POSERS

Confessions of a Z-list Model, Part 3

‘Adult’ Breakdancing, Indecent Proposals, and Bowhunting à Trois

My ham-fisted attempts at fitness and bikini modeling led to weirder and weirder sh*t.

One of the more jarring things to happen was a full-on Girls-Next-Door proposition.

[My email:] Re: beach/surfer girl Hi! Please see my attached image. I’m very comfortable in a bathing suit and would like to be considered for the modeling in surf-related magazines. I can be reached at [phone number] — cell, shared w/ husband — or [email address]. Thanks! Lindy

I can’t post private correspondence, per Medium’s terms of use. But the party’s only reply went something like this —

How would you feel about a sugar daddy situation with an established, good-looking young gent? I can send pictures…

Me:

I did a t-shirt thing, too.

Dude taking the shots was some kind of graphic design entrepreneur. The shirts were cool.

My eyes look like he edited them to make the pupils anime-sized, though. He graced me with more “eyelashes” and rosier cheeks. It’s always a slippery cliff’s edge to plummeting self-esteem, courtesy of Photoshop. But I do like the effects.

Hey, at least I finally I did something with clothes on!

When I Dip You Dip We Dip(sh*t)

There should have been a rock-hard no out of my face hole when I walked into my next stint. Why?

I’ll enumerate.

1. There was a young man there who, despite my prior expectations, did not appear to be the photographer. Hmm.

2. He and another young man I’d be “working with” were vigorously bench-pressing heavy weights immediately before the shoot began. Hmmmmmm.

3. The young man with whom I’d be working was operating under the stage name of Swing Ing D*ck. *RED FLAG*

4. I was instructed to “squat down” like a “breakdancer” and “learn to breakdance” with Mr. D*ck, who would ostensibly be the one “instructing” me. He was a skilled dance partner. But Mr. D*ck mostly appeared to be thrusting his hips. ***TWO LONG STRINGS OF RED FLAGS, FLAPPING WILDLY FROM EACH HEAD OF A DOUBLE-ENDED DILDO***

Wow.

Somehow. I. Cooperated. With. This.

And the exact reasoning for that cooperation still escapes me. I’m pushing 40 nowadays; the squawking inner Karen is much stronger with me today than she was when I was in my twenties. Were even a fraction of this sketchgasm proposed to me now, I’d laugh derisively and start asking pointed questions: *Why do I have to squat on a piece of cardboard on this pool deck? *Why is there soooo much bouncing? *Why is that guy over there grinning so hard and saying ‘SCHWING’?

Perhaps I am an egomaniac who hates embarrassment and looking like I didn’t realize beforehand I’d be pantomiming adult content. Perhaps I am gullible enough to think that these dudes hadn’t omitted some of the more “relevant” info intentionally. Perhaps even Mr. Swing Ing D*ck himself didn’t understand the overtones of our poolside art.

Perhaps even now my thoughts on this whole thing are, as Kris Kross would say, wrong, wrong, wrongiddy wrong — and it was all just a wacky, hip hop misunderstanding!

And monkeys are breakdancing out of my ass while I’m putting up 200# on a deadlift.

In any case, at least I’d shaved my upper leg pubes and therefore wasn’t going to be tripping over any spidey legs in the mix. <>

Being jaw-droppingly suggestible — and more flexible than I’d ever imagined — ended up being a good thing in the end.

Swing Ing and I became fast friends and I learned some sick moves.

Most fortunately of all, I ended up continuing my career as a stay-at-home parent — as opposed to a family breadwinner whose professional livelihood depended on not being in some dank corner of the internet where bikini B-Girl porn is found.

Odds are good that Mr. D*ck and I are out there somewhere, breakin’ it down, and it must be “wiggeda wiggeda wack.”

Postscript: Swing Ing D*ck is NOT his real name, but he used to be a real dancer with a similarly porntastic stage name. He may even still be a cult hero in the L.A. B-boying scene. YouTube’s got a catalog of his breakdance battles, in one of which he’s wearing an amusing He-Man getup with some kind of furry diaper.

He’s also got a website that looks like it’s straight out of 1997.

Dude’s even had an academic paper written about him — no sh*t. Citation available upon request!

S.I.D. and I were friends on social media for awhile. He seemed awesome. Then, he started spewing some anti-vaxx and other wook-science sh*t. I briefly argued with and summarily unfriended him. Links to proof are not included, out of respect for his privacy and continued commitment to being batsh*t crazy. Bye, Felicia!

Devastatingly, I do not have the pics (or clips) of me and Swing Ing. So, for illustrative purposes, here is a shot of farmer-tanned me in a bikini, next to a different pool.

Note the photobomb by our three-and-a-half-year-old daughter on a pool noodle.

This exotic “neighborhood pool” locale — and unintentional hilarity — of that shoot was nothing compared to the next one.

Turducken Hunt

I was only in print a few times. One of these cheese-ventures was particularly over-the-top. It was a glossy calendar I ended up sending to my cousin — probably out of embarrassment at having contributed to such dipf*ckery.

I wasn’t about to hang my bowhunting calendar on the wall and show it off to guests, I tellya whut.

I was supposed to be “Jen,” the girl next door. Not in the Playboy sense; in the “random-ass suburban neighbor” one. My much, much, much hotter companion was “Jane,” who was quite clearly supposed to be the hot one.

Jane had pretty hair. They made me cover mine with a stupid hat, which eventually made me sweatier than Wilt Chamberlain’s storied nutsack. But it all would have been far hotter — and not in a good way — if I’d taken the advice of a prior photographer and started wearing a wig.

I was featured on the website in a “Calendar Girl Poll,” the results of which should have been a foregone conclusion since I was already shooting the calendar.

I have nothing against bowhunting or other customary redneck pursuits. Hell, I have vastly more respect for the sport now that I’ve pulled back an real bow with my beefy girl muscles they’d recruited me for. They’d wanted swimmers to do this shoot, and I showed up with my A-game to the extent that a retired athlete-turned-SAHM can. But it was impossible to imagine swiftly maneuvering that bow while pulling it back.

Much less hitting a goddamn wild pig that was running for its life — probably while squealing “not by the (pubic) hair on my chinny chin chin!”

Here are Jane and I as cover girls.

Narrator: Now, vogue!

My attempts to locate the IRL (paper) calendar and/or the images have yielded this gem, too —

I don’t think any of the shots of my drawing the crossbow made the final calendar cut. I must have looked as constipated as I felt.

As I stare down age forty without dilated pupils to adorn me, I often wonder — did BowArmory.com’s enthusiasts see me standing at the peak of my illustrious career? Or will I, despite no longer living near Los Angeles, start a new Model Mayhem account and become a geriatric calendar girl?

I prefer “advanced maternal age” calendar woman, Gents.

And only the Santa Cruzan sands of time will tell.

***This story is a continuation of the following:

Thanks to Debra Groves Harman, MEd for her exxxplicit editing; you’re welcome to Kristine Laco for the bowhunting erotica.

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