I wasn't always a supermodel.

That seems like an obvious statement, right? It's not like hordes of modeling scouts are scampering through maternity wards with lighting rigs and cameras evaluating infants for sexy potential. They're not shining flashlights up expectant mothers' vaginas, whispering about the "it factor." They have no file cabinets stuffed with detailed womb profiles. Too bad. If they did those things, my path would've been straightforward. I never would've never endured a moment of insecurity. I never would've felt a moment of sadness or doubt. I could've streamlined perfection from womb to tomb.

Most supermodels are discovered in their teens, or early in adulthood. Having breezed through puberty with grace, dignity, and the awe of their peers, they arrive (on the scene!) with angular cheek bones, big bright eyes, and slender legs. All without effort. They (not so miraculously) find themselves among other pretty people. There vultures spy, awaiting and expecting them. Then, cameras. The world worships. Just that easy.

I didn't have that. Sure, I was a pretty good looking teenager. But I wasn't spectacular. I was a slight bit overweight, awkward, and certainly not aloft with breezy confidence and the expectation of adoration. I didn't have The Destiny. I stumbled into my magnificence via an all too common weakness.

Addiction has positive aspects, you know. They don't tell you that.

All of us, pretty and ugly alike, took our turns with substances. (except the hardcore academia nerds, but come on, fuck them, right?) For you, maybe, it was only beer and weed. A lot of us, though, disappeared for whole weekends, hiding in warehouses and forests, trying on different styles of blood chemistry. Call it youthful curiosity if you require justification. I tried them all. The ecstasy was good. I liked the instant fellowship. Acid was really intense, but it scared me sometimes. Heroin? Fashionable as fuck, but too dangerous and taboo, at least in my crowd. Cocaine, though? Fuck yeah more more more. Deviate my septum, right fucking now. Amen and hallelujah! I was all about it.

It took a while, but I got motherfuckin' skinny. And it looked damn good on me, gotta admit it. I was a mess, yet they all loved me. I had something. It was like being tickled constantly.

I know, I know, I'm dancing around it. Teasing. We do that. I'm getting to it, promise.

High school ended just in time. I flew off east and landed in the Big Apple. West Village, of course. (you expected that, and you were right to) NYU barely took me, but admitted I got. Was I a hipster? Maybe. Not too much, I like to think. It's not like I was a college radio DJ or anything. I didn't get carried away. At that point, at least. But damn if I didn't feel on top of the universe. The world? My oyster. Sex smothered me.

I could detail more about the college experience, but that's all irrelevant bullshit. Let's face it: I was headed for the center of the universe, and I fucking knew it. 

Hmm. There I go getting a head full of ego steam again. It's hard to step back, at this point, and be realistic. Fuck it, though, I'm hot shit now. You love me. You'll pay attention. You have no choice. My middle name should be Compelling. Ahem. Back to the story. Sorry. Not really.

It wasn't until the art gallery opening that the world laid down gently and spread its legs wide for me.

There I was. Laughing, drinking, and pretending to like vegetable dip. You know, just socializing. Being sociable. Waiting for the inevitable sunshine that I deserved. Sneaking off to the bathroom for a bump. I don't remember the names of the gallery or the artist, but I can tell you the canvases had some sort of misguided crap best described as Jackson Pollack interpreted as geometry. Garbage, but nobody said so.

A man grabbed my shoulder and laid it on thick:

"I can make you. Are you ready to be stalked?"

Naturally, I had a bad reaction to this ominous sentiment. I shoved him off, called him a creep, whatever. He stood there, implacable, offering superior knowledge.

"Fine. You're not ready. Take my card. (which he handed to me) You're perfect. Christ. I need your face. I need it now."

The fuck? I stepped back, setting down my ranch drowned baby carrot. Nervous, scared, and yeah, excited. He continued.

"Clock is ticking, darling. You only have moments. I want to dress you up. I want to muse you. I can make the whole world sit up and take notice of every last eyelash stabbing the atmosphere. You got what I need.  Make me money, sweetheart, before you grow old. Happens fast. I can make you famous. That's a promise. Give me a chance, and your life will magnify into something so amazingly good. I want you to be my supermodel. Wear my clothes. Wear my designs. Strut for me."

When I managed to close my gaping mouth, my gorgeous ass was smart enough to take him seriously. He was an awful creep, granted, but his confidence seduced me, and i decided to let him in. For my own glory. I believed him. 

I made the right decision.

So here I am. My tiny ass sells panties. You're not even sure who I am, after this little confessional, but I guarantee you desperately want to fuck me. Yeah, they give me money. They give me cocaine. As much as I desire. I have it all.

And I'm still young. I'm not old.


Steve Giles used to write a lot at Tinfoil Viking Science. He doesn't anymore, though, because he's a lazy fuckup with nothing to say.


Kara said…
Totally and absurdly messed up. And a bit frightening to think that many young girls fall victim to this superficial pursuit of adoration.

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