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Travel

Cats Fucking

1988. I’m on Central Avenue about a mile south of wise decisions. A warm wind is blowing through the desert that is Los Angeles. It's 4:00 AM when I spy a skinny wreck in spike heels, short-shorts, and a halter top. She gives a wink and a wave, and I...

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.

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1988. I’m on Central Avenue about a mile south of wise decisions. A warm wind is blowing through the desert that is Los Angeles. It's 4:00 AM when I spy a skinny wreck in spike heels, short-shorts, and a halter top. She gives a wink and a wave and I pull into an empty lot next to a beauty parlor. Virgin Mary or one of her friends, set in holy clouds, is painted over a brick façade on the front of the building. The whore walks to the car in jerky stoned-out steps, opens the door, and climbs in.

"My apartment," she mumbles. "Go that way." She keeps her eyes on my face and directs me down a narrow graffiti-filled alleyway that feels like an abandoned carnival midway. "Here. Stop here. Follow me." I park next to a row of overturned trash containers, grab my camera gear, then climb out and look around. It’s not a nice place. From somewhere nearby, I hear cats fucking—the female yowling, the male growling like a rapist.

We walk through a gate into a courtyard of apartments that look like they only exist at night. The whore’s equilibrium is out of whack; she seems to be falling but never does. A couple of mad-eyed teens sit in an open-mouth garage doing nothing. They scowl at me, but I keep my expressions to myself. We go into a dark lower-floor apartment that smells like cooked cabbage. The room is lit by the tube of a small black-and-white TV, snow and incoherent noise. A skinny pimp/husband in yellowed underwear sits rocking on the back legs of a twisted kitchen chair, drinking from a bottle of MD 20/20 and watching the television like there is something there to watch. He looks at me in a squint like I’m backlit by the sun and then back at the television.

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The hooker grabs my hand and pulls me toward a half-open bedroom door. “C’mon,” she says. “You wanna fuck?”

I can see into the bedroom. Trash and secondhand toys are strewn about, and two little kids are on a bed without a slipcover. One is asleep and the other is sitting up with a pacifier in her mouth, looking at her mother and me.

"We’re not going in there,” I tell her.

“They jus' kids,” she says. “You wanna fuck? C’mon."

My dick has pulled in its head. "I don't want to fuck. I want to take your picture and we can do that out here."

The man of the house suddenly wakes up, sits up, and looks at me. "What's chu want pictures for?" His mouth hangs open like those of elderly people in hospice. On the floor next to him: tin foil, a butane lighter, drug paraphernalia.

The guy irritates me, so I get belligerent and tell him, “I’m not talking to you.”

The whore takes my arm, calls me baby and wants to know am I going to treat her right.

I take a 20 from my wallet, tell her it’s my life savings and she can have it, all she has to do is pose like a model.

"Bare naked?"

"Yeah, sure. But let’s close this door." The kid on the bed is watching, and it’s creeping me out.

The whore takes the bill, walks to the couch and starts to strip. The pimp pulls his scrawny body from the chair and staggers over into my face. The top of my head reaches the bottom of his chin.

"Wha bou me?" His eyes are out of focus and his breath stinks like a landfill. The bedroom door is still open, the kid sitting there watching the cheap drama.

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"What about you?"

"Twenty dollars."

"I already gave her 20."

"Wha bou me?"

"Fuck you."

The pimp balls his fists and contorts his mug. I sneer and snarl like I’m a tough guy. If we started swinging, we’d probably look like Special Olympics flyweights on crack. I’m looking at the pimp but can still feel the kid on the bed watching me.

The pimp says "motherfucker" under his breath and goes to the hooker, now sprawled naked across the couch. He takes her arm and pulls her to his level. "Wha bou me?" She picks her pants up from the floor, pulls the 20 from a pocket and hands it to him. He goes back to the chair in front of the television and spits at my feet on the way. I look into the bedroom, wave goodbye to the kid and pull the door mostly closed.

The whore gives me nasty poses on the couch while I take pictures and encourage her to be creative. "That's great, that's good baby, look at me and do that one again, that's beautiful, great."

When I’m done I turn to pack up and notice that the door has swung open again and the toddler has been sitting there watching us. She blinks but otherwise doesn’t move. I pick up my backpack and leave without saying goodbye.

Previously - It's Only Pornography

Scot’s first book, Lowlife, was released last year. You can find more information on his website.