Memoir, Breast Stories, Teenage Modelling

The Topless Model’s Boobs Looked Like Mine

He persuaded me to lower my top, explaining it was better to show my bare shoulders in some images…

There I was strolling along a London high street off to meet some friends for a concert, when a man walked up and handed me a card…

“Contact them. Make sure you say you have been scouted.” He stated.

And off he went.

I was young at that time, about fifteen. I glanced at the card before putting it in my pocket — Select Models. Sounded OK.

Over the next few weeks I hummed and hawed about whether I should call them. At that age, I was a little shy, although reasonably self-assured. I was tall — five foot eight at the time and not yet finished growing —and apparently attractive. However, I didn’t really feel I was model material.

But curiosity got the better of me, so I looked them up and finding out they were legitimate and considered a very good agency, I dialled their number— remembering to say that I’d been given their card.

Even today, I can recall what I was wearing for my appointment. Tight white cords and a red blouse. I felt a little nervous, but I had nothing to lose.

First they took my measurements plus a few Polaroids, before I was called into a large room where there was a huge window and three or four people seated at a long desk.

They asked me a few questions and told me to walk the length of the room and back, watching me intently all the while. Then I went outside to await their verdict.

I wasn’t kept long and a little anxiously sat down in front of the panel, expecting the offer to be a firm NO. But it wasn’t.

They explained how some girls at my age were ready to go straight out on the catwalk, to the shoots — all of it. And others like me still had the potential, but needed to mature a little first. Their suggestion was that I attend a modelling school that the agency used. They were going to sponsor this in some way. And then review my progress at a later date.

I was shocked and flattered and momentarily thought, wow, what if I had been “mature” enough? Then of course the logistics of what they were suggesting crashed into my head… And all kinds of ideas buzzed around.

Did I really want to try to be a model? Even if I didn’t, this sounded like an amazing opportunity, experience — call it what you will. Could I leave school so young? No, I wanted to study for at least my O’levels, if not higher. What would my mum say?

Damn. I was never going to modelling school. But suddenly it sparked an idea.

Select were top class. What if I went to a smaller agency? They may find a few minor jobs for me, so I could earn a bit of extra cash, and still be able to go to school.

I took a few months to think about all of this. By the time I had turned sixteen and finally developed some boobs, I found a small place that looked promising, covering catalogue work. When I went to see them, they explained there were lots of ad hoc jobs for teens like me. But first I needed a profile card and a set of shots.

This is where girls need to be careful. You should never have to pay for the photos yourself if the agency is really interested in working with you.

They sent me along to a photographer. Let’s call him Oscar.

I was very naïve and didn’t take anyone with me. But the guy seemed nice enough. I had nothing to worry about — right?

After shooting for a while, Oscar persuaded me to unbutton and lower my top, explaining it was aesthetically more attractive to show my bare shoulders and clavicles in some of the images.

I consented, but then apparently my bra straps could still be seen. This too was a problem… Could I please pull them down?

Apprehensively, I did as he asked.

All the while, he was snapping away with his camera.

But it was not enough.

“Why not just whip off your bra completely for a minute? Just so I can get some great headshots showing your beautiful skin and collar bones.”

He assured me this was normal procedure and that none of these prints would include my breasts.

Young and trusting and not wanting to make a fuss — I believed him…

Returning to the agency a few weeks later to go through the photos, I was surprised that only a few were head and shoulder images. But didn’t think about it too much.

Things went well that summer and I completed a couple of catalogue jobs. I didn’t really enjoy the work, but earned a bit of money and went back to school to study for my A’levels in the autumn.

And, it was lucky modelling was not my dream, as my breasts grew somewhat larger — even though the rest of me didn’t. I realised the only modelling I would probably be considered for now was “page three” topless photos, in a certain UK newspaper.

This thought turned out to be a little ironic as a year later my steady boyfriend — an engineer who worked in London with a lot of older men — came home one day, convinced he had seen a couple of photos of me…

“Flashing your tits.” Jim scorned. “Look.”

He had torn out one of the pages from the soft porn magazine that the pictures were featured in.

The topless model’s boobs looked like mine. Her face was slightly obscured, turned to the side, but her hair was too similar for my liking.

Convinced it was me, I felt horrified and exclaimed she must be my doppelgänger. I was not willing to sit down with Jim and tell him how stupid I’d been.

I look back and chuckle at the teenage me. But I understand why I was alarmed at the time. If I’d wanted to model topless, then no problem. But I hadn’t. Not to mention, I should have been paid by the magazine that used the images.

Today, with the internet and social media, my possible topless modelling experience seems rather tame. But back then, cyber flashing or sharing risqué images online was not a thing and men’s magazines were considered tacky to a budding feminist like me!

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