Moonstruck, 1989

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.

Just east of the last garish jerk-off joint on Hollywood Boulevard I see a woman at a bus stop and can’t tell if she’s on the clock or not. She looks like a Midwestern girl full of gosh darn and don’t mess with me, buster, but when our eyes connect I see sex and a photo op, and she sees money. I step on the brake and pull to the curb. She walks to the car and opens the door and gets in.

“I charge 40 dollars an hour, and if it’s less than an hour it’s still 40 dollars.”

“Forty is OK, you got a place to go? Buckle up your seatbelt.”

“I know a place. You can fuck me if you want, I like it better than blow jobs and I’m good at it. You have to wear a condom, I’m not putting it in my mouth or my pussy without a condom.”

“Yeah, sure,” I tell her, safe mode is preferred and I have rubbers in my backpack. I’ve made a couple of random turns and I’m on Franklin headed west. “Maybe you could give me directions to where we’re going. I’m Scot, what’s your name?”

“Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn, you can call me Marilyn. I’m the spirit of Marilyn Monroe.”

“Oh yeah? I’m the spirit of Robert Mitchum. Am I driving the direction I need to be driving?”

“Right up there, pull up into that drive.”

I pull into a narrow single-lane drive between two redbrick five-story apartment buildings. Leafy potted plants on the fire-escape landings. Halfway between the front and back she tells me this is good, to stop right here.

I stop and switch off the ignition. “When you said you’ve got a place to go, is this what you meant? Because this is just a driveway and not really what I was thinking.”

Before she can answer, a woman nearby says, “What’d you say? Don’t pester me, I’m watching TV.” I’m parked up close to an open window. Through the screen, the cobwebs, a lacy curtain, and a darkened bedroom I can see a flickering television.

Marilyn seems oblivious. “I don’t have a place, you know, like an inside place to go. This place is OK, we can do it here. ”

A man’s voice: “I didn’t say anything. Who’s pestering who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marilyn pulls the lever at the base of the seat, goes back to a quarter slant, flips up her short skirt, and tells me she’s primed and ready and I should pull down my pants.

“There are people right there,” I whisper. “Maybe we should pull up a bit, find a better spot.”

“No, this is good,” she tells me. “We’re already here so we should just go ahead and do it, except I need 40 dollars first.”

The guy inside is yelling from another room. “Now what are you talking about? What did I do wrong this time?”

“Please shut up,” the woman tells him. “I didn’t say anything and you’re the one keeps talking.”

I give Marilyn 40 bucks and pull down my pants and put on a condom and crawl over on top and slip my round peg into her horizontal hole. I can make out Nicolas Cage on the television, he’s wearing an undershirt and his hair is a mess. He’s doing dialogue with Cher.

I’m building a rhythm and Marilyn is keeping in pace. I go in for a kiss but she turns her head.

I can hear Nick Cage and Cher talking about love. He says, “Why you marrying Johnny, he’s a fool?”

The light comes on in the bedroom and the guy inside yells to the other room, “How come you’re watching a movie? I thought you said we didn’t have money for a movie.” He’s standing about three yards away at waist level and he’s wearing a ratty bathrobe.

“I said we don’t have money for that stupid porno thing you wanted to rent.”

It’s darker out here than in there, and he can’t see us unless he bends down and takes a look. Marilyn grinds her sex and Kegels my wiener and it’s possible she likes it. She is making audible pleasure squeaks and they are increasing in volume. In spite of the distractions I’m mere seconds from a gusher and there’s no way I can reel it in.

The marital discord continues. “Since when are you the one who says what we can spend money on?”

“Since you quit working. Will you please just leave me alone? I’m trying to watch the movie.”

Marilyn is getting louder, “Eeeeya Eeeeya Eeeeya.” I’m wondering if I should put my hand over her mouth and I notice she’s smiling like she just won a beauty pageant.

Cher says, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. What are you doing?”

“It’s not my fault I’m not working, I don’t know what the hell you think I’m suppose to do.”

“I’m taking you to bed.”  Nicolas Cage’s Italian accent sounds like a speech impediment.

I shoot three long spooge-loogies into the rubber and it’s the high point of my week.

Cher says, “OK OK, I don’t care. Take me to the bed.”

The woman watching the movie says, “Why don’t you go someplace else and cry yourself to sleep?”

Marilyn shutters to a stop and lets out a pleasure squeal that reminds me of Jayne Mansfield in The Girl Can't Help It.

I get my pants buttoned back up and I toss the spent rubber onto the apartment window ledge. I turn the ignition key and the Camaro rumbles to life. I give the horn a quick toot and light a cigarette, and the guy inside walks over and looks at me through the window.

I show him a fist of solidarity and tell him, "Keep the faith."