Reprieve on the Stoop
Belle Waring

If your first memory was the arms of your father
about to chuck you out the window of that catpiss
apartment in Downingtown, you couldn’t dream.
You don’t remember dreams, like when I got
robbed, the scumface
broke in my room while I was alone
asleep and naked and when he left
I woke up
untouched. Now if the sun

abides in these brassy leaves
quivering over my ankles which talk
to you and you ask me to sit
so I do–you and I
we’re both alive and how bad is that–on the stoop
like a girl with her front door key on two feet of green
string around her neck, watching the boys shoot
hoops, how they crouch and leap extending to the rim
and sweat on the sweet lunette of neck over their T-shirts

only now we’re not slinking
home for supper in time to boil a pork dog
and watch dad throw his liquid obituary in mom’s
face. We sit down on the stoop and watch the earth
swing her hips to the next dance hit and the dark
slide his arms around her waist. Listen
–I’m not romantic, baby, but I do
know grace when I see it.

Still, it can be a little intimidating to step in front of the camera for someone like Holly.  I’ve been modeling in New York City for artist/photographers for nearly two years now, and I’m really comfortable in that setting.  The aesthetic is different (but not THAT different) from the one in mainstream adult erotica.  That’s not to say Holly doesn’t have a discerning  aesthetic, I mean, she did hire me (I mean that in the least pretentious way possible.  I’m not a classic pornbot is all I’m saying), but let’s just say the consuming public may not be readily impressed with what a natural girl like myself brings to the table.

It’s not always easy to look a pictures of yourself taken from every conceivable angle while you’re in weird poses that best showcase your lady parts.

I like this set, and all of the sets I did for Holly because it was fun to show pink for the first time.  I think there’s something really subversive in being photographed so glamorously while doing something so primitive.  I think Ashley Blue would get me on this one.  It’s a humorous juxtaposition when you step back for a moment.

Having said that.  I really like these photos.  I think this was the point when I was finally getting comfortable in the shoot.

Enjoy:

For more sneak previews, check out Holly’s site: HollyRandall.com

XOXO,

Sovvy.

Here we are shot by George Pitts.  She’s playing James Dean to my Marilyn as it were.  Whatever that means.  I’m guessing after the fact.  She is a genderfluitransman.  I am a woman who loves her sexually.  You figure it out.

Click the link to see the rest of the gallery: Genderfluidtransperson

Marilyn

There was a time when dirt and hormones covered me in a sticky film, so thick I could scrape a trail down my arm, and see my adolescence compacted into a single black arc under my fingernail. When I was thirteen the heat of my cheek withered the grass and I could press my ear into the darkness and hear the world turning on the axis of my atoms. June bugs hissed in the humid folds of my dark blond hair, dragonflies rolled their tongues along the brackish crevices of my knees. The back door creaked and framed my father like a dark knight, the sun beating his retreating silhouette into the pits of my eyes with trailing bullets of color. The wind blew the leaves together in muted applause when I rose up and pushed the bodice of my dress taught over my swollen breasts, knotted with the fibrous lumps of puberty. The neighborhood boys walked past the back gate and rolled their damp eyes over the curve of my back. The pucker of her hard lips pressed my back flat into my bed, the short bursts of their breath spread my thighs in rhythmic worship. There was a time when I spilled out of my dress like an overripe fruit tree, onto the slick pages of magazines and left behind a legacy of sticky fumbling in gas station bathrooms. Words came out of my mouth light as spun sugar, dissolving on the pillows of starry eyed orphans. I came down like an incubus on dark haired soft bellied little girls, coaxing fingers down their throats, and teaching them to turn away from their mothers ashamed. I spent so many years crouched in dark hotel rooms chasing flashes of armor across mens faces that I forgot how the slope of my own nose looked. I woke up thirty years old afraid to look in the mirror distorting me now like a body of water, bloated and blanched and floating. Lines ran down my face the echoes of hidden frowns, tears cast into the corner where no one could look. Age walled me up like an anchoress, counting pills like days, from memory, slowly hardening loneliness. The years bring me grubby fingered minions afraid the world will forget,nailing my picture to the weeping willow overhead, lips spread, arms open. Girls tucked neatly into white cotton panties wet their tender lips with crimson lipstick, and suckled on the pink marble nipple of my grave, until their affection eroded it into the coarse teat of a bitch. In the white silence, the tuning fork of death strikes the earth and shakes loose the pollen. I can hear the morning dew quiver of the web, the roping steps of the spider on the leaf. What you can’t hear. What you can’t know.

Also, note the blonde bush.

Three Spreads

A Maid's Lament

Explicit Beauty

Brainy Beauty

It was cool being in Hustler because I’ve read that magazine since I was 14. I started with a subscription to Playboy because I liked girls and I thought the magazine was classy enough that I could ask my dad to buy it for me. I didn’t want my mom to know I liked girls. Eventually I moved on to Hustler. I’ve applied to be in their magazine twice. I’m glad I made it in at any capacity. They called me stunning and a brainy beauty, so I’m happy. Of course I’d love to be parting the curtains next to text talking about what a cock hungry bitch I am…perhaps one day, if I have some success as a performer I’ll get a full spread. Then it will be like achieving a lifelong thesis.

I just took off my corset when this picture was taken…I was imagining that I was Monica Bellucci and that it was Lord Byron taking my picture…and that he found me endlessly fascinating.

People don’t realize it so much, but modeling, especially in an erotic context involves a lot of acting, because you are expected to inhabit moods rather than to be a clothing rack.  It’s a different kind of work.  It takes a different kind of effort.