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Travel

The Sexy Witch and the Typical Male Asshole

After photographing a bunch of religious cultists in the Angeles Mountains in 1987 I made friends with one of the witches, who claimed to have known me in a previous life.

I’m up in the Angeles Mountains with my friend, Stephen, sleeping in a car and photographing a bunch of religious cultists. The last ceremony before we leave is conducted by a sexy young witch who conjures up orgasmic spells for an enthusiastic circle of nerdy worshipers. When I take a picture she plays to the camera and I get a twinge in my dick. After the show Stephen talks to her and she agrees to meet us halfway down the mountain at a folksy café. Her name is Raven and she’s 20 years old. She’s a good witch with a regal attitude. She is accompanied by a young cartoonish guy in a black cape, whom we all ignore. Stephen has a portable recorder and asks her questions about witch stuff. She cuts him off mid-sentence and asks me what kind of pictures do I take.

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“I photograph stuff and things, you know. I’d like to photograph you.” We lock eyes and I grin. “I think we could make some good pictures.”

“You’re a very lucky man,” she says. “I’ve been looking for you. I want you to photograph me, explicit photographs like in Penthouse magazine. I know you from lives lived in other times, and you can know me in ways other men will never know.”

“That’s great, Raven. Can I get your phone number?”

A couple of days later I call and she’s got it all set up. I pick her up in the Camaro and we check into a little tea-cup and potpourri hotel in Newport Beach. I don’t have any money but I have a credit card with a $2,000 limit and six rolls of Kodachrome. She brings four suitcases stuffed with props and lingerie. I open a cheap bottle of champagne and roll a joint. An hour later I’m lying on the bed taking pictures and Raven’s panties are on the floor. She’s straddling a broom handle like she’s ready for takeoff. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I tell her. “Let’s fuck.”

Raven says she wants to, she really really wants to, but she can’t make love to me until I’ve professed my love to her. I have to say the words, I love you. “And then,” she tells me, “you can experience me completely and your life will be my life and my life will be yours.”

I don’t want to make love and I don’t want to swap lives. I just want to fuck, and it feels a bit premature for vows of devotion. “I’m sorry, Raven, I don’t love you.”

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“That’s a shame,” Raven says. “If you change your mind let me know, but I won’t wait forever." I don’t change my mind and we don’t fuck, though a couple of hours later I talk her into nasty poses while I jerk off.

The next day she signs a model release and gives me a hug. She asks me would I like to go to Disneyland and bring my six-year-old son, Austin. It sounds like fun, taking Austin to Disneyland with a real witch, so I make a date for the next weekend. On Saturday I pick up Austin in San Diego and Raven in Santa Ana and we all go, holding hands, to Disneyland. She’s in full costume—all black and flowing, red lips and long red fingernails like bloody razor blades. People point at her and she loves the attention. She plays her part like a method actor. Austin has a good time and rides the rides with Raven while I mostly watch and take hidden hits off a stowaway reefer. I enjoy myself and put everything on the card.

I’ve been crashing at my friend Gus’s art studio in the Valley. Gus is in New York working on a movie, so I’ve got the place to myself. I invite Raven to spend a couple of days and a night with me so we can make some more pictures, black and white, fine art for posterity.

Raven doesn’t drive so I cruise down to Santa Ana and bring her back up to Van Nuys. She talks about heavy metal music and magic spells. We make photographs until the sun goes down, but I’m not inspired and this work is never going to hang on the walls of a museum. I uncork wine and cook a salmon loaf with dill sauce and little potatoes.

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Later in the evening she disappears into the bedroom for an hour and comes out wearing lace and leather, nine-inch heels and a pointy witch hat. She tells me she can wait no longer for my devotion and then spritzes me with an atomizer of oily love-potion. She closes her eyes and chants in witch lingo and sign language telling some god or goddess to set things right. She kneels between my legs and tells me this is the last time she’s going to ask, do I love her?

“Why does it matter so much?” I tell her. “Surely you don’t love me.”

She scrapes her claw-like fingernails across my denim button-fly. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t love you,” she says.

I’ve got a boner and what the fuck, I go ahead and say it, I love you, and with that she unlocks the gates. We have sex but she insists on complete control and I insist on a condom and it’s not all that much fun. In the morning, as I’m driving her home, she tells me we need to start looking for a place of our own so she can move out of her parents’ house. She tells me I should probably get a job and another credit card. For the next three months I hide out like the typical male asshole and don’t return her phone calls and eventually the calls stop and I mail her the slides.

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.