POSERS
Confessions of a Z-list Model, Part 2
More Tales From a Trip Down Narcissistic Memories Lane
My husband doesn’t approve of these stories. Oh, Joe approves of the content; there’s no doubt about that.
But he thinks that, for the main image in this essay, I should have used an even more hoochified picture from my attempts-at-modeling days.
It took awhile to go through the pics on our crusty old thumb drives and find the right stuff.
“This one?” I asked.
That priceless picture in my favorite 2010’s minidress brought on a lady-splooge of memories. I thought back to more stories from those exhibitionistic days.
The Collector
I’d driven down to Reseda to some old dude’s in-home portrait studio, which just ended up being his garage. He claimed to want “better” pictures for his photography website. Sketchy Garage Dude assured me that his wife would be home for the whole shoot.
In that case, I’ll push my ‘horror film’ misgivings to the back of my mind!
The guy didn’t end up kidnapping or Human Centipede-ing me that day. But he did suggest two things for my burgeoning career. 1.) Get a wig; 2.) Fugeddabout it and become a cocktail waitress.
#2 was more than reasonable. Had I not had three small children and an excellent sugar daddy already, I might’ve given the service industry a try.
But I laughed hard at the wig idea. Dude protested that he was serious.
Wow, a wig? I’ve never had what I’d consider to be luscious locks. But to go full Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween II seemed…I dunno. F*cking hilarious? I could just see myself trying to justify dropping $$$$ on horsey hair hats and then explaining any of this to, say, my aunts in the Midwest. And hadn’t that photographer guy ever read Roald Dahl’s The Witches?
You have to have sky-high self-esteem and sky-high hair for this sh*t.
The photog’s second suggestion spoke to a broader problem: my facial expressions were supposed to give the appearance of incredulity and bemusement — perhaps due to a random creeper’s having unexpectedly whipped it out, I guess.¹ Or my husband’s having loudly ripped ass from behind the red bedsheets backdrop. Not stony irritation with the the guy behind the lens.
But Sketchy Garage Guy’s coaching wasn’t helping.
“You’re a Fembot in ‘Austin Powers,’ baby. Grrr!” -probably that photographer, when a less wig-averse model came along
“No.” said Joe. “No, no, no. I’ll pick the picture for your Z-list Model article.”
“Okay, so, like, an awkwarder one, maybe.”
“No. It needs to be hotter and not funny if you want people to click on your story,” he explained.
“Jesus. Okay, let’s go straight to the money shot,” I agreed, never being one for long deliberations or prudence of any kind.
As far as Joe was concerned, that picture fit the bill.
He’s the one who took it, after all.
Hey, I’m all for contact sports — let’s use an old underwear snap if it floats my husband’s boat! Clearly Joe missed the point of the assignment, though. I want to laugh about these experiences. And in the spirit of memoir, to sashay away having learned something.
What did I learn?
I do not have a future in modeling. Especially after three more kids, at least thirty more pounds, and a lot more maturity later. One of my fellow Medium writers told me that as long as I’m a size zero I could probably dive right back into those waters — hah! That’s a nice thing to say, I guess. But the chonk is with me these days, and the boobs even more saggity.
And you can’t step in the same river twice, no?
I was more of a Sporty Spice than an undies kinda gal, anyway.
*Note: This is a continuation of a previous story, on how my third-of-life crisis led to Craigslist-enabled misadventures on the Z-list modeling scene:
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¹ A random dude driving a pickup once did this when I was walking to the grocery store near my dorm. Once I realized it wasn’t a hot dog he was waving around, the face I made was more of a confused-yet-angry look.
Thanks to Deb Groves Harman, even though I ignored her suggestion to send nudes.
