Paulo

by Nikki Love

(Featuring model Oshone Khan)
 
 
    Model Oshone Kahn


I’m not bitter and by no means am I through with men.

Actually, I recently reopened my heart. It happened last summer while I was traveling in Europe.

My second week in Spain, tired and hung over, I sat outside a small café within Plaza del Sol. My morning, starting mid-afternoon, had placed me in the plaza at the height of foot traffic. I ordered a café solo or an espresso and tranquilly observed the colorfully animated crowd.

There were clean cut men in suits, school children in their uniforms, women parading babies in strollers and at their hips, and the occasional hippie or two.
  


MODEL'S STATEMENT    Look deeper. C an you figure me out? I blur the color lines and create my own personal melting pot. I believe we should open our hearts and minds to EVERYTHING before we can judge ANYTHING. Anyone who has ever known me knows how I long to travel, taste every culture, and see the beauties of the world. As an artist  (I do makeup, a.k.a Khanartist, model, sing, dance , act , etc.) it's important to me to absorb, learn and create in this life. So I enjoy meeting people from various places. When I'm at home I'm with my family and friends. I enjoy laughing, watching movies and just being loved.  If  you were to listen to songs in my iPod you would hear a super mega myriad of music artists from across the globe, from Fela Kuti to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. 

   




   
   Baby in a Tub                              Duniani


The sound of bargaining, singing, and the shuffling of feet filled my ears. And though everyone in Gracia seemed to be out on the street at that very moment, the nonchalant demeanor of the group gave me the feeling that no one really had anywhere to go.

I got halfway through a chocolate-filled croissant. My stomach still not forgiving me for the abuse of all the drinking and late-night, sporadic eating. I continued surveying the crowd as the evening progressed until my eyes fell upon a man sitting at a table across from mine.

I had not even noticed him sit down. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. And though there was not one single feature that stood out about him, I found myself somehow drawn.

Intrigued, I began studying his movements, stealing as many glances as I could from the corner of my eye.

He had a round face and dark curly hair down to his ears, and his perfectly tanned skin glowed immaculately under the rays of the falling afternoon sun.

He wasn’t exceptionally dressed. His royal blue t-shirt advertised what looked like a beach resort, probably somewhere along the Mediterranean. His jeans were cut off right below the knee and somewhat tattered. And he wore black chucks on his feet, seeming to be held together by the laces.

It’s not very hard to spot Americans in Europe and he was definitely one of them. Never had I seen anyone in Spain wearing Converse sneakers. That is the moment I knew I was in love.


   
     Lady in White                   Gladney


On his right sat another man in a relentless release over exaggerated words and drizzles of spit. The man was speaking to him in one of the three dialects of Spanish spoken in Spain. Maybe Catalan. Whatever it was I had a hard time understanding and couldn’t make out what the man was so excited about. And though I would be overly disgusted by anyone talking so loudly and so closely to my face, he seemed to be completely engaged in the man’s conversation.

A black guitar case straddled the seat on his left. A musician. He had me. There is just something about men who are artists that fascinates me. A painting, a performance, something produced by a man that is filled with his own unique passion. It just leaves me weak.

I don’t know how long I was staring at his guitar, imagining him stroking me the way he does those strings. But it must have been a while because when I looked up the man that was talking to him was gone, and he was motioning for me to come over to his table.

I had been caught. I felt the heat of the blood rushing to my face as I tried to gracefully stand.

Failing at looking anything but awkward, my knees, shaking, gave out under my weight causing me to bump the table. The shattering of broken glass from my fallen espresso cup caused me to jump. My face burning from embarrassment, I slowly looked up expecting him to somehow be gaining enjoyment at my expense, but he simply smiled and signaled once more for me to come and join him. I attempted to pick up the pieces of my cup that were sprawled out all over the ground, grabbed my bag, and walked over to his table.


    
     Cat Girl                                           Gladney


As I got closer to him the full effect of his features began to set in. His smile alone pulled me into his arms before I even sat down. He had perfectly defined eyebrows that over-dramatized his deep-set big dark eyes. His eyes, though wise, did not appear old as if plagued by disappointment and regret, but as if he had led a life full of happiness and tranquility. The skin on his face was smooth, almost creamy, and completely flawless. Perfect.

I sat down doing all I could to keep my mouth from hanging open in awe. He spoke to me in English. Apparently my American showing just as much as his. His voice soft and quiet, soothing to my soul. He said that his name was Paul, but picked up the name Paulo while traveling through Portugal. He was a 27-year-old musician, originally from the US, who had been working in Europe for the last three years. He came to Europe opening for various American artists on their international tours, but now had a name for himself and did a lot of his own shows.

I ordered another café solo and he another té (tea) as he continued to amaze me with all the exciting places he had seen on his travels abroad. Talking about himself was short-lived, however. He almost instantly focused his attention on me. He asked me all kinds of questions about what I did and where I was from. What my dreams were. What I wanted to be “when I grew up.” I love talking about myself so I had no problem with this.

I really enjoyed his company. It had been a while since I had any communication in language where I could actually understand everything that was being said. Between sips of my café solo I would look up to him intently gazing into my eyes. Hanging onto every word that left my mouth. Never had anyone paid so much attention to what I had to say. And it dawned on me that I don’t even really listen to myself when I am talking.

We sat there talking until sometime just after dark.


    
         Long Legs                   Kahn


We found ourselves at a tapas bar a few blocks from the plaza where we finished off a bottle of wine. We bought another bottle of wine, took the Yellow Line to Bogatel, and ended our night on the beach.

We found a desolate place in the sand and continued to talk.

The warm July air rushed gently past my skin at the break of every wave. The sand cool beneath us. I to his right, his guitar to his left, we sat gazing into the quiet horizon dimly lit by the crescent moon.

He opened me up to a whole new world of perspective, and I did him the same. And though we were so different, our lives lived worlds apart, we were so much the same. Our dreams and ambitions, though in two very different areas, were aligned on a very similar path to success and happiness. Our spirituality, our religious beliefs, our thoughts on travel, even our favorite movies. He was perfect.

He turned towards me and began massaging my hands. His touch creating a tingling sensation at the base my spine. His skin surprisingly soft, his finger tips left unscathed by the constant pulling of guitar strings.

Conversation had ceased.

I closed my eyes.

Our communication existed solely through feeling, and I understood everything that he was saying.

The wine causing complete relaxation.

His touch causing a steady increase in heart rate.

He pressed his lips against me and I was gone.


    
     Purple Lips                          Johnson

As the first rays of sun crept over the horizon he began pulling out his guitar. I lay there staring at him as he sang a song he called “Sonrisa.” Never had I experienced anything like that. The rising sun a foreboding message that our time together was ending. The beach would soon be filled with a topless crowd on holiday desperately working on their summer tans.

He finished the song, we grabbed our things, and that was it.

A soft kiss to my forehead and I watched my last chance at true love and passion-filled infatuation slowly walk out of my life.


        
      Soft                                  Kahn    Pink Leopard       Kahn

More by Nikki Love...

Today we can enjoy the savage tales of sex, drugs, and crime without fear of government prosecution. No longer do writers have to communicate with code words or hide behind pseudonyms. But it was the literary outlaws of the sixties and seventies – Anais Nin, Robert Silverberg, Earl Kemp, William Burroughs and countless others – who blazed the trails of a transgressive medium and paved the way for our intellectual freedom. The cutting-edge content and luridly beautiful covers entranced readers. “Sleaze paperbacks sold by the million throughout the decade,” writes FeralHouse.com. “Their unorthodox content and inroads into the marketplace provoked new laws, FBI investigations, high-pitched court battles, and prison sentences for the crime of obscenity.” Look for the titles below at LA's independent Skylight Books. In the spirit of these brave writers, we present the blunt and honest story of Nikki Love, a literary fox and trailblazer in her own right.

    

ALONE...

SOMETIMES A LADY DESIRES TO KEEP IT REAL, EVEN IF HER LOVER FEARS THE TRUTH.

A man I'm dating, or really just fucking, recently told me he didn't want to hear anything else about my past because it was starting to scare him.

"OK, babe, I'll just sit here and be quiet then."

I overdosed on drugs on New Years, I tell him, admitted myself into the ER, where they pumped me with more drugs and sent me on my way. I walked three miles home noon New Year’s day without missing a beat, the flyest dope fiend Hollywood has ever seen.

I would be scared of me too. If I can’t tell you about my past I guess I have to write about it then.

I was born with a cord that was already cut. A disconnected umbilical almost ended my beginning and caused no situation to form maternal connection. I was barely raised by parents who hated themselves even more than they hated each other. The DUI and totaled Jaguar didn't stop my dad's drinking. Nights of screaming and crying didn't stop my mother's. It was the liver cancer and heart attack that ended it for them. The fear of death that neither of them passed on to me.

I spent years of being in the 99 percentile, teachers begging my parents to pay attention. They were too busy running from their pasts and from each other. I was forgotten at school, people’s houses, shipped from place to place, living out of a bag. Memories of starving until I was old enough to feed myself. At 8 I mastered eggs, pancakes, and french toast. Home alone, even when they were around.

My father couldn't handle the monster he had created. He kicked me out, cussed me out, and threw me to the floor. Then he bought me another trinket, gave me some money and sent me on my way until the next time his past crept back up on him. I picked my first boyfriend in high school. Lost my virginity only because I had no reason not to, no flowers, no promises of love, just hours of pain and bleeding to the repeated soundtrack of Chronic 2001. He had no idea. I spent my days at school with top grades, varsity sports, and popularity gained only from my outer appearance. Social outcast saved. I spent my evenings in East Oakland at a crack house. Around knots and knocs. Or draped in a black hoody not to be recognized or able to be singled out as we jumped fences. I was the coolest girlfriend ever. Ride or die. Plus my life in the hills left me with a car and I rightfully inherited my father's brain and thug mentality. That one went away to college and brought me back HPV.

So I returned the favor when it was my turn to go away. I did it so quietly. He never saw it coming. And with no remorse. Kaiser called me with threats of cancer and the painful scraping of my cervical cells I was soon to endure. And you cant build a healthy relationship with the rebound, a relationship built on resentment can only die in resentment. He drugged me on my 22nd birthday, took me back to his house, and fucked the shit out of me without condom. Because I had to pay for his crack head father and his disillusioned mother.

A blood vessel broke in my brain when I was 18, a birth defect, no doubt from the two Jack-and-Cokes a night my mom allowed herself to drink while she was pregnant with me. (Unless she was sick, then she would get drunk to make it through. She said that without the alcohol she wouldn't have let either of us make it so I should be thankful.) But I survived. Complete medical success story once again. But most days I feel like I died that day. My dad died when I was 20; my aunt died four days later; my uncle a year later in the same month. My mother's brother was diagnosed with cancer and my sister almost died from a violent seizure in the shower.

I met a man who drugged and drunked me five days out the week and I dropped out of school. I contracted his emotional destruction. It destroyed the last ounce of feelings I had left. So the night that he put his hands on me I didn't feel much. It was almost welcomed, feeling anything. I only felt sorry for him. But I still got my degree. Premed. How shiny and exciting. It was easy to meet parents then, premed from a UC school just sounds so wholesome.

I traveled the world, destroying everything in my path. I stopped counting how many men I slept with. The tests kept coming up clear. I left them all with an unhappiness and an addiction they never counted on. They all had to pay. And they all still are. The worse the destruction they tried to cause me the longer the pain will rot away their souls. They cheated and stole and lied and I only smiled and moved on. A few tears just for kicks, but they just didn't get it. Because in the end they suffered more. And they all still call. Still after she wasn't what he thought she would be. After getting her pregnant didn't work. After the right girl turned out to be dull next to my fiery edge.

Because my porn star body is not the type you take home to mommy or the one that can be taken out on dates, mine is the one that gets called at 3 in the morning. The one you can drink with, do drugs with, vent at, and fuck all your passion and frustration into. The best kind for a confusing worldwind of unwanted emotions. This is the forbidden love you can't shake. And it kills you.

At 24 years old I have seen the whole world, done everything, felt everything. I was once like an immortal angel, floating around changing lives. Now I am the demon that only causes destruction in its wake. You thought you had it all figured out until the day you met me. I challenged you, changed you, but you will be better for it. Much better prepared to face the real bitch, life.

Destined to be alone, I accept my position in this world.

Reader Response

Dear Ms. Love,

I find your story  very interesting.

As I read I feel for that young girl and what things she's been through. It seems that even at very dark moments in her life she somehow lived on, without caring what happened around her.
 
What really got to me is that because of the experiences and bad moments in her life it made her into a woman without any emotions. All that sex, drugs and dead emotions is what makes this story interesting and also how she is just set out to get back at the world.
 
Also, it made me think about the bad things that can happen during someone's lifetime, but even though from that dark pain people actually grow much stronger (and eventually get back at everybody)

Karina J.
Los Angeles