Some time in the past decade (about two or three weeks ago), I found myself in a diner in Williamsburg, the Aughts' epicenter of hipster. Never mind what I was doing there. Not important. While in the bathroom stall I looked up and saw scrawled on the wall an advert for Burning Angel.Usually a sign like that would send me into a Proustian voyage of memory that would lead into extraordinary hours of viewing Burning Angel's archives. But I was already there weeks before, the trigger being a sweet little thing with an asymmetrical haircut, non-sequitur tattoos, funky wardrobe, and telltale orthodontia betraying a suburban upbringing. Yes, the reason I've been spending time in Williamsburg. Whenever she's away, I've been consoling myself with my extensive Burning Angel collection.
So what came to mind in
that stall was not the recent video backlog, but something from way back. Way back in 2003 before the site became all about Joanna Angel. I thought about Ash. Sweet sweet Ash and her bottle of vodka. The first and only time I've signed up for a site from a single picture set. It took several girls' pic set, including one from a girl I knew personally, to get me to pay for Suicide Girls later that year. But it was Ash alone who got me digging for my wallet and later digging into my pants.As much as I avoid solo sets, and prefer video to pictures, Ash put me in a happy place. I have, however, been unable to find her in anything else. The years have gone by. My subscription lapsed. The pics on my laptop disappeared with computer upgrades, crashes, accidental deletions. But I find myself remember her vividly at all the right times. Like this one.
Where have you gone, Ash?
