Free He discovers the truth behind the rumors. Porn Pics

Agents investigate a piercing epidemic.

Let's just say she can be a fast, fast tart. Did Lorna mention that?"

"Uhh, no, not really. Should I ask?"

"I'm sure she'll tell about that day. Maybe. Maybe censored a bit. But I don't spill those secrets. Wouldn't be prudent. Get it from the witnesses.""

I found that he spilled other secrets, but that came later.

We rolled in weird, ghostly quiet to Rancho Relaxo's rough access track, with Heidi's top down until then, and then up for good cover from dust.

Stan parked Heidi in his barn-workshop and rolled Tilly out. The 55-gallon kerosene drum lying front-and-center in the pickup bed gave off a certain tang, but not too bad, and staged between two 55-gallon water barrels. We loaded my photographic gear and secured it. Stan checked and re-checked, and approved it. He peered at a wide wristwatch.

"Three hours till we need to go," he said, waving down his hallway, "so it's naptime. Pick a comfy bunk and try to get good dreams." His bedroom door closed behind him. I picked a cell next to his office. I napped uneasily. Did I dream?


The first couple of days in the western Mohave both excited and bored me. Excited, because awesome beauty and history and serious technical challenges. I endured many "learning experiences", oh shit.

And bored, because Stan was such a total damn mensh and never ever made a move on me. Tilly's outdoor shower misted-off our dust. We showered naked but not too close and with only a little leering. We napped on cots in separate air-cooled or -warmed pup tents. We were a polite, professional team.

We surveyed hidden desert corners along sometimes absurd tracks. Those corners would stay hidden; I was not illustrating a field guide and vandals would not be given maps.

The routine: We would arrive somewhere an hour or so before the magic hour, set-up for the shoot, and then maybe do a quick tear-down and silently roll awkwardly to a nearby site for last-moment marginal exposures. Then tear down, pack up, do that daddy-long-legs roll to the next site, or nap for some hours.


We were mostly out of cellphone range but after one morning shoot we were not TOO far from Joshua Tree village's tower. We had holed up for the day at a rock tank, a mystic pool of springtime rainwater trapped in an eroded granite bowl. We would shoot just around the corner this sunset so this was almost a vacation day. An awning spread from Tilly's top gave shelter from the sun. We sipped cold wine and munched healthy snacks at folding chairs and table. We considered a clean naked dip in the pool before napping. I did, anyway.

Stan's Nokia flip-phone sang Ghost Riders in the Sky.

"Hey Babs," he greeted, "que pasa? Uh huh. What, right now? Okay, we're at that Jojoba Pool" - a stand of bushy jojoba trees screened a nearby sandy wash - "yeah, past the Three Monks" - low, undistinguished rockpiles - "and sure, no problem. Seeya soon." He flipped shut.

"The best botany prof at the local college, and a good friend, is risking a ride here for an urgent consultation, she says. I'm guessing twenty or twenty-five minutes. Have another orange?" He passed me a cold, wet fruit, the best sort of desert snack. Dry the peels for a day or two for a spicy campfire additive.

How many days does it take to reach "good friend" status with Stan?

We heard a motorbike from a few minutes off. A smutty dust cloud swirled from the sandy wash, blown away from us by a fortunate breeze. We had added a chair and cleared the table to make room for this consult's spread-out paperwork, or so Stan warned.

The dirtbike stopped. The lean but bulgy rider in tight denims dismounted, doffed her helmet, shook herself, and peeled away her fitted jeans jacket, uncovering a maternity sports bra just barely restraining gorgeous boobs, and a belly hanging over the jeans pants she had let out a belt notch.

She walked, not waddled, toward us. Six months gone, I figured.

Her Asian face looked familiar.