I haven't looked at the picture in a long time, but I see it clear as day in my mind. I look fucking GREAT in it. All American Apparel ad meets Kubrick meets Gabriel Garcia Marquez-ian tragedy.
Me, in my nude underpants, my first pair (but certainly not my last) of high-end "granny panties" & raw silk, bright red bra. The motel was tacky, but I loved it. The cheesy bedspread laid out underneath my butt and open thighs (one hand behind me, planted onto it to keep me from falling over). I was tanned and just before I took the photo: blissfully happy.
You can't see my face behind the camera and the flash is perfectly reflected in the floor length mirror in front of me. It's a sexy shot. Trust me. Exactly the way I wanted to be remembered on my wedding day, the day I was abandoned by my fiance.
Turns out he didn't leave me that morning. Well, he did leave. Took my flip-flops and said he was going out for a bottle of Wild Turkey so we could toast our marriage. He was gone for 2 hours and this being Virgina Beach in the middle of summer, I knew a liquor store couldn't be all that hard to find. When it settled in that he was gone, my rubber sandals on his feet to keep me close, I sat down to take the snapshot. I refused to put on my wedding dress. REFUSED. So in my skivvies it was.
When he walked in the door 10 minutes later, sweating, frantic, GORGEOUS with a dozen roses in his hands (the bourbon, too, THANK GOD) I felt like I was floating out of my body. He was saying something about getting lost finding a florist and how he didn't want me to get married without flowers and and and and and if I wasn't so fucking perfect in my underpants, we'd have consummated the som'bitch right there.