Leah/Daisy On The Tape

Leah/Daisy On The Tape

The film was grainy and the camera shaky, but still, you could make out three figures in the dark. Two girls—one black and the other Caucasian—were hanging all over some college boy with an unmistakable “beer-faced” grin. He had light, messy, hair from the looks of it, but Collin couldn’t say for sure if the college boy was blonde; the video was in shades of black and the sort of light green reflected from a swimming pool. It had been taken in night vision mode, and it suddenly struck Collin that this was no ordinary pornography—this was voyeur porn…the sort that captured unknowing fuckers on celluloid. The cameras were always tiny pieces of crap stuck in dorm rooms and college bathrooms, and since most of the victims were caught at night, this particular flavor of pornography was always shot in night vision.

Collin usually had distaste for non-consensual pornography, but he didn’t stop watching as the girls started to undress each other. He watched the black girl reveal obscene, lolling, breasts. He watched the white girl unbutton her shirt collar, and then savor the spice of dark areolas. The little rat-faced college boy sat on a pile of dirty clothes, watching, smirking at the girls’ antics. They didn’t forget college boy for long. Collin’s breathing came haltingly as his eyes flicked back and forth from the keyboard onto the screen and back. The video ran for forty-two minutes.

He reached for the computer mouse, rewound the clip, and played it again. Intense eyes studied, memorized really, every motion and every curve of an ass. But Collin ignored whatever the hell the boy and the black girl did, even though they dominated the video. Collin wanted to see her again. He stopped the video when the white girl came back into view. He wanted to see her face completely, so he backtracked a little to the middle of the porno, right before she had abruptly left the orgy.

She was a nymphet, no question. A nameless beauty, so from the infinite random depths of his mind, Collin felt the urge to name her. Daisy, he thought, your name is Daisy. Perfect.

Collin had frozen the frame when Daisy stepped away from the intertwined figures on the bed, and picked her jeans off the floor. She had come dangerously close to the hidden broadcast, so close, that Collin was witness to her pale, thin, face with the sweet, arched, upper lip. She seemed strangely conscientious and nervous for an orgy participant. Then again, Collin hadn’t actually seen her screwing like the other two…she’d been cloaked in greenish shadows, most of the time. He was suddenly very glad he hadn’t seen explicit proof of sex. He didn’t want to see her behave like an oversexed slut. As she slid her tight jeans back over her cotton panties, she became suspicious for a second, and turned directly towards the camera. Her wispy brown hair curved like an archer’s bow about her perfect ears and perfect neck. Her eyes were intelligent and bright with secrets. And what slender fingers they were, that pulled her funny little t-shirt of Mahatma Gandhi over her back.

He wanted to lick the cotton of her shirt, he wanted to smell the sweat that dotted her eyebrows, and he wanted to feel the damp, dirty, socks that she slid reluctantly onto her feet. It became more and more inconsequential how he’d found that video. He was apathetic to the fact that he was logged onto his mother’s laptop. Collin wasn’t even curious as to why he found fifteen hits for this website on the “history” tab of a web browser; or that all the hits featured two or more women.

Nope. Collin really didn’t care anymore. He was far more interested in figuring out how he was going to tell Daisy about all those strange, wonderful, things he suddenly wanted so desperately.