Title Page
Girl In The Mirror
by Lizbeth Dusseau
ISBN: 978-1-945648-16-8
A Pink Flamingo Media Ebook
Copyright ©2016 by Lizbeth Dusseau
Original Copyright © 2002
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.
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Prologue
It would seem that everyone in the city was swiping newspapers at dawn, not the Mirror nor the Post, but The Journal Of Our Times—a small, easily tattered four- page rag published sometimes weekly, sometimes monthly, sometimes in-between; whenever its publishers had enough seamy stories, antics, jokes and pictures available to make their scandal sheet worth printing. Few people actually knew it by its name or called it any name for that matter. In some circles, it was simply abridged to The Journal, and spoken of with a snicker or a faint blush. But no man in polite company would admit that he read it. Occasionally, a secretive chuckle or two would pass between men at the clubs or taverns or in the backroom gambling parlors, but The Journal would never be mentioned in front of the ladies. No woman would admit in polite, sullied or common company that she’d even heard of such a rag, let alone read or receive a private rush from such trashy smut.
On a Friday morning in late June, the first of several extraordinary photographs appeared inside the folded pages of the latest Journal. As were all the images printed in this newspaper, this one was a salacious photograph by current 1920’s standards, depicting a nude young woman—just a girl actually, but a girl old enough to know what she was doing and with the right to do it.
Yet, there was something quite different about this ‘Girl In The Mirror’—as the photograph was titled—from other photographs printed in previous editions. The picture was taken of the girl’s reflection in the mirror, while the girl, looking pleasantly wistful, remained somewhere on the sidelines sitting on a bed. She was turned slightly to the side and peering over her shoulder, while the camera recorded that side of her body from the top of her head to the top of her thighs. The photographer had managed to capture her face with an expression such as might commonly be seen after s****l intercourse, a post-coitus look of satisfaction. One could almost imagine bending down to kiss her slightly rapturous face as she looked up longingly, her deep soulful eyes still gushing forth with desire. Although her body was extraordinarily lovely and her long, light hair was falling seductively about her shoulders, it was the eyes and the expression on her full lips that conquered everyone that early morning. She was nothing like the whores who typically posed for the rag, earning dimes and supper—if the photographer was particularly generous. The girl in the mirror was classless, divine in innocence, surely tenderhearted, and perhaps, one could easily imagine, a bit of an imp. The line of her back, as it delicately diminished into the sheets she held demurely around her hips, could inspire love poems, while the curve of her plump breasts begged for the touch of a hand, or even a firm squeeze. There was something durable about this one. Innocent, yes, but durable. A functional woman, a simple woman, a practical woman, yet flushed with a naïve and playful charm.
Such n*****s! The two rounds puckered like sweet kisses from the centers of her full breasts. And that hand, lying inside the sheets between her thighs, would cause any man, vulgar or cultured, to quicken in his pants… suggestive, teasing and likely a deliberate device on the part of the photographer to make this photograph the kind of sleazy fare his customers expected. But it was still that face that drew men to the image again and again through their day that caused them to rip the picture from the paper once they finished the issue and pocket it in some secret place where it could be taken out and viewed again.
For the first time in its year long history, The Journal received a dozen letters from men interested in courting the girl, or hoping for another glimpse of her stunning, stylish, simple beauty. Many would not be satisfied until they discovered her identity. They would often gaze at young women near her age, in shops and brothels and on street corners, in search of that face. But there was an unidentifiable quality about her that made her as mysterious as she was direct. Perhaps she was not a girl at all, but a mere invention, the result of camera angles, shadows, light and the individual interpretation of each man who adored that remarkable image.
