by Dewitt Brinson

Supermodel: A Fairytale

A fan once mailed me their pinky finger.

I stay in a lot of hotels, but I never book the rooms. Someone else books the rooms (my agent, maybe?) and always under an alias. I was Mrs. Winters in Spain a month ago and Miss Tapitan in New York last summer.

Miss Tapitan wore a lot of furs. She had almost no suitors come up to her room. She rarely went out. Of course, that’s New York. Room service. Room service. Room service.

Service. Serve us. Sir Vice.

I went to Serbia for a shoot once. I met a man. God, he was unbearable. Always talking. Always unaware of the news. A man who doesn’t know what’s going on the world today is a boy. But I liked that he was not pretty, yet still asked me out.

Most of the time the only ugly dudes who try to get anywhere with me are photographers. Everyone else is beautiful. Sometimes I forget that people can look any other way. Sometimes I forget I’m hired because I’m pretty.

Actually, I forget I’m paid to do this stuff at all. In the past five years, I have not paid for anything. My money has paid for many things, but I myself have not had to so much as sign a check.

Shit, maybe I’m rich. Maybe I’m broke. I have no idea. It’s hard to remember when those things even mattered.

I like to pretend I’m a spy, which is basically true. I change identities almost weekly. I hide my face so no one will recognize me when I’m in public. I travel the world. Total secret agent.

The only difference being that I don’t collect any information. Unless a famous shoe designer is plotting against the country. Which is unlikely, because shoe designers are drunks.

No, if anyone’s plotting it’s other models. They drink but they do a lot of coke too, so they have energy to scheme. Shoe designers barely have the energy to get divorced due to irreconcilable differences.

The pinky finger had a note attached saying who it was from. I forget the name, but I looked her up and she is a painter. Was a painter? She might have killed herself, for all I know. And I thought it was odd for an artist to be in love with me enough to severe an appendage but not enough to want to meet me. I kept hoping some deranged lady with dirty fingernails would jump out of a crowd, grab me, take me away.

Or maybe she would wait in the hall and chloroform me?

Not all pretty guys are dumb, I’m not saying that. But the stereotype comes from somewhere. I think men should be a little ugly. I just think they look more like men. But they should have the guts to talk to a woman too. They should wear boxers, not briefs. They should have hairy arms.

I don’t know.

I don’t know how to do my own taxes, but I think that’s true of a lot of people.

I get bored. I watch too much tv.

I just don’t like going out. And nothing turns me off more than a pretty boy. God, pretty boys are all the same. Primping and preening for hours before a party then they try to act like lumberjacks or gangsters. Have you ever seen two models fight? It’s an hour of talking about fighting. No one wants to break their nose before a shoot.

I met a boy named Stefan with hair prettier than mine. He hit on me by talking about his handgun. I told him I had a birth deformity where my vagina was permanently sealed--like the skin had grown over leaving me as sexually available as a Barbie doll.

He believed me. I think it turned him on, which piqued my curiosity. In a sociological way, not in a let’s do it way.

I wonder how one gets into the spy business? Is there a spy agency? Can I walk up and apply?

My qualifications:

1) People want to have sex with me
2) Most people don’t talk to me because they want to have sex with me so hard
3) Most hotel clerks have no idea what my true identity is
4) People person
5) Go getter type

I would hire me.

I wrote the pinky-less painter back. I told her I had never had a “girl-girl” experience and I was intrigued. I asked her to facebook me, but she never did.

You can learn a lot about a country by its room service. In Malaysia you cannot order a hamburger, you can only order a beef burger. This is at least partially because Muslims don’t eat pork so there’s no confusion. In Germany, even in Hamburg where the hamburger gets its name, you have to order a Frikadelle. Frikadelle is a Danish word for meatball. But in Denmark, burger means citizen.

Okay, maybe that doesn’t tell you anything about the country. But it’s weird, right?

Maybe the painter was just a sick joke. Maybe there’s no psycho-painter in Van Gogh love with me at all. Maybe it’s some Mafia member’s son having a laugh at my expense.

Or maybe she’s just shy.

When I first started taking photos for magazines, I thought my life would become very exciting. I thought, I’m going to travel the world, have sex with exotic people, and hob-nob with famous people!

I met one famous actor and all we talked about was the weather. I guess, I’m really just kind of a homebody and my home is at the top of the tallest buildings under the guise of nonexistent women with windows upon which no bird will ever land. I live in the clouds like Rapunzel.

I keep my head shaved.

Supermodel: A Fable

VinAriel, the third daughter of great Alabama Senator DiCees to become a world famous model, awoke one morning to find not one but two depressed demons in her giant, white bed.

They had been sitting there for she knew not how long. One was eating his own toenail while the other lie on his back staring at the vaulted ceiling and sighing. Vi had no idea what to do. So she did what she did best: she posed as a sleeper.

And being a professional, her pose lasted for six hours with no great strain. There may have been a few moments where she was able to stop feigning and actually sleep. But after such a time of concentration, curiosity overtook her. She sat up.

What do you want? Why are you here?

The toenail demon who by now had gnawed off half of his own foot glanced at her shyly.

Having not been burned or raped or tortured, she decided to ask them to leave. Having not been flayed alive while all her greatest fears manifested before us, she shouted at them.

Having not been tied to a rock in the desert with a glass of water forever just out of reach, she grew bold enough to scream at them. Not a very good scream. Not effectively enraged. But the hardest scream of an unaccustomed screamer she could rage.

The demon lying on his back sighed and almost, very nearly, but not quite didn’t change his expression at all.

Having not been sent to some unimaginable room with several people she didn’t know to sit in limbo for eternity being annoyed those people ever slightly yet never enough to abandon the room, she grabbed the demon gnawing his last bit of ankle off. She shook him, she threw him, she screamed another pathetic scream.

And something changed.

No, no wait. No it didn’t. It all stayed basically the same. It almost, very nearly, but not quite didn’t stay exactly the same.

For days this went on. She went to work morning; she came back in the evening. The sun rose and the moon rose. The sun set and the moon set. Her demons hung on.

She had hoped the one demon would eat itself. Yet, the moment he’d chewed through his genitals, his lost leg grew right back.

Then finally, the moon in a flight of fancy decided to roll in front of the sun eclipsing it completely. Vi took this as a sign that things were different, something had changed. She rushed from a water shoot straight home arriving dripping wet knowing she’d find her sanctuary renewed with emptiness.

But the demons were still there. One always sighing. One always eating.

And again a childish cry.

Supermodel: Lifestyle

A Supermodel Shows Her New York Apartment on Cribs (what she doesn’t know is it’s not cribs but her stalker and his skeezy friend trying to get into her apartment)

So one thing a lot of people don’t know, my feet aren’t completely human. I won’t tell you which one but it’s on my good side.

Cyborg bitch from hell.

Not really, I’m nice.

Anyway, this is my New York apartment. It’s my crib, yo. Haha. No, seriously. I’m a people person.

I have a house in Cape Town. I barely stay there. I don’t know why I bought it, other than to tell people I have it.

This is the hallway place in-between my door and living room area. I keep umbrellas here.

And this is my living room. The guy before me had all the walls painted black, but I thought that was too dark. So I had them all repainted as white. Luckily, I travel to a lot of third world countries to model, so I have access to lead paint. Stuff’s awesome. These walls will be white forever.

Okay, next room.

This is my other hallway, this one has a closet. I call it my secret room because I never use it and I don’t know what’s in it, just like a secret.

I never call my mom.

Okay, next room.

This is another room I call the zoo. I keep pets in there. I like to have pets but I don’t like to feed them or touch them--they’re animals, animals have diseases. But they’re cute. So I lock them in here until they die, then Alfredo, my Puerto Rican Zoo master, scoops out the old pets and adds in some new ones. Just like my Egyptian gardener, Mr. Coldcom, who refreshes the flowers every other morning.

I had the room sound proofed because the creatures cried too much.

Okay, next room.

This is my bedroom. In the middle of the night I wake up surrounded by magazines. The magazines are covered with mirrors. The mirrors reflect the ceiling. On the ceiling, there’s a giant picture of me.

Sleeping in my bed cut me too much cause of the mirrors. Now I wear a rubber suit to bed. It gets hot, but there’s a catheter; so while it creates one problem, it solves two.

People think I’m obsessed with my looks but I don’t care about being pretty. I just like to look at myself because my face makes me comfortable. Other faces make me nervous. But I see my face and it’s like, “Hey, I can hang around this gal pal.”

Okay, next rom.

(What the supermodel doesn’t know is that there’s no film in the camera, just an empty space to hide her stolen panties.)

This is my workout room. It was designed by a real cowboy. His job before that was to inseminate cows. I don’t know if that makes him an expert on working out, but it doesn’t make him not an expert.

Okay, next room.

This is my computer room. I have someone replace these computers everyday. It’s not wasteful. The old computers go to homeless people. I have volunteers from a high school come in and download multi-cultural porn on the computers so that the homeless people won’t try to rape anybody but also so that they will respect other people no matter what color they are.

Race issues are very important to me. That’s why I talk about a lot.

Okay next room.

(What the supermodel doesn’t know is that the stalker and his cohort have been staring at her feet the whole time because they are embarrassed by her beauty. They are shy.)

This is my library. It’s not very big and there are no books. It’s minimalist. Just a chair and my e-reader, which I can never find. It’s like, Hello where did my chair go?

I have a new chair brought in every morning. Otherwise, I’d have no chair.

I don’t really read though. I’m more of a people watcher.

Okay next room.

Which leads me to my telescope room. Haha. It’s not a room, it’s a balcony. I love watching people through their windows. I like it when they have sex. I like it when they do horrible things to their neighbors and the cops don’t catch them. I haven’t seen that yet except in a movie once. I don’t like movies though.

I don’t feel bad about spying on people. I’m beautiful, so it doesn’t matter.

It’s more than fair because I’m prettier than other people. I’m not vain, I work for a living.

(What the supermodel doesn’t know is that the stalker and his cohort have already left, but they’re coming back.)

One thing you might not guess about me, I don’t own any shoes. So I do not have a shoe room. I throw my shoes away everyday and am brought new shoes.

I’m getting rid of this apartment tonight.

I hate this place.

I hate cats.

Delivery Boy

She didn’t like pizza with vegetables on it. She was a meat lover. And she wouldn’t eat thick crust, it had to be thin. And no tomato sauce, that’s not real pizza.

She had her own pizza cutter. The cutter was made of silver and had an onyx handle. Her initials TM were engraved upon the silver ball at the top of the handle. She always asked for it uncut. That was mainly for efficiency. Pizza places cut triangles so every slice had crust to hold on to. But if the pizza were cut more thoroughly into bits, it greatly improved one’s ability to eat it with a fork.

Coming to a new town for a photo-shoot meant searching the web for hours to ascertain what pizza parlor was the best. More than mere reviews, she had to learn about the history of each establishment. Was it a family restaurant? Where was the family from? What kind of oven did they cook with? What kind of cheese? What was in their dough?

She carried the pizza cutter wrapped in an apron, and she would eat the pizza in her hotel room completely nude excepting her apron which had a scorpion on the front. Her hair would be secured with pins and tucked under a hair net.

Scorpion was the name of the modeling company she started five years ago to control her own assets. She was the highest grossing supermodel who had ever lived. The second highest grossing supermodel worked for her.

What she liked to do was wait until she was alone and order about fifteen pizzas for delivery. Not all cities had delivery, so in certain instances she had a local company hire temps for her. the temps would be sent to each acquire the same kind of pizza and bring it to her. She fired them the next day.

After devouring the each pizza, she opened the box and laid it on the floor until they covered a wide area. She then slipped out of her apron and laid herself on top of the now flat boxes.

When she awoke in the morning, she’d find herself covered in a mixture of bile heavy vomit and errant cheese and meats. With a delicate touch, she would feel her body all of its sticky curves.

After she’d washed off and disposed of the cartons, she usually called her sister. Not a long chat, but they’d talked nearly every day since she was a child. Her sister taught high-school economics and the students seemed to really admire her. In a way, they lived vicariously through one another.

DeWitt Brinson has been kidnapped. Please send 1 million dollars or he gets what's coming to him. No cops.


These were great. I was struck by all the brilliant concepts and ideas. Especially the demon whose genital consumption leads to leg regeneration, the replaced pets, and the bite size pizza cutting. Thanks for the entertainment.

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