Downhill in Heels — A Modeling Story
The producer Temmara is loading an entire pack of Camel Wides into a ball gag with a stainless steel open ring in place of a ball. The leather straps will go around my head near the base of my skull. I am wearing a super short dress she made and made well. Gaudy nail polish, lipstick and heels a half-size too small. Constructed more for a doll than for a human female to shuffle about in.
This is our second shoot together with “The Photographer.”
Last time was a while back, and more fun. There was food and we took our time in the unfinished nightclub basement, despite having to work thru relationship/power issues between Temmara and The Photographer. That’s a story for another time, of course.
Now it’s late. I’m exhausted from one three-hour session already today, and The Photographer is very disorganized. For the finale of all this I will be trying my best to keep my eyes open while wearing heavy makeup and twenty lit cigarettes waft up into my face.
No stunt cocks, only some light spanking. Two shoots for the now-defunct Hustler publication TABOO. A BDSM-centered Technicolor rag chalk-full of bad writing and sweaty babes, which paid four bills each, about three months after publication. Understand—I did it all to cut a check.
Perhaps surprisingly, it might interest you to know I did not seek it out, this work. I just sort of knew it would happen. It was a natural extension of the work I was doing at the time.
I started figure modeling regularly for artists and art institutions in March of 2008. Even figure modeling was sex work here and there. Surprisingly pleasant. Always at least a little provocative…
Once I went over to the condo of an artist I knew. He had me pose with a half-smoked cigarette in my crotch. (What is it with lit cigarettes? Smoke is sexy I guess.) I thought it was a funny tableau, so I went along wIth it. Naturally we talked about anatomy and orgasm and he asked to see me aroused, but I wouldn’t let him do it. So I asked him to wait while I went into the other room and rubbed one out. I’m sure the changes were minor (I’m not a squirter or anything), but he noticed and was pleased.
One of the very first drawing sessions I had was in Washington, DC where I lived for a time. Somehow I invited this cat over to my apartment. And it was legit. My roommate was home and I let her know what I was up to. Kinda disappointing though, because this guy didn’t want to draw, and couldn’t really draw anyway. He just wanted to touch some lady parts a bunch. This was NOT happening…
But I understand there’s a pique factor that loses its charm once it’s all out in the open what’s being done. Which is why for a handful of folks, drawing naked people is how they get off. It might be how some models get off too, but if they’re good, they keep it all inside...
And this is where one of the perks of being female comes in. When it has been a while inside a pose (about twenty minutes is good before a break is necessary), and my body is starting to fight it, it is easiest to go back into my brain and relax for a few moments more by thinking about sex.
Adventure aside, another odd perk of all this after awhile is the highly-tuned and much-improved internal bullshit meter you will acquire after dealing with quote, “gentlemen,” who are exclusively interested in renting your ladybeefs for a price/determinate length of time. You will relax, but not all the way. You will smile, but there will always be a careful bulwark of watchfulness behind it. Underlined is the importance of saying “No” when you really mean it. This is good.
Looking back now I could tell you a million little things. Gosh, where we find ourselves in life… it’s difficult to know where to begin, and end, and begin again. Stories like these wave in color and shape. The connected elements hinge up by time and event. Sunrises and sunsets between are high and low markers amid the sequence of consequences. Some delicious, some undesired.
So that’s my industry and my time in Chicago. Much like yours, it’s a dialogue. To maintain in a place is not a one-way conversation. People who try to have one-way conversations in a world as big as this one die quick.
To comprehend this and operate within it as an adult is also to understand that amongst your toolset for communication resides your desirability. I’m not talking about attractiveness, or raw sex-appeal, although they can be of import. I’m really talking about your mystery. Your own ineffable magic, your intrigue. It is powerful. Never forget this…
Because your heart never lies, it’s just the truth that hurts.
✶
Somewhere between the first shoot and the second, The Photographer became my lover and I don’t know why. Out of sheer loneliness? The next obvious thing? Last boyfriend left? All of the above and more. It was almost like I didn’t seek it out. It just happened…
We weren’t together long, maybe a year. It was a good thing, too. He helped me exercise my interest in doing any more bondage shoots or illicit photography. I was over it… for the most part.
One time we were out in a forest preserve after smoking a bowl or two. I was on my period and took out the menstrual cup to show him my fluids. He looked into my eyes in earnest. He asked: “Are you a witch?”
I suppose it was a relevant question. I have no formal training in witchcraft. But I do keep an altar at home and use tarot. And I do listen to Diamanda Galas. And I am a Pisces...
If you enjoyed this piece, consider purchasing a copy of I Didn’t Marry a Prostitute… on Amazon.