Too Many Motherfuckin' Ugly People

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.

1986 - She’s tall and solid with a Halloween afro and a leopard-print minidress. Her name is Supreme and she climbs into my Camaro and asks if I’m looking to party. I tell her as a matter of fact I’m looking to party hearty and what’s it gonna cost me for a modeling session?

“Thirty dollars for pictures. But that ain’t nothin, cutie pie. Fifty dollars and I’m gonna make you scream like motherfuckin’ ice cream. You all cute and manly, and no bitch never cream you like I’m gonna do. Now catch up to that car, can you do that for me?”

She’s charismatic and kind of sexy and I’m ready to instigate a relationship, but I’m a little confused. “Catch up with that car, how come?” It’s a 70-something Oldsmobile, like a yacht on springs a half block ahead.

She puts her hand in my lap and squeezes my dick. “I just need to say something to the nigga in that car. Then we can go to my place and party like no tomorrow and no motherfuckin’ day after. You just need to catch up to that car. Give it some go, stud.”

“Yeah, all right.” I stomp the accelerator and we take off like a shot wad.

She kisses me on the neck under my ear and tells me go go Speed Racer. The street—Vermont maybe, somewhere around Compton—is quiet and the other car is the only one around. They’re going about 30 and I pull up side-by-side and slow to match speed. Supreme buzzes down her window and tells me to honk and get their attention. I do three quick toots and the Oldsmobile’s driver’s-side window opens to reveal a skinny guy at the wheel and a fat girl sitting shotgun.

“Look it what I got,” Supreme yells at the guy. “I got a tough little cutie and all you got is that smelly fat motherfuckin’ skank.” She puts the window back and tells me thanks and we need to go back the other direction to her place. I make a left that goes all the way back behind us and the Olds is no longer a factor.

Supreme directs me to a neighborhood of old homes where the only things not in disrepair are the bars on the doors and windows. Up on the wide porch, between us and the front door, is a little gathering of macho juvenile delinquents. Supreme tells me they’re nothing but little bitches and don’t pay them no attention. They snicker as we walk by. A buck-toothed kid with a box of Milk Duds lobs a high one and it bounces off my head. It’s kind of funny but I keep a straight face and don’t stop to share the laugh.

Supreme has a big room, three flights up, in a use-to-be attic. I give her money and get the Nikon from my bag. She asks me would I like to smoke a big brown joint and I’m not sure if she means do I want to smoke some marijuana, or do I want to suck her dick. “Maybe.”

A joint and a Bic magically appear and she lights it, takes a couple of hard hits and hands it to me to do the same. We pass it a few times until I say I’m all done, thanks. She’s got a single bed set up in a corner, a night table with an ashtray, a radio on the floor. She turns on music and crawls onto the bed. I’m really stoned so I just sit there. The music is Motown; baby baby, can’t you feel my heart beat?

“Someday I’m a be a fashion designer,” Supreme says. “I already know make-up and I can’t draw a motherfuckin’ stick but I can hire some nobody to draw what I tell them to, you know.  You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, sure. Someday I’m gonna be a writer. I’m just waiting until I get a computer with a spell checker.”

“In Paris, where all the fashion comes from, everyone goes to the beach nude. That don’t leave nothin’ to the imagination.”

“I don’t know. You can always imagine what it’d be like to fuck ‘em.”

“Oh, uh-uh, no way, too many motherfuckin’ ugly people.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t imagine doing it with the ugly ones.”

Supreme stretches out her long frame, points her toes, throws back her mane, and bats her glued-on lashes. She asks me do I think she’s fabulous?

“Absolutely, let’s take some pictures.”  I focus, pose and compose, the shutter snaps and the flash pops and I have a really good time. I’m still loaded a while later when I walk the two flights down to the porch. I’m relieved to see the young thugs have gone off somewhere to make the world a better place.  On the street the Oldsmobile is parked behind my car and the passengers—the skinny guy and the fat girl—are on the sidewalk. “Hey,” the girl says. “Are you stupid?”

I tell her yeah, sometimes I can be pretty stupid and have a nice night. I get in the Camaro and drive away. The engine growls at the quiet night.

Previously - The Whore on the Floor

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.