Bonnie Datillio is pointing a gun at my face. "Okay now," she says. "Close your eyes."
We're standing in a dark room, the shades pulled down against the sun. Outside, the traffic on Route 15 hums by, oblivious. I am standing, mostly naked, on a blanket that's been laid down to protect the carpet. I can feel the polar-fleece fibers between my pallid toes. Datillio pulls the trigger. I hear a sharp blast and wince at the shock of moisture on my forehead and cheeks.
"Good, good," she says, inspecting her handiwork. "You just needed a little bit of color to perk up your complexion."... Read more
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