands down the front of my electric blue vneck tank top and adjust the greenstone hanging from a cord around my neck. Denim shorts and electric blue flip flops complete the outfit, perfect for the heat of a hot Summers day. I give myself one last look. This is me, Susan Phillips in London, living the dream.

I pull my backpack onto my back and put my sunglasses on my face as I leave the hostel and step outside, almost wanting to pinch myself as I again realise I'm in England. This time London. Will I ever get over this feeling of wonder? The feeling of excitement to realise I'm on the other side of the world?! Will it still be novel in a years time when I know London like the back of my hand?

I consult the map I have of a walking tour that takes in the key sights around London, looking over the route I intend to take. I plan to take in Big Ben, The Millennium Eye, the Thames, Buckingham Palace and anywhere else that takes my fancy. Stopping at shops that catch my eye and eating the packed lunch I've brought to save some money. Maybe even stop at the Museum I've seen indicated on the map I'm holding.

I stop here and there to take photos, sure I look like the ultimate tourist with a camera in one hand and a map in the other. But I'm too fascinated by everything I see to care. I'm soon near the Thames and notice signs everywhere advertising the Red Bull Air Race. I remember seeing ads on TV for it and still am not sure where the pilots get the guts to do that.

I pause on a bench under the shade of tree to eat one of the apples from my backpack and sip water from my bottle. I look over the photos I've taken today, looking forward to sharing them with friends and family online. I smile as I look around and just enjoy the atmosphere around me, listening to the various accents around me and just enjoying the feeling of the sun shining down on me. Warming my skin and reminding me why I love Summer so much, especially its Winter in NZ.
 
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London stop-over

OK . . so I sorta get to a point where I talk about all this photography stuff with a hard-line, whoop-di-fuckin-doo kind of attitude. But even I get stupid as a school kid with a view into the girls' lockers when it comes to planes that fly sideways with their wingtip about 20-ft. off the water. These Red Bull pilots are amazing.

red bull air.jpg

Upside down, getting a view on his next drop-in pass between the pylons below him. About 2 seconds after I took this photo, he was still 70 meters out from the pass, pulling out of a steep dive, but I'm sure he was already thinking about the hairpin left turn to come. Diabolical levels of concentration and control.

After an hour of getting whatever shots I could around town (some just for fun, like this gorgeous bit of British Hospitality below), I had to bolt for my flight.

brit_red.jpg

Some people are so cool about getting their photo taken. Others, for whatever reason, just bristle up and hide as though I'm pointing a gun. Maybe that's why they call it "shooting." Anyway, this woman just warmed me right up with her smile, though I didn't need a lot of extra warmth, between the sight of that body and the mid-day sun. Shame I had to duck out of the heat into the shade of the Metro station and get to Heathrow.

I'll always have the picture though. Huh . . . what an ass. Remember when I talked about not envying me? This is exactly what I'm talking about. If you knew how many pictures of "the perfect woman" I have in my files, and how ridiculous I feel about looking at them as often as I do. You see, I've got this idea that if I look at them enough I'll know if I meet them again. And then I'll be able to start a conversation with them as easy as, "You might not believe this, but . . . " So much for ultra-cool, international player, eh? I'm such an ass.

Right now, I'm an ass with a plane to catch. Gotta go.

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Home on the Train

Heading home on the train I can't help but think about the day that I've had. Looking over all the various photos I've taken makes me smile. It was awesome to be in London and seeing all the famous attractions that are there. I scroll through and put my camera away, getting out the magazine I'd bought to read on the train.

I wonder why I let that guy take a photo of me. He was kinda cute and I definitely wished I could have talked to him for a bit longer but he had to get to the airport. I nibble on my lip, wondering if I'll find my head photo shopped onto a naked woman's body. I laugh at myself as I shake my head and carry on reading an article on how to give the perfect blow job. Hmm.. interesting I could try wrapping beads around the penis while I'm doing it.

The train arrives at the station an hour or so later and I head home, crawling into bed after an awesome day. I'm soon asleep and waking up for another day. I do some shopping - getting shampoo and other necessities, visit the library and go home to search online for more job opportunities.
 
What time is it again?

Getting off of trans-Atlantic flights is like putting a frost filter on the lens of your life. Everything's just slightly fuzzy and unreal. My body, my face full of scruff, and the people of Amsterdam all claim it's 10:30 at night. My watch and stomach say it's 4:30 in the afternoon.

Dragging my ass into my apartment, I'm remembering that this is where the least sexy part of my job comes in . . . well, if you don't have a passion for photography anyway - it's the part where I sit in a room, alone, for hours and hours and sort and tag and tweak and catalogue all the photos.

It does help it to move along when I know that there's one of my "special women" in the bunch somewhere. God, I coulda just shot her all afternoon. She had such spontaneity and sass (which isn't a classic type-cast for a Brit, if you hear me). She felt like she'd be up for anything. Hrmmm . . . come to think of it, I'm not so sure she sounded British . . . maybe Aussie? Anyway, she had fire in the belly . . zest for life, you know? That's hotter than anything I know.

Before I get to stare at her, there's all these cramped rooms from the Anne Frank museum, and other various pieces of history and culture. I always save the best for last . . make it a reward.

Or . . <yawning> . . maybe the whole thing can wait, and I'll just fall into bed. Yep. That's it. All the sales calls can wait too. I've already e-mailed a few Air Race pics to the on-line outlets on pre-sale. Amsterdam and my lady will have to wait . . . maybe I can sleep with her tonight.

Here's the view from my bedroom, by the way (note how the old, streaky, sun tinting treatment on the outside of the building makes the view match my bleary-eyed, sleep-deprived state . . . except that it always looks that way).

hart_island_bellamy.jpg

Nice, right? Wait til' you see it in the daytime. Those two buildings are projects - complete shit holes. And all that black in the distance is a field of warehouses, factories, and industrial grey muck stretching as far as the eye can see. Right now, I prefer the view behind my eyelids. G'night.

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* * THE FOLLOWING DAY * *
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Waking up always puts the same question in my head, "Masturbate in the shower, or masturbate - then shower." I'll admit the shower is optional really. I'm a pretty clean guy, really, it's just that I might not leave the house today considering all the work to be done on the computer with those photos.

Oooh . . those photos. Did I mention that I tend to fantasize about who ever I shot most recently? Between the memory of that girl's spark and sizzle, and that photo of her in the tank top, I've got plenty of content for a fantasy.

I suppose it would have to be in London. Oh man . . . I just remembered this alley that I cut through a few years ago in London. It's been a favorite photo of mine for a while. What if that was where I met her instead of the wide-open street? What if she was taking a shortcut too? I mean, just look at this place.

397px-East_London_Alley.JPG

I ask her if I can take a quick shot or two. We talk about how people give perspective to photos. She tells me she's done some amateur modeling, when I mention how naturally she's responding to my requests. My shots start to focus in on her, as the alley fades in the depth of field. She's wearing a skirt and a top that shows some midriff. I get bold and do some fairly low-angle stuff. She doesn't flinch. She flirts. She starts to go from smiling at the camera to seducing it. All this attention is bringing out her inner sex kitten.

She starts pulling on clothing - sliding it different ways to meet the angle. I'm getting closer - I can smell her soap, or laundry detergent, or perfume or something . . invigorating. She plays with her hair. It's a dance. We're dancing. Is she seducing me or the camera? Is she attracted to me or to the attention? My angles get bolder, and she lets a strap of her top fall off the shoulder, the top rim of her bra coming into view. She hooks one thumb in the waistline of her skirt and the other in the hem of her shirt and pulls them apart, exposing skin and the top of a tat on her left hip.

"What's the tat?"

"Oh . . . yeah. I forget it's there sometimes. It's a fireman."

"A fireman?"

She immediately unzips a few inches down the side of her skirt and as the fabric falls away she slides the side of her panties down to reveal a colorful fireman, leaning into his hose, which trails down toward the middle and disappears behind the light blue fabric. Seeing my curiosity, she wriggles everything a little further down to reveal the tops of flames that his hose is trying to put out.

Before I can even think, I'm saying, "That is so fucking hot."

"Yeah," she says, "when I don't shave, the flames have some texture. It's cool. But right now I'm totally shaved." And just like that, she shoves the skirt & panties to mid-thigh. "See?"

Fuck, she's sexy. Holy shit, I'm still taking shots! And when did I get on my knees in all this . . . was it to get the angle on that skirt?

Realizing how close I am to her gorgeous body, I put the camera down. Impulsively, I'm gripping her ass and shoving those flames against my tongue - licking and tasting and teasing that clit. She's pinned against the wall, grinding her cunt into my face and moaning. I slide a finger in, warm and wet, curling and sliding it against the upper wall inside. Her hands are in my hair. We're primal. We're in a fucking alley. I can't give a shit. I want her now.

After a mini-climax, I can feel her pushing my head away from her, and I begin to fear she's getting self-conscious about the people who live in these buildings. Nope. She's shoving me onto the ground.

She attacks my zipper and pulls my cock out through my boxers. She shimmies her skirt up, whips her panties off, and straddles me. As she drops onto my cock, I realize that we're actually not showing anything at this point. It's obvious we're fucking, and there's a couple people at the far end of the alley who have noticed - just keeping their distance and watching. But we're covered. From my angle, her skirt occasionally flips up a bit when she's just starting to piston down again on my cock, and I can see the flames sliding around and onto me again, but other than that we're covered and I'm watching her bite her lip as her head arches back. Her hands are digging into my chest for support. I'm pumping into her as she drops down. Her strong, lean legs have this incredible hip rotation right at the bottom of each stroke, forcing me deeper up inside her and rubbing her clit against my low abs. We're close.

She's moving faster. My hands are on her hips, pulling and grabbing on skirt or skin or anything just to get deeper and harder inside. We're really close. I can feel the rest of my muscles go into that deep seize and my cock surges with the "point of no return" pressure build. "I'm gonna cum."

"Yes . . . fuck me."

And I do. I send that cock and cum right up inside her, and she spasms inside and contracts around me faster and faster as we grab onto anywhere we can to keep ourselves together at this pace . . her sounds are incredible, and my explosion is so intense. I almost wish I was one of those people watching. I'm such a voyeur. She must look so hot riding me for all she's worth to finish out her orgasm. I open my eyes . . .

. . . and I wanted to look up at her as she slowed down her ride, and see that Post-O-Glow on her face . . . but all I see is my ceiling. And I've got cum all over my hand and my stomach. Jesus . . . I really got into that one. Some of them I just don't connect with as much. But that was so real . . . she was so real.

My breathing is starting to slow down. My head clears and reality starts to ask for attention. Better get into the shower. I've got a lot of pics to look at. All that industrial blah outside my window lets me know that people are at work in those factories. I smile, knowing I might not ever get out of my boxers today, and things seem less fuzzy than last night - less grey too.

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A Wet Morning.. and its raining too.

I slowly open my eyes to another day, stretching my arms up above my head and pointing my toes to the foot of the bed. The movement brushes my smooth legs over the sheets and I feel that familiar tingle I get from freshly shaved legs combined with a clean body and clean sheets.

The sheets seem to caress over my skin when I feel like this, like the feeling of a lover lightly trailing his fingers over my body. I close my eyes once more and imagine it for a moment. Snuggling back under the covers to picture his hand tracing along my collarbone then down my sternum. His warm palm cups my left breast and I hear that purr of satisfaction he gives as he realises my nipple is hard.

I bite my lip as his hand trails down my stomach and continues down. His strong, thick fingers slide through my lips and I hear his purr once more as he finds me wet. His fingers slide through the wetness and my hips buck as he brushes my clit then continues down to slide two fingers inside me. Hes not subtle about it. His fingers stab into me, making me arch my back and push down against them. I look into his face and smile, surprising myself by seeing the photographers face. The man who snapped off some photos of me and then disappeared.

My eyes open and I smile as I feel my body tingling from the vivid fantasy I've created for myself. I wonder why I conjured up his face of all people but shrug it off,trailing my fingers over my stomach as I spread my legs beneath the blanket. Im not surprised when I slide my index finger between my lips and find my clitoris hard and my pussy very wet. I like the sensation of sliding my finger over my wetness. Feeling the warmth of my body welcoming me. I slide my finger from my clit to deep inside myself, moaning softly as my finger is enveloped in that wet warmth now.

I begin these long strokes, starting at my clit then ending inside myself. Starting off with one finger then as my excitement grows, as my hips buck off the bed I add another. I kick the covers off, annoyed by their encumbrance and really begin to fuck my fingers. My ass lifts off the bed as I pound my fingers into my pussy. I close my eyes and hes there with me again, kneeling between my thighs as his thick fingers spear into me. I can tell from the look on his face hes enjoying the sight of the wanton slut fucking his fingers.

The look of satisfaction that spreads over his face as he feels my pussy spasm in orgasm around his fingers is the last thing I see as I open my eyes. My pussy spasms around my own fingers as I lie there panting for breath. I lie there as the aftershocks send pleasure spiraling out through my body and slowly bring my fingers to my lips to lick them clean.

I lie for a while longer, relaxing in the afterglow of orgasm. Glancing at the clock I jump out of bed, quickly making it and rushing to have a shower. Buses to catch and an appointment to get to. I glance out the window and realise its raining but I feel too good to care. A little rain on the walk to the bus stop won't hurt me and as I get into the shower I smile. Its going to be another lovely day.
 
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Tunnel Vision

After sitting in this shitty chair and clicking /editing / tagging / e-mailing / cataloguing / opening / repeating all day, I'm somewhere between carpel tunnel and tunnel vision now that it's night.

Fortunately, a buddy of mine called a couple hours ago and we agreed to catch a beer tonight at our local dive. Maybe this is my chance to start my Heine boycott. They were crowding my icebox anyway.

Suppose this does break my whole, "not going outside" today vibe, but it's for all the right reasons, so it's alright to cover these boxers with some jeans and a T. Grab the keys, cash, and transit pass (just in case I end up somewhere besides here) and head out the door.

It's only a couple blocks to walk to the place. For a while, I thought it was artsy-cool to take medium exposure shots in Jersey dives and restaurants, which means I've got a shot of the place Benny and I are meeting at.

large_pubb.jpg

Like I said, it's a dive, so it doesn't look like much. One thing I will say is that the jukebox you can see over on the right has some of the best music in the world in it. Maggie at the bar over there ain't much to look at, but she's a true friend when you need her. I don't just mean "listening to drunkards and giving advice in order to sell more drinks" friend . . . I mean help you pack up your boxes and move West to go back to school friend, like we did for Dex back in '05. Plus, they've got a bit of food that will do the trick when you're as hungry as I am right now.

Benny shows up about 3 minutes after me, and we start catching up on the latest. He loves to tell me stories about how his younger kid Nate keeps doing silly shit on the soccer field because he hasn't caught on to all the rules (he's 6). And even though he knows I'm not an NBA guy, he has to tell me all about the latest trades and politics with the Nets. Some of it is interesting, in a "variety of the human experience" kind of way, so I listen.

Then he always wants to know about my trips. After that's done, it usually devolves into high school "remember when's." He's got a good wife, and his daughter is smarter than any 9 year old girl (or 16 year old boy) I've ever met. Dinner at their house is always a treat. Great people, which is why we've been friends so long.

He asks where I'm off to next, so I let him know: "I've decided to be the first person I know to do a photo tour of the Brothel Ranches of Nevada, and have it published in a legitimate travel magazine. It should be fun. I fly on Thursday." He laughs, with an eyebrow cocked, unsure of whether to be jealous or concerned.

After some more idle chat, we wrap it up and head home for the night. It was slow, so no flirting time with the neighborhood wives and widows to be had. It's been a long day, and tomorrow I've got to sell everything I prepped today, so a good night of sleep will help focus me.

Good to be home, if even for a bit.

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Out & About

I grin at my best friend as I walk through the Mall to the movie theatre. We've both just seen a 'crunchie' the code word we've been using since we were teenagers to describe a handsome guy. That way we could mention he was hot without him or anyone else knowing. It seems a little silly to still use a word like that when you're almost 28 but old habits die hard. But this particular 'crunchie' knows it, hes walking topless through the mall. So his attraction diminishes ever so slightly.

We pay for our tickets and head into the theatre, The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Empire is a movie we've both wanted to see and we got a two for one deal so it was too good a chance to pass up. We watch the movie, on the edge of our seats as we do so and finally concluding it was a good movie, though we miss the original actress who plays Evelyn.

We stop in clothes stores throughout the Mall as we make our way out. Trying on clothes here and there and getting each others opinions on them. Stopping in pharmacys along the way to look at make up and compare prices for girly things like waxing products and facial scrubs. We decide to get a few facial masks and decide to spend the afternoon pampering ourselves.

We get home and watch a movie, a chick flick as we wax our legs, put on a face mask and do french manicures on each other. Its fun to spend time with a really good girly friend, hanging out and spending time on silly little things to make us feel good.
 
Next stop . . . Vegas.

The network of people who I can call to sell off these photos is pretty small, and once one of them bites on the project, it sells the whole series. Nice to be in sales, and only need one "Yes" per project, no? Yeah.

By 11:42, the Amsterdam piece is slated for sale. In my mind, that's a 70/30 split. The 70% is going to front the next job. The 30 pays the bills. I'm not an idiot, there's some savings built into the 30, it's just that it's not enough to cover more than three missed jobs.

Missed jobs . . . that's when at the end of all my calls I find out they've already got photos of that location or they refuse to run a piece on it (like I might find with this Ranch idea). The great thing about shoots like the Ranch tour is the travel costs are so much less that it pads the funding and savings for the international ventures that become misses. So it all works out, and I'll be able to retire when I'm . . . uh . . .

. . . 97.

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* * * TWO DAYS LATER * * *
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Vegas was built to be seen at night. Flying in during broad daylight just makes the place look ridiculous. Actually, it's my humble opinion that Vegas is ridiculous . . . and one of the most depressing shit-holes on Earth, while we're at it. I'm looking forward to getting my rental, and driving right on out of this town into the open deserts of Nevada. Bliss.

Nevada.jpg

On the way to the first ranch, windows down (now that it's only 89 degrees), music blaring . . . such great thinking time. Such peace.

Should be able to do the first shoot and get back to my hotel in Mina by midnight. This could get interesting . . .

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A Fresh Start..

Its time for a fresh start. A new country, new opportunities, new ideas, new career prospects. I've enjoyed my time in the small town near Birmingham but when a kiwi friend living in London heard of my job frustrations she offered me a hand. Hell, she offered me several hands. Shes the manager of a coffee shop, not just that.. theres a spare room at the house she shares with three other people. Too good an opportunity to miss, no?

So here I am, in my brand new bedroom unpacking my clothes into a borrowed dressing table. My freshly made (borrowed) bed is about all that fits in this room. But for the first time in the three months I've been here I finally feel like something is really, really going right for me. Theres a knock on the door and Janie appears in the doorway, making sure I'm settled in. I thank her for what is probably, quite literally, the hundredth time and leave the room to have a tour of the house with her.

Its semi-detached, so there aren't twenty other identical houses attached to it in a row. Instead its like a big square thats been but in half vertically. The front half belongs to neighbours, the back half - along with a lovely backyard - belongs to Janie and her housemates. Its spread out over three floors, four if you count the tiny attic room. She shows me door after door, telling me names of people who live in each room and I know I won't remember them all, telling me who usually uses each bathroom and who often leaves hair in the sink or the toilet seat up and showing me the kitchen and where everyone keeps their special food.

She then offers to show me where she - and now I - work. I grab my bag and we leave the house, walking to the end of the street to the nearest tube station. This is my first time on the tube and as we walk down the stairs I'm slightly nervous. We get on board and Janie tells me we're lucky, its not too full. But every seat is taken and we have to stand. Not full? I question her and she tells me when its full you're crammed in like sardines.

We get off at our stop, thankfully only a few down the line and make our way back up the stairs into the sunlight. I'm amazed at the transformation. We started off in a station near a reasonably quiet suburb and now we're in the hustle and bustle of London. We walk down the road and into the coffee shop, where she introduces me to the people behind the counter and shows me around here too. We go into the back and she hands me a staff handbook and my new uniform, I sit down and fill in the forms that are just a formality since shes giving me the job regardless. She looks them over and we discuss what I'll be doing then decides she'll start my training another day.

We head back out the front and she orders me a drink which I gratefully order. I'll never refuse a Starbucks Venti Mint Mocha Chip Frappuccino to go.
 
Fiction vs. Reality

OK . . . we live in a modern age, don't we? I mean, fuck . . . if I can log on to live video of people having sex, and I've paid for the log-in code to watch, that's paid sex. So it seems like the world should be getting pretty laid back about the fact that someone might occasionally want to have sex with an actual person for money, right? Well in the U.S., land of the free and home of the largest economy in the world, the puritanical nature of our country's foundation still reigns supreme.

At least, that's the only reason I can think of that our brothels should be such incredibly sub-standard shit-holes.

Sure, I knew from a bit of internet research before I took this project on that we were talking about remote locations full of potentially over-worked has-beens from the Vegas strip. But this is America! We tend to do things up, and usually to a level that most sensible people would find idiotic and laughable! Why, then, should a business that can make as much money as sex, continue to exist in such a world-forgotten bubble as the hovels these people call brothels?!

OK . . . a little perspective to make my point clear.

Japan: they have "Soap Lands" where you can pay for a nice bath from a nice-looking woman. After the bath, you negotiate whatever else you would like directly with your chosen bather.

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Czech Republic: one of many Czech brothels is the one known as "Big Sister." Tons of themed fantasy rooms throughout a large hotel, with a full bar, lounge, and restaurant on the ground floor.

Big Sister.jpg

Germany: 150-room complex with modern amenities allowing you to rent a room and share it with whomever you might like. If you don't have a particular person in mind, there just happen to be over 60 women in various areas of the lobby, bar, and sitting areas.

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Australia: clean, sanitary, elegant clubs with themed rooms and plenty of other diversions to enjoy with the guys you came with or the ladies you've chosen.

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Which brings us to . . .

The United States: certain counties in Nevada have legalized prostitution, and Vegas certainly knows how to do it up right . . . right?

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Take this photo from the web-site of one of the brothels, for example. A fairly luscious lady awaits you in a comfortable-looking room where you'll be treated like the king you are (just tell me if I'm asking too much here).

You'd expect neon lights flashing to guide you from all directions to the excitement that awaits, limousine service for the VIPs, tons of rich foods and champagne flowing everywhere, the most fit and gorgeous women money can buy getting paraded before you so that you can select the one that's exactly your type (and since we're a country of immigrants, it would be a global selection!) This is a reasonable expectation, isn't it?

Here's how the first one looked when I pulled into the parking lot.

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Welcome to a legal brothel in the wealthiest country in the world?

What the fuck is going on here?!

God . . . I've still got to check out the Wild Horse, the Bunny, Sheri's, the Chicken, the Cotton-Tail, and a bunch of other places with goofy names. This idea had better get better really soon.

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Frappu-what? Cappu-who?

I balance another lipstick rimmed coffee cup on my tray and carefully lift it, walking back to the kitchen where I'll begin to wash it and the others like it. Since I'm the newbie and still learning hat to do I've been given the more menial tasks. Clearing tables then cleaning them. Straightening chairs and tables. Putting magazine and newspapers away. Replenishing straws, stirrers, sugar packets and disposable spoons. Filling up sugar and chocolate shakers. And the awesome task of making sure the restrooms are clean and tidy.

I do it all with a smile on my face, reminding myself over and over that its a job. That I'm happy to be earning money - any money - that I can save to use to go traveling through Europe and the rest of the United Kingdom. Sure, its not exactly a dream job and its definitely not glamorous but it has its up sides too. I get to interact with people, something I love to do. And not just any people, people from England! I get to smile and tickle babies, flirt with gorgeous guys and the people I work with are lovely too.

I've begun to learn how to make the various drinks available here at Starbucks, beginning with the frappucinos. Adding syrup, ice and milk together isn't too hard. Nothing like the more complicated Cappuccino, Caramel Macchiato or Caffè Mocha. Each requiring just the right amount of coffee, water and milk. Then there is the skill of frothing milk just right so its not too milky or burnt. So when I am behind the counter, thats why I'm serving tea, coffee or frappucino's. But I'm getting there and I'm beyond happy to be doing so.

Having met all my new housemates I can tell I'm going to enjoy living there too. Each night someone takes a turn to cook and since there are seven of us that means I'm cooking once a week. My bed is cosy and with all the work I'm doing each day thats a good thing since I'm so tired. Theres good pressure in the shower and wireless internet so I can surf the web in my bedroom should I want to. Life is good. I'm doing what I've wanted to do and enjoying every moment of it.
 
The end of Nevada, thankfully.

I have to admit, the last couple of days have been good to me. Long road trips are simply one of my all-time favorite things in the first place, so that helps, but more importantly I finally feel like there's a reason that I came here (beyond getting my myths about American brothels destroyed by reality).

Exhibit A, folks:

Nevada-Sheris.jpg

This is a place called, "Sheri's," and Sheri is exactly the kind of madam you'd want and expect to be running a place that has a bit more upscale vibe to it. You can do the VIP thing with the private entrance, you get the full line-up to choose from when you enter the nice lobby / living room area . . . well done. This is what I came here to photograph!

And Exhibit B, Wild Horse:

Nevada-WildHorse.jpg

Very similar to Sheri's in the hosting services, the quality of the location and the women, everything clean and obviously running on a system.

Still, I guess I pictured something a lot more elaborate . . . something that would appeal (especially photographically) to the fantasy we can all conjure about being taken away to a special place by a beautiful woman and being completely cared for (or whipped and cussed at, if that's your thing) in the exact environment we choose. With reality having set in, or at least setting in far enough to make me realize I'll have to go back to Europe if that's the story I want to photograph, I'm ready for the road trip back to the airport to get home and plan my next venture. Can't have more than 3 missed jobs in a row . . . guess this counts as #1.

If I've ruined your visions of traveling to Vegas and driving out to a ranch . . . then just remember I'm the one who spent the money to find this shit out, and then give it to you for free. You're welcome.

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An itch to be scratched..

One of the exciting and occasionally annoying things about packing up your life and moving to the other side of the world is missing things you have at home. Whether its a favourite pair of shoes you couldn't cram into your suitcase, a pan you know makes scrambled eggs turn out just right or that vibrator you use on nights you need a little more than fingers and your imagination. I mean, who wants to have a conversation with a customs officer where you have to explain that the buzzing in your bag is not a bomb but is in fact your favourite vibrator. Not me, thats for sure.

So here I am in the middle of a sex shop. Its not as seedy as a lot of the stores in New Zealand. And its on the high street, right in between a music store and a woman's fashion shop. I walk into the store and the first thing I see is beautiful lingerie all around and it almost makes me wish I had someone to wear it for. Then I realise I can wear it for me too. I can wear beautiful bras and panties and decide I'll come back for a shopping spree sometime soon. Though my gaze lingers on a bustier I could easily imagine wearing.

I move towards the back of the store and feel like a kid in a candy store. The colours are just as bright and there are just as many varieties. Only this is more adult kind of candy and definitely more delicious. I look over the various vibrators and have that same feeling I did as a kid. Too many choices, too much to look at and where do I start? Do I want a vibrator that pulses, waves, thrusts, buzzes or rotates. What combination of the two do I want? I pick up one after another, looking them over and turning them on, watching how each reacts and considering the potential pleasure they each could bring.

I discuss them with the sales girl as she offers some assistance, asking what is the most popular model and listening to her recommendations. I finally decide on the "Rampant Rabbit Thruster." Amazed at how it actually moves up and down to thrust. I take it up to the counter and after one last look around the store I impulsively include a bra and panties set I really couldn't walk past. She bags it all up and I pay for it, moving out of the store with a sense of anticipation, looking forward to getting home to try out my new purchases. As I walk to the tube and sit on it the few stops to get home I wonder if people are seeing the bag in my hand and wondering over its contents. Are they picturing lingerie in the bag or sex toys? Are my fellow passengers picturing goodies for a hens night in the bag or do they know I'm dying to get home to unwrap my new rabbit and give it a new burrow to rest in. I move up the stairs and make my way home to do just that.
 
Daily duties

The Vegas airport is the most prime example of the trash-talking I was doing earlier about Las Vegas in general - pink plastic palm tree silhouettes with neon trim, 80's brushed metal "sculpture wave" decor (also with neon trim), and loud, clanging-dinging-dinning-tinny slot machines everywhere you look. Can't wait to get out of here.

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I've got a rule about coming home from any job. I'm required to unpack before I go to bed, so that when I wake up it already feels like I'm fully back in my rhythm. Feels good to wake up in that bed sometimes - most times. Especially when I've got company.

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After these last couple of trips with barely any time at home, getting to the laundromat is just going to have to happen. It's not that I loathe the laundromat so much as I loathe the lugging and the folding. It's the beginning and the end. The in-between I actually love, because I have always thought of laundromats as extremely sensual places.

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For one thing, the first time I used one was in art college, so you would always run into college girls there. Good first impression. Then, I'd wonder if they were completely out of skivvies the way I was, and I'd imagine that under their jeans or skirts they were bare. Then there's the whole thing about women sitting on the washer during the spin cycle - urban legend or not, I've always liked that one. And finally, the advertisements where someone has to clean the clothes that they're currently wearing, so they start undressing to put things in the washer. It all adds us, and what it adds up to is my getting really horny every time I'm in the laundromat.

I know these college girls are too young for me (unless they stayed on for some grad school years?) No. Gotta put that out of my mind. Too young. Either way . . . HOT. I tend to like the "girl next door" anyway, so when I say HOT what I mean is, it's their laundry day so the last thing they're doing is trying really hard to look like a model. It's just laundry day. But as a result, I get to look at their natural beauty and appreciate it.

So this shouldn't be too bad. We'll see how it goes . . .

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Old Drinks with New Friends

One of the good things about living in a house with four other people - six if you count the partners of two of my new housemates - is that there is always someone to talk to. Along with new housemates I'm making new friends as their friends come over and thats how I've ended up in a pub surrounded by a group of people I barely know.

Its fun though, watching the way certain people react to others. The guy who is flirting with Janie, while she is trying to catch the eye of the bloke across the bar. The girls who are getting tipsier and tipsier then heading straight to plain old drunk. Funny how when girls get drunk they get more outgoing and somehow think they're God's Gift to Man. Its hilarious watching the guys dance on the dancefloor, guys always seem awkward when they dance. Like they don't know where to put their hands or how to move their hips.

I sit there sipping my favourite Cosmopolitan, watching all thats happening around me. I speak when I'm spoken to, answering questions about New Zealand and how I'm finding London. Its not that I don't want to talk to people but its fun to watch the way they interact with each other. It makes me wish I had a camera to document the look on Janie's face as she tries to use some kind of Jedi Mind Force to get the guy across the room to look. Or the way one of the Drunk Girls is pouting her lips and pressing her boobs closer to her poor unsuspecting next victim.

I carry on sipping at my drink, enjoying its taste and the company around me as I silently vow never to be the drunk girl who think she God's Gift to Man. Instead I finish my drink and make my way to the dancefloor to lose myself in the music and show a few new guy friends how to dance.
 
The Laundromat

There's really only two potential things you might find me wearing when I go to the laundromat . . . the oldest pair of shorts I own (half-worn-out elastic waistband on blue and tan plaid, cotton pajama shorts with button fly) with a T-shirt, or my break-away warm-up pants (black, with snaps down the sides) and a T-shirt. It's not that I wear all my other clothes first and those are the only two left. It's about access . . . looseness . . . freedom.

I probably haven't mentioned yet that I shave my stomach, with the exception of a "path" down the middle, all the way down to about an inch above the shaft of my cock. Which means that if I wear those shorts, or those warm-ups, their loose elastic allows the pants to ride low across my hips. In fact, those shorts are so old, and the elastic so loose, that if I even put my keys in my pocket the weight just pulls the shorts down and off as I walk. In addition, the fly only has 2 buttons, and one of them cracked in half about a year ago, which means it loves to wiggle out of the buttonhole and make gaps sometimes.

But all of this can be hidden, if the T-shirt is big enough or if I keep the laundry basket covering me up as I walk. So the way I like to play my game is to get the wash started, and then have a seat in eyeshot of the cutest girl in the place. Does she have an angle to see up the leg of my shorts? They're so baggy . . . it makes me wonder . . . then, at some point when I know she's looking, I'll stand up and have a nice long stretch before going to check on the clothes. I imagine it looks something like this:

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photos by and OF Edward Travers :)


That's the exhibitionistic side of me. The voyeur side wants someone to show up to do her laundry who's in the same mood as I am, wanting to put on a similar show. One snap at a time on the side of her warm-ups, as though she's just idly playing around with them while she waits for her whites to brighten, she unsnaps . . . and snaps . . . then a couple unsnaps. You know the pants I'm talking about, right? Worn properly, they would look something like this when she's done:

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Better yet, she'd come in wearing a dress that's almost too fancy for the laundromat, because it was the only clean thing she had left, and the rest of her would look obviously "everyday" -- hair in a pony-tail, brought her book to read, etc. Then, right before she shuts the lid to start the colors, she realizes that she wants the panties she's wearing right now to be clean too. Glancing side-to-side, she reaches up under that dress and slides them down and quickly tosses them in. She knows that I know. And she proceeds to tease me with various leg crossings while she's reading her book . . . no eye contact . . . just rubbing her leg here and there to move the hem up, before "realizing it," fixing it, and looking at me to see if I was looking.

What she would find when she looks up is that I'm obviously not paying attention to the open book angling up from my lap. My eyes are on her crotch, and two strategic snaps have been undone down the side of my left leg to make it look like my left hand is simply in my pocket . . . but she can see what's really going on . . . because she's in on it . . . and we play this game. Though in my fantasy, it's later at night and there's no one else there, and we strike up a conversation and then end up doing it right there on a washer (cold and hot temperatures alternately shocking her bare cunt and ass from the metal she sits on with her legs wrapped around me . . . I stand on the floor and she is the perfect height for me to enter her, and we just go after it right there).

That's the fantasy that drives me to the laundromat. That's the reason I occasionally put some button-fly boxer shorts underneath the shorts or warmups . . . just so that I can wait until there's a cute girl watching, and strip that top layer off and put it in the machine, and then just sit down in my boxers like nothing's unusual.

Did I mention I love the laundromat?

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Shit . . . my clothes are all dry. And all I got were a few sneaks of a hand inside my waistband to touch myself a bit behind my magazine . . and not even with anyone here to look at. What a waste . . . and now I have to fold all this shit. Did I mention that I hate the folding?

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One Of Those Days!

There are some days - days I only have occasionally - when all I can think about is sex. Days washing my body in the shower feels sensual and getting dressed seems like torture. Those are the days I put on my nicest underwear, the kind normally reserved for a date with a hot guy. Its as I'm getting dressed I remember the Ann Summers bag stashed under the bed and the brand new underwear inside.

I step into the panties, pulling them up my legs and putting them in place on my hips. I slip the bra on next and adjust my breasts, making them sit right as I run my fingers over the cherries and feel the sensual pleasure of new underwear. I get into my Starbucks uniform, pulling on the plain shirt and black pants. Feeling like I have a naughty secret, the boring uniform hiding the brand new underwear.

I head to work on the tube and because of how I'm feeling my mind wanders. I sit there and imagine what it might be like if the tube as a little more deserted. What if it was and a hot guy got on at one of the stations and came to sit across from me. If his leg or hand brushed mine and there was that instant spark of attraction. He leans in to kiss me and before I stop to think about it I've mounted him, fucking him then and there on the tube.

I feel myself blush as I almost miss my station, rushing off the tube and up the stairs to get to work. Each step upwards, each brush of my thighs seems more sensual than the last and I wonder if I'll be able to concentrate on taking orders and doing my job. Today is a shorter shift though and with any luck I'll be able to get home to an empty house and perhaps finally try out that rabbit.

Work alternates between dragging on and going quickly. I make coffees and smile at customers, clean tables and stock the shelves. My thoughts wander now and then, wondering what it would be like if a customer came in right on closing time, saying he'll do anything for a cappuccino. We flirt and eventually I tell him he can fuck me to make it up to me. He bends me over the arm of the couch or I sit on the serving counter as he fucks me. Sliding in and out, hard and fast until we're both moaning in orgasm.

I blush again, glad its finally the end of my shift. I've been asked by a few colleagues if I'm okay, is something wrong? I seem distracted. I make the excuse that I have a headache, not wanting to let on that my breasts feel full and heavy. That there's a constant ache between my thighs that will only be satiated with an orgasm.

The ride home on the tube goes quickly as I continue the morning's fantasy, this time I'm sitting on the seat as he stands. Fucking my mouth as I take his hard cock inside, all the way into my throat. Feeling his dick throb as he releases his cum into my mouth and I swallow it down. I half walk, half jog out of the tube and towards home. All the while hoping that I'm going home to an empty house.

I unlock the front door and head to my bedroom, listening for the sounds of my housemates and realising they're not home. I grin as I walk into my bedroom, kicking off my shoes and undressing as I do. I shut my door, locking it as I shed my uniform and stand in just my bra and panties once again. The Ann Summers bag still sits on my bed and I feel like a kid at Christmas as I get my new rabbit out of the bag.

Lying on the bed I prop myself up against the pillows and reacquaint myself with the controls on the rabbit. What makes it thrust and which of the five speeds do I prefer. Which button makes the rabbit ears vibrate and which of those four settings do I like. I bite my lip as I slide my panties down my legs and slip my bra off. I take a deep breath as I slide the head of the vibrator over my pussy. I know I'm slick and wet, I've felt it through the day and the vibrator moves easily over my sex.

I moan softly as the vibrator dips into my cunt. I feel it fill and stretch me, its longer than I'd care to admit since I've had a cock, real or not inside me. I find the button for the thruster and put it on the first setting. The beads contained within begin to thrust up and down and a loud moan escapes my lips before I can stop it. I close my eyes and lift my ass off the bed as I begin to move against the rabbit. Pleasure spirals through my pussy and carries on through my body as I carry on fucking the bright blue toy.

I turn on the rabbit ears to the first setting and before I'm prepared for it I'm orgasming. I moan as I do, pulling the vibrator out of my pussy as it spasms so hard it almost hurts. I smile as I lie there breathlessly, my breasts heaving as I come down off the high I've been building up to all day. But I want to try it again, want to test out the other settings.

I slide the vibrator back into my pussy and turn it onto the fourth setting, feeling it beginning to thrust fast within the walls of my pussy. I turn the ears onto the third setting and once again my ass lifts off the bed and I'm fucking the vibrator. My moans fill the room, I'm so lost in the sensations they could even be filling the house. I carry on moving against the vibrator until I'm orgasming once more.

I lie back against the pillows, breasts heaving as I feel my pussy clench around the vibrator. I slip it out, listening to it buzz on the bed as I recover from an even more intense release. I turn off the vibrator, setting it to one side as I pull up my blanket and curl up on the bed. I smile as I drift off to sleep, pleased with my new purchase and finally able to think of something besides sex.
 
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Far side of the world

The flights to South Africa from the states are brutal. You can cut the trip into two sections by going to London, taking a rest, and then dropping south, or you can just get the thing over with by going from DC to Johannesburg in one shot. Either way, really . . . brutal.

I've always thought it would be more fun to drop straight south, enjoy Brazil a little bit, and then swing across a tighter section of the Atlantic to hit Africa. Seems reasonable, doesn't it? Hell, I'm checking to see if the flights get any cheaper that way.

While that search gets underway, I suppose you should know that I'm going to Cape Town and Johannesburg because South Africa is hosting the World Cup in 2010, and there will be a huge run on tourism there just like Beijing saw recently. Since you can't just feature the main attraction all the time (travel mags get really bored of the obvious), I figure I'll hit some cool side-lights along the way.

An example . . . a theatre festival that involves going into the living rooms of seven different houses around the city (in this case, the city of Darling) and being surprised by a unique theatre performance or vignette in each house. The front room in Afrikaans is called the Voorkamer, so this "Front Room Party" or Voorkamerfest, is an interesting way to see great local talent in a variety of homes. That's just fuckin' cool, if you ask me.

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Anne van Neen here was one of the performers in 2007, and it just keeps getting bigger every year. 2008 is on right now, so I'll catch the last bit of it while I'm checking out the region overall.

Should be good times. Better go see about that flight to Brazil.

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OK . . . it's looking like it'll be a bit pricier to do it this way, but I recently heard about some cool caving expeditions they're doing around Sao Paolo, so if I can sell two stories in one trip I'll come out way on top.

Maybe if I come back the other way I can even find something in north England, Scotland, or Ireland and go for a three-fer. Time to research . . . in the meantime, I've got the first leg booked and I'm already dreaming of Brazilian nights. Spicy.

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Repetitions & Routines

I'm into the swing of things now. I know how often the train comes to my tube stop and how long it takes me to get somewhere. I know when my housemates are going to use the bathroom in the morning and fit my routine around them so I'm not late for work.

Then there's work. I know just the right amount of time to get the milk to the perfect froth consistency. I know how often the sugar containers need to be refilled or how long I need to leave the cutlery in the dishwasher to be sure they're adequately sterilised.

I'm beginning to recognise the customers too. The teacher who comes in each morning for a tall cappuccino with an extra shot of coffee. The business man who comes in for a cup of tea at 1:15pm sharp. The supposed sophisticates that come in pairs, looking immaculate as they talk about how hard their day of shopping is as they drink their grande double chocolate frappucino's.

I could easily become bored of this routine and perhaps sometime soon I will. But for now there is comfort in knowing what to expect and when it'll happen. In knowing my feet will get sore an hour before the end of my shift. Or that that cute guy who works in the shop across the road has his lunch at a certain times and walks past the window to get to his favourite eatery.

Occasionally though, to break up the monotony I let myself fantasise about a different thing happening. Maybe today is the day that cute guy decided to have lunch here and I slip him my phone number, writing it on the napkin I place beside his panini. Perhaps one of the sophisticates will slip as they walk through the door, revealing granny knickers that don't fit with their outward appearance. Maybe today is the day I meet that guy who will get my blood running and make butterflies dance in my stomach.

But for now its back to the repetitiveness of making drinks over and over, smiling at customers and taking payments. Back to catching the tube home and getting off at my stop, listening to 6 songs between work and home on my iPod. Back to getting changed and making dinner then sitting down to watch TV or surf the net. But I don't mind. Too much.
 
Brasilia

One thing that's great about losing your luggage as often as a person in my business loses their luggage is that you usually get a couple new wardrobe pieces for free. I got clothes from all over the world.

If you want to get ridiculous with the exhibitionist theme, it's also a good excuse to say you don't have any underwear, so you just go without . . . so do a lot of people in Brazil, mind you . . . but it's fun wearing local clothes with nothing underneath . . . makes being out of the US feel more adventurous.

Speaking of adventure, these caving expeditions in Sao Paolo are amazing. Look at this shot I got in the Petar Caves . . . you can't buy light like that in Jersey . . . too far from the equator.

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It's gorgeous here. The passion, the food, the women, the landscape. Everything.

Not sure if it's because of the huge Italian immigrant population in Jersey and NYC or what, but I love Italian women, and thank God the Italians came to South America in big numbers too. The mix of Italian and Portuguese immigrants with the natives here has created some amazingly beautiful people (Alessandra Ambrosio being a notable example . . . for fuck's sake!)

It's a shame my time here is so short. I've got to fly out tomorrow for Johannesburg. Should be great there too . . . just so different.

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