A Picture In the Backseat

Scot Sothern is a Los Angeles–based photographer and a big prostitute fan. He has been interacting with and photographing hookers since the 1960s, and his images have been widely exhibited in galleries in the US, Canada, and Europe. Scot's pictures evoke such a visceral reaction in the viewer and raise so many questions, we decided to give Scot a regular column aimed at getting the story behind the photo. The idea is simple: we feature an image from Scot’s archive along with his explanation of just exactly what the fuck was going on when he took it. Welcome to Nocturnal Submissions.

It’s 1986 and it’s dark and I’m all alone thinking about how cool I am. I’m south of Los Angeles in Long Beach and I’m comfortably stoned on pot and I’ve got music on, quietly punk. Earlier, I got paid for a two-week gig as an optical camera operator and now my wallet is full of 20s. I take Pine Avenue up to Pacific Coast Highway and turn left toward the freeway, driving slowly, looking for subject matter. To my left, half behind a lamppost, a tarnished angel beckons me with a prurient glance. I circle left and edge up to the curb. She hangs a drug-infused face in the open passenger window and asks me am I looking for a date?

"Yeah, I am. Hop in."

She’s shaky and frightened; her aura is humid with the scent of a sickbed. I roll down my window, plug a cigarette into my profile, and scan her outer shell. She’s been knocked around and bullied and it’s nothing new. "Please be good to me," she says. "Don't hurt me, OK? I'll be good if you be good."

I had a boner when I pulled to the curb and now it’s gone. She’s not going to be a good time, she’s going to be another sad story. "I'm not going to hurt you, I don’t do that. You got a place to go? I just want to take your picture."

"I got no place. I need money for a room."

I pull into the dark parking lot of an out-of-business muffler shop and take a 20 from my wallet. "Twenty bucks," I say. "We can do it here."

She takes the 20 in one hand, sets the other tentatively in my lap. "For 30 dollars we can get a room and I can suck you off."

“I don’t know. Let’s just take some pictures."

She looks at me from somewhere far away. "You jack off? You take pictures and go home and jack off with pictures?”

“Occasionally, yeah, but I don’t usually admit it. Crawl into the backseat. I’m just gonna take a couple of pictures here in the car. What’s your name?”

"Cheri. Let’s you and me get a room. I got nowhere to stay. You can take pictures, nasty ones, an' be my new daddy an' you can do whatever you want to me. Let’s me an’ you get a room, OK?"

She’s stoned but it doesn’t seem pleasant and her cheeks are quivering.  My own buzz is getting dark. "First thing we're gonna do is take some pictures, and for that I need you in the back seat."

She climbs through the seats to the back. I turn on the dome light and get my camera. She peels off her shirt and I turn on my flash.

I bring the Nikon to my eye. She makes a sudden jump, presses her back into the seat and starts kicking at me. "That's a gun!" She screams. "Don’t shoot me. Looky here. Look at my titties. You wanna feel my titties? Here, feel my titties." She is gasping for air.

"It's just a camera. Look, it's just a camera."

She cowers behind her hands and tells me please don’t do nothin’ to hurt her. I aim, focus, ignite the flash and make the exposure. "That's it," I say, "I got it. It's OK, nobody is going to hurt you. I'm all done with all I'm gonna do."

She comes out, slowly, from behind her hands. "You took my picture?"

"Yeah, I took your picture and now I'm going to take you to a motel."

“Let’s get a room and you can jack off and I’ll be like the sexy pictures."

My fingers are shaking and my neck is tense. "Thanks anyway, but I'm gonna call it a night. I'll get you a room and I'll pay the tab."

“Why you do that?”

“A couple of days from now my money will all be gone anyway. I might as well get rid of it while I can.”

I drive to a dumpy motor court next to the freeway and buzz the buzzer until a woman comes to the window. She’s wearing a big sweatshirt with a picture of Snoopy the dog and Woodstock the bird. She tells me $25 from now to noon and I tell her $15 then settle for $20. She tells me I need to fill out a registration form and I tell her no I don’t. She shrugs and takes the $20 and gives me a key, turns out the light and goes back to where she came from.

Back in the Camaro I give Cheri the room key. "Checkout time is noon. Don't get caught working out of the room or they’ll boot you out."

She looks at me for a while then gets out of the car and before closing the door she looks at me some more. I’m waiting for her to say thank you but that’s not what she does. She calls me a cocksucker and then swings the door shut.

Previously - Danger Lurks Everywhere

Scot's first book, Lowlife, was released last year and his memoir, Curb Service, is out now. You can find more information on his website.