It’s late Sunday evening – a day before I get sucked back into my working life. The lights in the room are slightly dimmed. Any light is now redundant. I’ll leave the shades, coming from the stove, pour my surroundings. The curtains in the living room are slightly ajar, just enough to have a good view on the illuminated slopes of Vitosha mountain, but not enough to allow the outside world invade my personal space. The obscene pictures of this day are still flooding my mind in full force. I need something that would bring me inner peace, a whiskey maybe, accompanied by a fruit cocktail. I pour myself a glass and leave the couch take care of my body, while the jazz coming from the speakers heals my soul.
A picture never says enough without the accompanying story around it. It is that thought I try to focus my mind on and from which I would share my version of what happened this evening. Several hours have passed since. I was walking around the central station in Sofia. The filthiest place in the capital of Bulgaria. I am not quite sure what brought me here. It could be the desire to photograph, or the need to experience something new. My walk inside the dark subway corridors ended up quickly when I spotted two women, most likely prostitutes, waiting for their first customers for the evening. I timidly stepped towards them, without a clear plan of action. Seeing the smoking cigarette in my hand, the younger one used it as an excuse to start a small-talk with me. She asked me if she could have a smoke. I responded positively and with one well practiced gesture I handed one to her. She had probably already noticed my anxiety. While I lit her cigarette she continued the conversation by asking me if I was looking for company for the evening. I used the moment to take a closer look at her body. She was actually pretty, well placed, short with straight black hair, probably in her late twenties. My thoughts were interrupted by her question if I would like to go someplace quite with her and to receive a good old fashioned blowjob in exchange for a small amount of cash. Looking at her anticipating face, I politely declined and I placed myself on the concrete slab next to her. She was not looking surprised and continued the conversation while slowly exhaling a stream of smoke. She wanted to know more about me, what brought me here. After a short pause, during which I was trying to put my thoughts in place, I responded to her that I would actually like to take some pictures of her naked body. I have always admired the delicate shape of the well described female forms. I would not say that my needs are related that much to the extent of the desire for touch or physical contact. It is usually more than that. It is the longing with which I expect the nakedness to reveal itself to me, trying to paint every curve in my mind. I started wondering what was hiding beneath all those cloths she had on. Her seated posture prevented my imagination to draw a clear picture of her. Her amazed look pulled me out of my thoughts. Then she smiled. I was quite relieved that my desires were not strange to her. And why should they be? She was sitting here at the lowest point in the society, seen and heard everything you could imagine and probably things beyond that. While finishing up our cigarettes we continued talking. To be honest that was one of the most meaningful dialogs I have ever participated in. All social masks we use to wear in front of our society were put behind. We were both sharing what brought us here, where we stand right now, what we could have done to prevent it and should we actually regret of anything or we were both enjoying what we do. We came to an agreement about the price at which she would sell me her nakedness and headed to a famous brothel in the heart of the city.
Every time I have passed by it, I was trying to picture it from the inside. The building was old. It seemed that the years were not merciful to it. Despite the peeling plaster, there was a certain amount of charm, I thought. Maybe because of all the stories that were hidden somewhere inside. We went through a hall, disguised as a café and were welcomed by an elderly gentleman, who presented himself as the owner. Room 102. That was the number engraved on the key he slipped in my hands. We climbed the stairs behind the bar and went on the second floor. The smell upon entering the room was horrific. It could only be described as a delicate mixture of desire, lust and definitely something old. The walls were dissolving. You could clearly hear the sexual noises coming from the neighbor rooms. A woman was shouting from pleasure, accompanied by the sounds of a rhythmically banging towards the wall bed. Not paying much attention to the sounds, or the surroundings, the prostitute undressed herself. She carefully folded her clothes and placed them on the bed. Her last action contrasted very much the environment we both found ourselves in. Even in this dirty room she wanted to stay clean. Maybe it was some kind of a defensive mechanism, which kept her distant from the event that was currently happening. She was obviously trying to preserve what was left of her. While preparing my equipment I asked her to place herself on the floor. She belonged there and I don’t find it shameful anyhow. The experience was quite reviving. We stayed perfectly synchronized while drawing different shapes with her body. Upon completing the session, she spread her legs and lowered her hands between her thighs, opening her intimate parts. She gave me a seductive look and asked me if I still didn’t want to fuck her. I replied that I already did and after a brief pause while folding the tripod and putting my camera inside the bag I looked at her and added – I just fucked you with my camera.