Nicole in Purple

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XO Tanya




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Classic Video starring Nicole

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- XO Tanya












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Nicole at a Cold Beach

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- XXOO Tanya








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Beautiful Nicole

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- XXOO Tanya










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The Club

I used to dance at a club where rumors abounded that the owner, a heroin addict, had injected lethal doses of heroin into numerous women while he had sex with them. All had danced at the club and nobody ever saw any of these ladies again. Were the stories true? Quite possibly, I thought. No one looked very hard for the women who disappeared. In fact, no one looked at all. No one even knew whether or not they were missing. The owner of the club, or anyone else, could easily have killed these women and gotten away with it. The disposal of their bodies would have provided the biggest challenge.

My memories of the vanished women revolve around my impression that they all had very similar personalities: all of them projected a quality of disconnectedness. They seemed to have very few attachments to other people and did not relate particularly well to men or to women. All had sweet personalities, perhaps too sweet. They just seemed too eager to please. Most of them probably had heroin habits. Contrary to popular opinion heroin users often conceal their addictions very well. You can't always spot the nuances of heroin use unless you know just what to look for. Heroin takes the pain away. Young people from tortured backgrounds often gravitate to it. It just takes their pain away. These women had pain. I could just see it in their eyes, their posture, and some type of haunted fear that emanated from the obsequious words that they spoke. They wanted to please everybody and had trouble standing up for themselves.

The owner of that club used to pick his playmates from among the dancers who worked there. He had lots of money and had no problem attracting many of them just on the basis of his wealth. Others tried to fend off his advances. He would sometimes become very overbearing and aggressive towards them until they either gave in or quit. A manager named Roger had worked at the club for a long time. One night Roger and I were standing behind the club staring into the night sky around 1AM. I was taking a break and Roger had come outside to smoke a cigarette. We sat in silence for about five minutes. Then Roger began speaking to me in a low voice with his back to me.

"Sassi is gone. You know that, right?" he said quietly.

I did not know what to say. Roger seemed to be leading up to something rather than asking a question. I felt my body stiffen and the hairs on my arms stood up.

"He'll leave you alone. You don't have to worry. He likes pussy, but he likes money even more than pussy. You make a lot of money for him."

I sat in silence. Roger still had his back to me. My heart was beating a little faster and I was glad he was not looking at me.

"The only way he'd ever mess with you is if you approached him. Just keep your distance."

Roger's words hung in the cool night air. I had not spoken a syllable. Roger finished his cigarette and tossed it onto the gravel. He strode back into the club without ever checking to see my reaction. I stared at his cigarette as it slowly burnt out on the ground.

The owner of that club never did hassle me. Nobody there did. All in all four dancers disappeared during the time that I worked there. They each had a quiet desperation that lurked beneath their pretty exteriors. I could feel it because I had the same quality. They had no families. I just knew that because I had no family. I can always tell. They all lived alone. I lived alone. A common thread ran amongst all of us. It takes one to know one. Yet I did not use heroin and I suspected that all of them did.

Years later I'm sitting here writing this. All of them may still be alive too. Rationally I know that they may have just left that club to go dance someplace else. Or maybe they quit dancing. Or maybe they got married. Or went back to wherever they had grown up. My logical side tells me that because no evidence ever surfaced to suggest that anything bad had happened to any of them.

But somehow I don't think that any of them ever left that club. Somebody cleaned out their lockers. The respective landlords who owned their homes eventually must have disposed of their belongings and vaguely wondered what had become of these women. But no one really looked for them because no one was really sure that they were "missing", so to speak. Their faces still come to me at night.

Around that time Nicole Simmons (see above pic) was appearing in lots of adult magazines: Penthouse, Cheri, Club, etc. I had begun harboring an interest in doing some modelling and I saw her beautiful pictorials all the time. One by one dancers were disappearing from the club and I decided to take up a career as a nude model. I can't look at Nicole without thinking of those other women, the missing dancers.


The photo above is from the "Nicole in Red" gallery which appears in its entirety inside www.TanyaDanielle.com.



- XXOO Tanya








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The Devil and Miss Simmons

I lived in Venice Beach, California as a teenager. Crack dealers and hookers openly peddled their wares, lots of murders happened, and various gangs ruled the streets in what was known as the Oakwood section of Venice. My studio apartment lay just outside that area and cost $600 a month. I went jogging every day, often on the boardwalk tat fronted the beach. One day I tripped on something, struggled to stop myself from falling, but ended up hitting the ground hard. Many people were buzzing around the boardwalk that afternoon and I had just wiped out right in front of a packed sidewalk cafe. It took a few moments for me to regain both my wind and my composure and then I began trying to stand up.

The gorgeous, olive-skinned face of a man framed by long, straight black hair materialized above me. This handsome stranger was smiling and he offered me a hand to get to my feet. I reached for him. As I did so I saw a sickening array of scaly, crimson scabs covering his arms. There were so many of them. Some of the cuts seeped with fresh blood and some looked old and crusty. He brought his face close to mine. He just kept on bleeding as I looked up at him. I bled too. Pieces of gravel from the Venice boardwalk had ended up inside the fresh abrasions on my body. This stunning, dark-skinned, black-haired man stood there with his hand extended towards me and I lay underneath him. I did not see his blood drip into the open cuts on my flesh, but it may as well have. All of a sudden I recoiled from him, skittered backwards, and then jumped up off the Venice asphalt.

The man watched me pull away, felt my roiling emotion, and then he just vanished. I can't describe it better than that. Afterwards I felt guity for jerking away from him and for not being able to disguise my repulsion or fear or whatever it was. It had scared me that he might contaminate me. For years I believed that I had never ever seen him again. Now I know that he never left. He lives within me. Did his blood drip into my open wounds? Did he infect me? No to the first question and yes to the second. He got right into my soul.

I ran for three or four more miles after my fall that day. When I got back to my apartment I looked through a magazine that I had purchased the previous night. It contained photos of beautiful, naked women. I wanted to make a list of the photographers who had shot them since I knew many of them probably worked in Los Angeles. At that point I had not yet begun posing nude for magazines, but I wanted to start. I leafed through the pages of photos and stopped to admire a pictorial of a lovely, raven-haired model. Years later I found out her name was Nicole Simmons. The above photo of her was from the layout I saw that afternoon after my encounter with the bloody, devil-like man. The entire gallery of Nicole now appears at my Fantasy Image Store.

- XXOO Tanya









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