Rachel Rampage is sitting on the edge of a polished stone island like she owns the taps. Behind her a black sink, a chrome mixer, a bottle, the kind of kitchen that gets photographed for a listing. She is in a black strap harness that has given up any claim to be clothing: lace triangles that do not cover the breast, elastic crossing the chest in an X, more straps banding the ribs and diving between the legs. Dark hair dead straight. Mouth painted. Left hand flat on the marble. The skin you can see is mostly ink. Across the sternum, in script you can read from the doorway: Love Hurts.
Vancouver is the city they attach to her. The spec sheet leaves birthplace blank; the rest of the brief does not. 14 September 1989, so she has just turned thirty-seven. Five foot ten. 34DDD-27-38. That is a tall Canadian woman with a heavy chest, a held-in waist and hips that go out to thirty-eight, which you can see even with one thigh folded on the worktop. The star on the hip. The full colour piece running down the other leg — dragon, water, red and green, the sort of tattoo that takes sittings. Sleeves to the wrist. A gravestone and roses on the upper chest. She did not get one cheeky butterfly and stop.
She also breathes fire
That is the detail you do not get on the last six pages, so it goes here in plain English. Rampage fire-breathes. Not as a metaphor. As a thing she can do with fuel and a mouth and a crowd if the insurance allows it. Witty, driven, reads a room — the personality notes line up with someone who would pick up a circus skill because standing still bored her. It also lines up with the way she talks about sex. She likes the steering wheel. On top. A well-hung man underneath, her pace, her count. The harness picture is the still version of that: she is the one on the marble. He would be the one looking up.
Fearless is a press word. What you can use is narrower. She will sit on a kitchen island in a garment made of string. She will cover the throat and the tits and the thigh in work that cannot be undone for a brand campaign. She will ride a man until she is finished and treat his stamina as his problem. Chaos, they say, follows. Maybe. More likely she just does not ask permission for the next idea.
Thirty-seven and 5’10” changes the ride as a practical matter. Long legs, DDD chest in his face, the 27-inch waist as the hinge. The 38 hip giving her something to sit down with. This is not a tiny girl bouncing for the edit. This is a tall tattooed woman using gravity.
Night pavements and other people’s old gold
When the lights are off she walks the city after dark. Dances. Hunts antique jewellery — lockets, odd rings, the stuff with someone else’s initials still in it. That last habit belongs on the page because it is specific. Night walks are how a lot of people in Vancouver actually live. Antique cases are how you stop the off-set paragraph being “yoga and travel” again. You can see her in a junk shop in a big coat, sleeves hiding the gravestone, picking through trays. Then you can see this picture. Same woman. Different lighting.
Intuitive, they call her. She clocks a situation and decides the ending. On a porn set that is just another way of saying she does not drift. Put her in a room with a man who can keep up and she will arrange the furniture, including him. The witty note matters only in that she does not photograph like a blank. The smirk in this frame is small. It is still a smirk.
What the kitchen still is actually of
A strappy black teddy that is lace in two places and geometry everywhere else. Breasts heavy enough that the triangles are a courtesy. The Love Hurts line sitting on the lower chest like a caption the photographer did not have to add. Marble the colour of cheap granite made expensive. Daylight from a window out of shot. She is turned three-quarters, one knee up, the inked thigh nearest the camera so the dragon gets equal billing with the 34DDDs.
The scenes are where the control claim gets tested — her on top, him used as apparatus, the chest moving, the tattoos smearing under sweat instead of under a kitchen downlight. If you want the fire-breathing, that will not be in the standard boy-girl upload; it is a side act she has chosen to keep. If you want the jewellery, look at her hands in other stills. In this one the hands are empty and the marble is holding her up.
Vancouver. September 1989. Five ten. 34DDD-27-38. A sink behind her and a sentence tattooed where a pendant would go. She can dance home through the city later. Right now she is on the worktop, in the straps, waiting for someone to make the next mistake.