Almost 5'4"

Was she serious? She looked more like a model than me. She had long curly hair, and she was lean, with perfect proportions. At twenty-two, she was so much more mature. Most of all, she was tall. For the next ten minutes, I looked over the photos with her and she pointed to the ones she liked best.

Flicking through the pictures it dawned on me that I had always been posing, always making a face, a little sneaky show-off face, no matter who was in the shot: someone’s sick cat, a childhood friend, or a boy I was taking to the prom. Every photo was of me modeling before I knew what modeling was. I loved to pose, to be seen, to show off, and it started when I had a hunger to feel affection from a male, when I had a hunger to be seen, desired, wanted. When my father chose alcohol over his family.

Deep-Fried Bullshit (#ulink_b1b67a25-2362-596f-9724-830fa0c2ca04)

Back home for the summer, without a father figure, scholarship, or any semblance of a plan, I felt cramped and struggled to breathe. Being home was a reminder of how much I had tried to get out in the first place. The tension was building again with each helping of my mother’s deep-fried bullshit.

The more I thought about my situation the more that conversation with Audrey came to mind. The idea that I could make it as a model wouldn’t go away. I remembered her words as my mother handed me a second helping of chilli. I pushed the bowl away as if it were poison. It hit me right there and then, that a plain, hopeless girl from Syracuse with no connections or knowledge of the modeling world should give it a try.

I did the only thing I could think of. I opened Google and attacked it – typing in any modeling word that came to mind. The first results of my search showed two things: a lot of skin and tall women.

That moment could have ruined everything, and it almost did. My fingers hesitated over the keyboard as I scrolled through shots of long-legged gorgeous Giraffes (my nickname for the impossibly tall, skinny beauties that would from now on be my competition). My heart rate went up when the blond smiled at me. She was naked except for the tiniest G-string I had ever seen. She stared at me and whispered, ‘You don’t have a chance.’ I continued through the whole page, my eyebrows furrowed with doubt. I would never be as beautiful as them. There was nothing at all in that dusty basement to give me hope. I almost allowed my life to slink back to greasy fried chicken, potato skins and suburban shopping malls. Almost, but not quite.

Profile (#ulink_5c8b9918-ff6a-5141-a4ed-96d3665884e5)

I didn’t tell Danny, my boyfriend, about my modeling ideas or that I was thinking about the possibility of making it a career. I wasn’t ready to share my dreams with him just yet. Instead, I asked my friend Joel to help me. I met him at his house, out back by the swing set.

Even though we were old enough to break it, Joel and I swung, while his little sister Angela played in the grass with their snotty, snorting bulldog that I hated to touch.

‘Joel…um, would you do me a favor?’

I had known him since I was sixteen. Back then he was one of my only friends with a driving license, so he had done me many favors over the years. Now, as we sat and talked, he looked at me with his sad brown eyes.

‘Could you take me to meet a photographer in Fayetteville?’ I asked him slowly, as I took a deep fast swing and my shoe flung off.

Fayetteville was about twenty minutes from my hometown, and it would take Joel another twenty to get to my house from his, so it would be about a forty-minute drive for him. It was a longer favor than usual.

‘Sure, what’s it for?’

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I really had a photo shoot but saying I was just going to meet a photographer sounded safer.

Only a couple of days before, I had discovered a free modeling website called Onemodelplace.com. It asked the models to place ‘five images to show your look.’ I didn’t know what my look was, and I didn’t have any recent ones to put on there, so I uploaded one of the photos from high school.

In less than a week, I already had a shoot with a photographer scheduled.

The site allowed photographers to mingle with models. It was interesting to browse all the other models’ posted photos and to receive comments. It was intriguing and I thought to myself, I’m just as attractive as them.

After a few hours, I heard back from a photographer via email. For the next few days, I waited to be contacted by more photographers. They would tell me what they were interested in shooting, and how much they would pay. I didn’t care about the money, or if it was a TFP, which I learned stood for Time For Print. This meant that even if I didn’t get paid, the photographer would give me a CD of images in exchange for my time. It sounded like a good deal to me.

You could find every kind of woman on the website from younger, soft-skinned, seventeen-year-old girls pushing together nonexistent cleavage, to older women in their forties who had stretch marks and yellow-stained teeth, and who posed in their lingerie. Some started with their senior class photo, like me. A few even included their friends in the photos, posing cheek to cheek or with cigarettes in their mouths giving a sly ‘don’t fuck with us’ look. Most showed skin. The shots weren’t about high-end clothing or make-up but about the amount of flesh you revealed. The more nudity, the more hits and clicks and comments you received. That should have warned me about the sort of ‘work’ I could expect to find.

Anyone could set up a page for free. There wasn’t any webmaster saying, ‘You’re not pretty enough.’ Any person with a photo to upload could do it. It was a new world to me, a world I planned on keeping a secret, a world of hits and clicks that defined ‘hotness’ and ‘worthiness.’ It was obvious that the site was about being exposed and considered ‘hot.’

Many girls underestimated the seriousness of it. No one did a background check on the photographers or the models. There was an FAQ about how to use the site but should you have a complaint or almost get killed at a shoot, there sure as hell wasn’t a union for the Internet model. But we were prepared to ignore any risk for the thrill of seeing our own webpage and receiving offers of work.

Just by entering the information for my profile I felt a rush of excitement. The uncertainty of it was exhilarating. I analyzed the size of my nose, my curvy ass, my short fingernails, how well I shaved my legs. Suddenly my eyebrows looked way too bushy, and my eyes needed mascara.

I started to check off my ‘interests’ and flesh out the rest of my profile. I ran to the bathroom and stripped to my underwear to take a better look at myself. When I was done I checked off that I was ‘comfortable with swimwear and lingerie.’

I tried to work out what ‘casual’ meant. I feared it meant wearing an itchy sweater and being plain – I wasn’t sure I wanted anything to be casual.

I had the choice of clicking ‘fashion’ or ‘commercial print’. I hardly knew what these terms meant since I didn’t read Vogue or magazines like that. The closest I’d been to fashion and glamour was reading Seventeen magazine. I certainly wasn’t seventeen anymore; I was legal. I checked off ‘nude’ as a yes. ‘It was just skin,’ I told myself. I ran to the bathroom again and this time got completely naked. Frowning, I stared at my body and noticed what happened to it when I moved and twisted and looked over my shoulder. My breasts were nonexistent compared to what most girls had on the website.

Still, I thought I had a nice body. Years of running had made my ass curvy and tight. I admired my flat suntanned stomach in the mirror and my bony hips that made perfect cuts down along my bikini line were now something sexy. Only three photos were decent enough to show my body off, so I posted those. For the first couple of moments I waited, hands folded, in my lap, for a hit on my fabulous new page. By the end of the day I received over ten comments and compliments, which were all flattering.

‘Welcome to the site. I like petite girls, would you want to set up a shoot?’

I didn’t want to look like a first-timer, so I took a few moments to think about my reply and wrote back, ‘Yes, I’m interested. What type of photos would you like to shoot?’

I would be more prepared for the next one and know what I was looking to shoot. I mentioned in my profile I would be coming to New York City after the summer. Most of the photographers were there and I wanted to keep them interested.

I had convinced my mother to let me attend the New York City campus for the remaining three years of college, but that wouldn’t start for another two long months. So when photographers wrote me to say hello, to welcome me to the website or to plan a shoot I wrote back, ‘Sorry, I can’t shoot now, let’s keep in touch.’ They would reply, ‘I would love to be one of your first shoots in New York City, so remember me.’ Or, ‘OK, just let me know when you are in town.’

I saved all their comments and emails. For now, I was stuck in Syracuse and the excitement of modeling in New York City would have to be put on hold. Until then I had to content myself with a shoot with a photographer closer to home. I would consider it practice for the big city.

My First Shoot (#ulink_947ef6f0-208f-5c83-9ee6-a5eb8bcec1d2)

It was the day of my first shoot. Although the weather was unseasonably cold for summer, I waited outside for Joel. I didn’t want him coming in and telling my mother where we were going.

Most of the girls on the site had, to my naive eyes, professional photos. I needed some of my own to keep up with them. Only having a few pictures on my profile against their twenty meant I was no real competition. Maybe this session in Syracuse would give me some shots to add to my portfolio. I needed to give it a try.

I had no idea what the photographer looked like as we had only been exchanging emails. Joel and I walked around the wedding hall in search of him. The hall looked like a palace – all white on the outside and all wood on the inside. Joel made small talk about the architecture but I just wished he would shut the fuck up, I was so nervous.

Then, I saw the photographer. He was taking the trash out and he had a lot of it. Joel rushed to help him. He was dressed comfortably in jeans and a nice tucked-in light blue shirt. I noticed that he smelled like a fireplace.

‘I usually shoot the bride on this stairway.’ He winked at me.

While he was setting up for the shoot, it hit me. Someone might see me and question what I was doing. My aunt and uncle lived only a few miles away. In high school I ran track against many students who lived in the area. I prayed Joel wouldn’t know anyone who could recognize me. Fortunately, he was in a daze, interested, consumed. He looked amused and stared at the artwork and vintage tables as if he were witnessing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The photographer and I hadn’t discussed payment in our emails, but he had promised to give me a CD of images a week after the shoot. We had already agreed that the shoot would involve lingerie. I didn’t care; I needed photos for my profile on Onemodelplace.com and felt safe knowing a friend was with me. Besides, I wanted to feel what being a model was all about. I wanted the experience.

I went into the bathroom to get ready; I didn’t know what to do with myself. My heart was racing. I put on some more mascara and lipstick. Stupidly, I had forgotten my hairbrush but used my fingers to weed through the knots in my hair the best I could. I splashed some water on my hands to calm down the flyaway strands by my forehead.

I had no idea what Joel was doing while I was in there, but I could hear the two of them talking and it made me nervous. I hoped to God Joel wouldn’t mention that I was a track runner or that we only lived in the next town over. I wanted this whole thing to be as anonymous as possible.

When I thought I looked the best I possibly could, or what I thought a model should look like, I came out. The photographer had Joel wait downstairs.

I stood by the railing of the stairs, where he normally photographed brides, trying to exude a confidence I did not feel. I wore a pair of denim shorts, a gold necklace with a heart pendant on it, gold hoop earrings, and a sheer Calvin Klein bra. Next we went into a bedroom and I sat, and then lay down, on the yellow bedspread and smiled awkwardly towards him and his huge lens. The camera clicked, startling me as he captured a picture of my skin for a ‘test shot.’ He was using all these words I never heard before, and he was trying to hold the camera steady as he mumbled how he wished he had his tripod. I felt a little weird sitting there waiting for my photo to be taken. The silence went right through me. I could hear my heart beat. I looked down and around the room, avoiding direct contact with the photographer’s eyes as he fumbled with the lights again.

He said, ‘Are you comfortable posing without a bra?’

I couldn’t say no. That would let him know this was my first photo shoot ever and I wanted to seem professional. Plus, he had already given us the tour of his huge wedding reception mansion so we sort of knew each other. At least, that’s what I told myself.

I thought getting naked was supposed to make me nervous, but I wasn’t that scared.

‘Yes, that’s fine.’ Speaking shyly but acting fast, I peeled off my clothing and with it any last grip on innocence. With a delicate whisk of the hand I threw the garments on the floor. I think I startled the photographer when he turned around and I was bare naked already but covering myself with the bed sheet.

The photographer said, ‘I have some white lace cloth in a storage closet.’ Then he went to fetch it as if he had a beautiful present for me. To my disappointment, it looked like a tablecloth used for someone’s wedding reception, and I didn’t know whether to say, ‘Thank you,’ or ‘No thank you.’

He said that with my tan skin color, I would look pretty if I wore it around my head like a veil and used it to cover my body. Only then did I wonder whether I’d shaved or not and if I should go and put lotion on my legs. I was so focused on him, his movements, and the quiet between us, that I forgot I had on my gold necklace, earrings and angel ring, but he said it was OK.