I had two lives and no one in my other life was interested in modeling. Most people I knew wanted to hide in their rooms partying and smoking pot whereas I only felt good when I was in front of the computer scoping out my mini-site or at a shoot. Weekend trips to southern New Jersey with Danny to visit his family, who had just moved there from Syracuse, were painful. I would feel lazy, bored, and pissed knowing girls would have brand new photos up by next week from the shoots they were on right then.
His parents’ house was freezing. So there I sat, freezing my tits off, eating Jewish food, and parking my ass on the sofa. I had eaten so much challah bread I felt like I was Jewish. I tried to be friendly to his mother, who didn’t approve of me sleeping with her baby. On Saturdays, I went with the family to temple pretending to be pure and interested. Danny felt the same way, which was comforting.
After his mother caught us having sex, I tried to win her over by joining her on weekend shopping trips. At the store, she bought so much jewelry it was as if she owned QVC. I froze in New Jersey because I had no fat. She seemed to disapprove of my skinniness and the way I picked at the meals she cooked. As a result, dinners were quiet.
I wanted to scream from having to behave.
The entire time I was there, I wanted to be back in New York, in front of the bright lights, in front of the camera and naked. I would try my hardest not to mention modeling while we visited them. The coldness of their beautiful home reminded me of the chill of a photographer’s basement or apartment, the windows open to make my nipples hard and pointy.
To escape the pressure, Danny and I relaxed by the neighborhood pond and woods. We biked or stayed in and watched HBO, something I didn’t have in the dorms. Sometimes we would eat out on his father’s credit card. With the family though, Danny kept bringing up school and my classes. Between bites of cold steak I said, ‘Fuck talking about my classes and school projects, fuck my advertising portfolio!’
‘What do you mean, fuck your advertising portfolio?’ Danny demanded, slamming down his water. ‘You’re not thinking about going into modeling full-time?’
‘Why not?’ I said, tapping my fingernails nervously on the table, anxious to get this whole parent meeting over with. I thought about the degree and smirked when I saw his mother’s look of shock, but she merely continued to chew fast. I knew she hated me and my swearing. I didn’t care. I hated her too.
With a worried tone, she said, ‘You should really think about your future.’ She had just retired from being a teacher and sounded like one. Then, after a huge gulp of milk, she added, ‘Isn’t your mom a teacher? Wouldn’t she want you to get your degree?’
Big deal! In two years I would claim a printed piece of paper. It could hardly define me. In front of the camera I was more myself, more real.
Would this weekend ever end?
To make up for lost time, after dinner I snuck on the computer and typed a few emails, then checked up on my Onemodelplace.com account. Nothing new. I hardly had any hits that day and I blamed it on Danny, and his mother’s challah bread. I felt the pressure. How could I call myself a model if I couldn’t even compete with the other wannabes who were no doubt shooting at that very second?
It never occurred to me that the girls in Seventeen and Cosmo Girl or YM magazine made more money and got more exposure, which of course led to bigger things. Or that keeping your clothes on is even sexier and pays a lot more money because of the ad campaign. I should have known this. I was an advertising major in college after all, but I didn’t put two and two together.
I began to enjoy shooting nude more and more. It wasn’t just for practice though. It was for a feeling of empowerment – sexuality and fantasy all at once. I only felt good and confident about myself when I was modeling naked.
Yet inside my life felt like a roller coaster as I went from my boyfriend’s bedroom to my college classroom to the photographer’s bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen. They had me taking off my clothing, running around, dancing and playing musical chairs, sitting, standing, sticking my tongue out, lounging in chairs, curling up with a pillow on a sofa, lying on dining room tables, or in bathtubs and on balconies. Then I’d run back to class. I would sometimes do my homework on the train in between. I was stressed all the time. In the back of my mind I heard voices saying, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ And then, ‘You can do it little girl!’
All these bipolar-like emotions made me very aggressive, impatient, and anxious. My heart rate would fly as I spoke to the clerk at the lobby desk and then pushed the elevator button. Then, once I arrived at the correct floor, I wondered which way I should walk. Right? Or left? The pauses before I knocked or rang the doorbell were filled with thoughts of tiptoeing back to the elevator, out the door and back to my dorm room. I knew I wasn’t really a model because I saw magazines and billboards every day, and I wasn’t on them. I felt more like an escort, like a tease, like a present for the afternoon.
My ‘hobby,’ for want of a better word, haunted me daily so I decided to get serious and look up some modeling agencies. I found a list of agencies in NYC that accepted photos by mail. Besides the weekly stipend my mother gave me for food, which didn’t go far, I didn’t have much money, so I couldn’t get quality prints of my shots to send out. Instead, I used the printer in my dorm room. I spent a few hours adjusting the pictures in Photoshop and cropping them, then printing out a collage-like presentation of my photos. To my surprise, they looked pretty good and were sure to impress an agent or booker. Or so I thought.
I never heard back from anyone.
But I wasn’t looking to get famous or to become a supermodel; I didn’t care about those things. I was intense, fast-talking and excited to tiptoe around the apartments of anonymous photographers. It was just wonderful to feel the attention of the lens, from the photographer, and I got it so easily. I didn’t need an agency to give me what I needed.
The penthouse had to be over twenty stories high, but it was a beautiful view. I’d never seen a view like it before that day. The city was such a paradise from that angle, and I felt like a princess peering over my kingdom as the photographer snapped away. I willingly leaned forward to show some of my cleavage to him through my very low tank top.
I was trying to stay as still as possible, like a tightrope walker. If I tipped a little to the left I would be a goner.
He said, ‘You’re the only model who hasn’t been afraid of sitting on such a narrow ledge in such a short skirt. Or looking down.’ Taking it as a challenge, I decided I wanted to be the first and did just that. I felt proud that I might be remembered for this risky pose.
His apartment was big and bright, with loads of sunlight. He wasn’t talented, but with the right lighting and angle, he could get a good enough shot. He was in his thirties and had a full-time career in real estate. I wondered if he was looking for a girlfriend or a playmate because most of what he shot was sexy. Naturally, he had contacted me through Onemodelplace.com.
I immediately wanted to shoot with him. The girls shown on his mini-site were beautiful: flawless skin, no scars, perfect hair and teeth, big supple breasts. All were ahead of me in that sense.
Later, I learned that he wasn’t skilled enough to shoot me. Nor was he capable of really capturing a person’s essence. He just wanted me in a sexy garment, which was fine by me. He knew nothing about lighting. He didn’t even own any lighting equipment. And he