September 14, 2012

Supermodel Summer Has Ended and so now I MUST BLOG!

Because everything starts with food and I want pizza.  The other day I had melted ice cream and salt and vinegar potato chips for dinner.  Do you think I’m lying?

I have subscribed to a tumblr called “Hot Black Girls.”  There are a lot of hot black girls. Mostly they are naked and “spreading.”  I’m not a big fan of the spread.  Vaginas look like aliens to me.  (self-hate?) I am fine with all the boobs though.

Naked black girls.  Lots of different tones.  Gradient rainbows.  I am liking black women more and more in my life.  By “liking” I think I mean “attracted to/admiring.”  I don’t know why I am telling you this.  I am figuring life out one black naked lady at a time.

Stepping stones.

Lots of discussion about “alt lit.” I sit by the river on a rock and I stare at the river and watch everything floating by.  I only take breaks to swat flies away or to study the ground for good skipping rocks.  Otherwise I sit, and I watch and I listen.  I am also on the river. I am also floating by.

I am eating sugar snap peas.  They are certainly not pizza.

Let’s jack each other off in front of a digital fireplace with the soundtrack from Twin Peaks playing on the stereo.  Let’s do it with split loaves of French bread around our penises and when we are done we can make sandwiches from the bread and eat them for dinner or lunch.  Should I get turkey or ham?

If someone ever used the term, “slice bread” instead of “sliced bread” to me, I think I would hate them.

Seems when I want to feel happy I think about getting drunk in the sun with good music playing.  I’ve been noticing this is the “happy place” I keep finding myself returning to.  I think this means I want to be an alcoholic with a good tan who likes to dance when I grow up.  

September 11, 2012


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.

September 09, 2012


                                       You’re Ugly When You Come   
                                                      By Alana Noël Voth

A famous rock star saw my picture in Playboy and called. He said he couldn’t wait to meet the sexiest looking girl on Earth. I said I’d have a drink with him. Four days later, we eloped.

From “Hot Girl” by Jet Calloway (number one song in nine countries)
Hot girl, teen dream, beauty queen
I want you. Sweet tease, wet dream. I want you.
Hot thing, sex machine, main squeeze. I got you.

When I was twelve, my dad left. I didn’t take it so well. I was depressed. But I was also sorry I scared Mom like that and promised I wouldn’t hurt myself again. In school, I wanted my male teachers to love me. I paid attention to what they said, smiled, raised my hand. I got good grades. When I was fourteen, I discovered a supermodel, Kate Moss, and wrote a poem about her, “Waif,” and submitted it to a contest and won third place. I was devastated I hadn’t won first. My composition teacher, Mr. Macky, hugged me. I said I wish you were my dad. He said, “I wish I was fifteen years younger.” I didn’t care what he meant; I didn’t want him to let go of me, but he did. When I was fifteen, a modeling scout approached me. He said, “Do you want to make a lot of money?” I said yes because Mom and I lived in a studio apartment and got food stamps. I felt happier than I had in months. That kind of attention.  Mom wouldn’t let me call the agency.
She said, “What sort of person approaches a teenaged girl?”
I called the agency behind her back. The agent explained I couldn’t do anything until I was eighteen without my mother’s consent. I finished high school with a 4.0 and an acceptance letter from Berkley. I had the summer to decide. A friend drove me to a modeling agency in L.A, and I told the guy who took Polaroids of me I was the next Kate Moss.
He lowered the camera. “You remind me of Dorothy Stratten.”
“Very angelic,” he said.
When the guy introduced me to an agent, I said I’m the next Kate Moss.
“She’s built like a boy. You’re built like a Barbie.”
I want to do Calvin Klein ads.
“What about Frederick’s of Hollywood and Playboy?”
What’s Frederick’s of Hollywood?
“Like Victoria’s Secret.”
I called Mom and said I was staying in L.A. a couple months with my friend. She was worried. I told her I was having the time of my life. That sort of attention. I got my portfolio together and made it to nine go-sees in one day. I told photographers I had a boyfriend back home because they all made passes at me, and I didn’t know how to say no any other way.
First time I posed for Frederick’s of Hollywood, I was nervous and threw up on a stylist’s shoes. The other stylists joked I was hung over. “Nervous?” one of the other model’s said.
I guess so. Very.
The lingerie was tiny and uncomfortable but soon as I saw my contact sheets, I couldn’t believe it. That’s me? “Drop dead sexy,” a photographer said. When I went home with five thousand dollars Mom cried. I thought she was happy. “You aren’t going to Berkley?” She held my face, tears on her cheeks. I said, Mom take the money. Mom, take the money, please.

Jet Calloway lies naked across a bed in a hotel suite in Las Vegas. Dark hair, light eyes, and a salacious grin. First time I saw Jet Calloway he grinned just like that. I was in high school. He’d hit number one with his remake of “New York Groove” by Ace Frehley. He sang with Kiss at Madison Square Garden. He appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone sticking his tongue out.
On VH-1 or MTV, an interviewer asked, “What kinds of girls do you like?” Behind them, girls screamed.  Jet Calloway turned and waved then looked at the camera grinning.
“Angels,” he said.
He’s my own Pete Dougherty except prettier and more successful.  
“Let me look at you.”
I pose at the end of the bed. Jet has one arm above his head on a pillow; in his other hand he holds a cigarette. I wear a white bra and white panties. I haven’t had time to tell him yet.
“Turn around,” Jet says. “Wiggle for me.”
I giggle.
“Smile for me. Mess your hair. You love me?”
I saved myself for him. I tell him. I’ve never done this before.  
Jet smiles. “Fuck on blow?” He has made a cocaine heart on a table beside the bed.
No, I’ve never fucked before.
Jet sits up. “No way.” He puts his cigarette out then blinks. “I married a virgin?”
I guess so, yeah. You mad?
“Fuck no.” Jet pulls me on top of him. “I married a smoking hot virgin, the hottest virgin in the world.” I feel his heart pound through his ribcage against my breasts. “A real-live angel, hot damn. You nervous?” When I say yes he says, “Do a little blow so it doesn’t hurt as much.”  

Before I married Jet Calloway, I’d been in L.A. three years, four months, two weeks, and one day. I kept track of it. Part of the time, I was on cloud nine; the other part I was down in the dumps or scared shitless. Like a ticking time bomb. I could go off. I lived in a house with five other models. When one of them got a job I wanted, it killed me. I wrote in a hard-bound journal. Tabitha got the Venus swimwear ad I wanted. Lacy got the spokesmodel gig I wanted.
My goal was to make Maxim’s Hot 100. I mean, I wanted to be number one.
Lacy wanted to marry Justin Bieber then appear in all his videos.  
“Using a guy to make you famous is sad,” said Rachel; she was from Amarillo, Texas and had been in L.A. six months.
The other models ignored her. We shared a room. I shared clothes. Rachel shared books. She had Alice Sebold, Elizabeth Wurtzel, Sylvia Plath, and xTx. Who’s that?
“No one knows. I think a woman.”
xTx sounded like a stage name to me, someone beautiful and scandalous and dangerous.
“You want it?”
The first story in the book was, “For the Girl Who Doesn’t Know She Has Everything.” A part of me inside a part of you but you didn’t know it yet. Not then. Instead, you kept on crying whenever you felt so lonely it made you want to swallow pills, cut yourself, say yes to boys.
I closed the book and tucked it under my pillow.
Some nights I talked back to it. I don’t have anything yet.      

Modeling started with luck. You looked right; the camera liked you; you liked cameras. Then you worked hard, long hours, showed up on time, never pulled attitude, and smiled. You wanted to make money to give Mom. You wanted Mom to feel proud you earned that kind of money. Off your looks! That sort of attention. Went to your head sometimes. You’re so hot! You’re so sexy! Look at the camera like it’s a man you want to fuck. There you are in crotchless panties giving millions of people a “fuck me” look and you’ve never fucked. Sometimes it’s like a joke. Sometimes, you’re lonely. Sometimes you worry you’re the only girl in the world faking it.
Sometimes it’s like you’ll never be a star.
Once, you booked a swim suit calendar and were the last girl to go home. The photographer looked like Ryan Gosling. His hand trembled when he brought a strand of hair across your eye just so. You were lonely. The photographer put down his camera, kissed you. You kissed him back. You kissed for hours. You let him take your bikini top off.  
He sucked in a breath. “Wow. I. You’re. So . . .” He undid his pants.
I can’t yet. Except it’s sort of like you might die if you don’t keep his attention.
The photographer directed you to your knees between his thighs on the floor in his van. 
You blew at his dick like an oven-fresh corn dog because you didn’t know any better.
He said, “Tell me you’ve done this before.”
I don’t know. Guess not. You blushed and wanted to hide, sort of.  You didn’t want to disappear. Like his eyes had become tiny stages or spotlights. You imagined yourself a star.
“You’re something,” he said then stroked your hair. You curled against his lap.
This went on several minutes. You’d never felt so loved by a man before.  
“Lick and suck it,” he said. “Open your mouth wider.”
You worried you didn’t look pretty sucking cock. He held your hair back to watch. You got the hang of it. Like a lollipop. Your own finger after Mom made cake and you licked the pan.
He moaned. “Here I go.”
His semen didn’t taste like corn dog but maybe like corn starch.
He said, “I can’t believe you’ve never sucked cock before.”
You were embarrassed and wiped your chin. You tried to curl up in his lap again.
When you called two days later he said, “Sorry, honey. I have a girlfriend.”

He also passed your pictures along to Hugh Hefner.

My agent said Playboy wanted me to test for them. I said okay and called Mom because I guessed I just wanted to warn her in case it actually happened, I became a centerfold.
            The idea made my heart thump harder.
“Are you going to take your clothes off?” Mom asked.
I’ll wear panties.
If I became a centerfold, of course I’d have to take off my panties, but I’d have a lot more money to give her. So I tested for Playboy. I wore jeans and a tank top, two different bikinis, then just panties. It didn’t feel much different from posing in lingerie. My nipples showed. I felt a breeze on my nipples. I felt lights on my nipples. Everyone could see my nipples. My nipples got hard. The photographer said, “You’re all hot glamorous innocence.” A mouthful. I liked it. When Hugh Hefner gave a green light, I shot my centerfold. We started with jeans again and a tank top, then just the tank top with panties, then the jeans and no top and no bra, then nothing but body glitter and lip gloss. It didn’t feel much different from posing topless. I didn’t open my legs wide. Admittedly I felt sexy and vulnerable all at the same time.
 I met Hugh Hefner.
“You remind me of Anna Nicole Smith,” he said, which was how I became known as “Baby Anna.” I figured it was okay. She did ads for Guess jeans. I was Miss June and the cover.

I completed a questionnaire that appeared with my pictures in Playboy. For the question, who is your role model, I put Mom because she’s strong. For the question, who would you want to spend one night in Paradise with, I almost put the man I love.  
Instead I wrote JET CALLOWAY, all caps. 
            I got an adrenaline rush doing that.

The first time I saw Brody, he sat on a stool playing acoustic guitar while glancing at me then blushing before looking at his guitar and singing this song, “You’re Ugly When You Come.”
I was in the wrong bar; the other models were someplace else; I was lost.
Brody stood next to me, playing the surface of the bar with his fingers like he still played guitar. Finally, he looked at me. He had amber-green eyes and rusty-blond hair, a crooked smile.
I said I don’t understand your song.
“It’s about unrequited love.”
Love? How can you tell someone you love she’s ugly during sex? That’s mean.
“It’s about loving a girl who fakes it.”
Fakes what?
Oh. I excused myself to the bathroom to send a text to Lacy but really to check myself in a mirror. Brody made me nervous. He was still there when I came back. 
“What’s your name?”
They call me Baby Anna. My real name’s Lisa. I’m a model. I just did Playboy.
Brody smiled on one side of his mouth.
Do you like Playboy?
“Sometimes.” He blushed.
I’m Miss June.
“I don’t know if I should check that out.”
Why not? I worried he didn’t think I was pretty or sexy enough.
“I might want to get to know you first.”
Really? I couldn’t look him in the eye then.
“How come you’re alone? You don’t have a million boyfriends?” 
I’m supposed to be someplace else.
He made a flower out of napkin. “I’m from Bend, Oregon. Ever heard of it?”
No. I’m from Grass Valley, California. Ever heard of it?
He laughed. “No. I’m going back in three months, one week, and four days.”
To visit?
“Permanently. I said I’d give myself three years to make it as a musician then call it quits and go home and help my dad run his store.”
What if it takes three years and two months to make it?
 He gave me the napkin flower. “I made a deal with myself.”
I touched the flower to my mouth. You should do American Idol, like Jet Calloway did.
“I don’t like that guy.”
You know him?
“I don’t dig his music, what he’s about.”
Yeah. You’re more like James Blunt. The way I’m like Anna Nicole Smith.
“You should be yourself.”
I guess. But what’s wrong with being compared to someone else if it gets you attention?  
“Promise you’ll be yourself when we go out.”
We’re going out? I felt a flutter.

Except right after I met Brody, I traveled for Playboy. So exciting. I’d send him a text. I’m in Dallas! I’m in Miami! I’m in Chicago! I’m in NYC! Once, I sent him a message. I miss you. My agent sent me to Japan two months. I shot four commercials and three magazine covers. I called Brody and told him stuff. I told him about the poetry contest. About Mr. Mackey. How my dad left. What I did after my dad left me. About Berkley. I’d never told anyone all this. Brody said my secrets were safe with him. I said I think you’re my best friend. He said I’m glad we’re friends. He told me his Mom died. He worried about his dad. He wanted to get back to Bend. Soon as I was home in L.A., Brody invited me over. Behind him in a tiny apartment all his stuff was packed.
What’s going on? I panicked. Where you going?  
“There’s a college in Bend.”
What do you mean? You’re leaving L.A?
“Come with me.”
You’re leaving L.A?
He cupped my face then kissed me. “Did you hear me?”
Why are you leaving me?
He kissed me again. I loved the way he kissed me.  
You can’t leave.    
“Come with me. You can go to college in Bend.”  
But I live here. My life is here, my career.
“I listened all those nights, Lisa. You’re not happy with your career.”
I started crying.
“Don’t cry.”  He kissed me so hard I thought I might crumble.    
I pulled away. YOU’RE LEAVING ME!   
“I’m sorry. I tried. This town isn’t for me anymore.”
You could do American Idol.
“I don’t want to do American Idol. It’s a game show and has nothing to do with music.”
Why are you scared?
“I’m scared? You’re scared, Lisa.”
I’m scared because you’re leaving. Just stay three more months.
“What? And fall in love with you?”
You love me?
“Come with me, Lisa.”
Stay. Please. You’re the next James Blunt.
“And you’re the new Anna Nicole Smith.”
“I hope so.”
Do you love me?
He hugged me. Then he said in my ear, “It wouldn’t make any difference if I did.”   

I’m under Jet Calloway on a bed in a hotel suite in Las Vegas. He smells like cigarettes and wet armpits. He’s turned on by his virgin bride. I think maybe the blow helped. I stopped shivering. It didn’t hurt too bad, a little worse than the first time I inserted a tampon. He took his time, was gentle. I felt his breath in my hair. I closed my eyes and thought you’re with Jet Calloway famous rock star husband then saw Brody in my head. I felt him kiss me, lick my neck. He licked my eyebrow. Licked my chin. I dug my nail between his shoulder blades.
“Fuck!” he said.
I opened my eyes.
Jet Calloway moved above me, mouth slack, eyes rolling into his head.
I said, “Do you love me?”
Jet said, “Jesus ChristIloveyou, ahh.” He shuddered then collapsed on me.
Second time, he rolls me on top of him. “God, you’re fucking beautiful. Slap me, yeah.”
I slap him a little.
“Harder,” he says. “Hurt me.”
I feel myself getting wet. I want to hurt him badly. I slap and then smack him. Jet flares his nostrils, bucks, and then comes. I float above him. I’ve done too much blow maybe. I feel like I could bounce right through the ceiling.
My husband says, “Let’s trash a hotel room soon.”
I imagine the Mark Hotel in New York, my own Johnny Depp.
I laugh and laugh then do more blow.
In the shower, I remember a line from one of Rachel’s books, a poem called “Lady Lazarus.” She read it to me. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair, and I eat men like air.
“It’s about suicide,” Rachel explained. “Sylvia Plath offed herself.”
Before Sylvia Plath was a poet, she was a model. That’s what Rachel said. Steam fills the shower. I haven’t called Rachel. She’ll see it on TV. EVERYONE will see it on TV. Mrs. Jet Calloway, Baby Anna marries Jet Calloway. Shit, I hadn’t called Mom. I jump from the shower and leave the water on and find my phone. I say, Mom? I drip water into the carpet and shiver and grind my teeth from the blow. Mom, I got married. Guess what? Yeah, I’m married. Guess what? I married Jet Calloway. Jet Calloway. Jet. Calloway. Maybe you heard his song. Yeah, I’m naked in Playboy. It’s fine. It’s tasteful. Mom? Don’t cry. I’m MARRIED.
Jet came in the room holding a video camera. “We’re the next Pam and Tommy.”
I laugh. Put the camera down.
Mom says, “What? Who’s there?”
My husband. I love you, Mom.
Jet circles me with the camera.
I laugh again. Bye, Mom. I love you. What are you DOING with the camera? I shove Jet away laughing again. He laughs too then directs the camera at his cock. “Am I as hung as Tommy? Did you see their video? You’re so hot, babe.” He hugs me.
We laugh then holler then knock into stuff.
How much coke did we do?  
“The heart is gone!” Jet slaps his chest. “Demolished!”
I take the camera then point it at him. He looks into the lens. “I love you, angel. You hear me? I love you so much. You’re so hot. I want to fuck you a million fucking years then some.”
I lower the camera.  
“Film me. Baaabee . . . film me. Film us. Like Pam and Tommy.”
Okay. Go in and wait for me.  
Jet stumbles into the bedroom. “Waiting!”
My heart hurts. My heart hurts. Boom. 

“Angel, can you hear me?” It’s Jet.
It’s a man I don’t know. “Can you hear me?”
It’s Brody.

From “You’re Ugly When You Come” by Brody Phillips (unknown song)
When I’m in you, you’re not with me really
Love is hardcore, come undone
The way you fake it
You’re ugly when you come.

What happened my wedding night was an accident. I did blow the first time and did too much. The doctor agreed not to release information to the press about faint scars on my wrists. The rest was publicity. Jet asked about the scars. All I said was ancient history.
I moved out of the model’s house into Jet’s mansion.
Our wedding picture appeared on the covers of Star, People, and US.
Jet said, “Shit’s about to get crazy. Hang onto me.” 

Jet and I are mobbed. Fans sit on our car. Jet cranks the radio because “Hot Girl” is on. He lifts his fist and pumps. The fans bounce the car. Jet grabs my head then sticks his tongue in my mouth. Flash bulbs. The fans bounce harder. We’re stuck an hour before the police come. We try and slip into a hotel and a fan grabs me by my hair then tries sticking his tongue in my mouth. Jet punches him in the face. Because I speak to the fan in person, he doesn’t press charges. He has a black eye and a fistful of my hair. I’m on the cover of Rolling Stone with my husband. The head line is, “Hot Things in Love.” Inside, Jet and I talk about how hot we are for each other. We pose nearly naked inside a giant barbeque pit. Jet’s newest single, “Hot Girl” hits number one in nine countries, bigger than “New York Groove.” The press says the video for “Hot Girl" is especially hot. Jet and I walk around in it with hardly anything on. Hugh Hefner hosts a party for us. I talk with a producer about a movie. My husband gets drunk and pees in the grotto. Later, I get drunk and pee in a champagne glass and Jet drinks it.
I get a call from Mom and fly to Grass Valley.
Mom holds my face and says, “What happened to you?”
I’ve been all over the world. I got married. You’d like him Mom.
“I’m sick.”
You haven’t even met him yet.  
“I’m sick,” she says again. “Like dying.”
Mommy? Quiet. We check her into a hospital.
As I smooth a blanket over her, the diamond on my hand catches the light. Her eyes flicker over me. “Why do they call you by someone else’s name?”
Hugh started it. He thought I looked like another famous model.
“Did her father leave her too?”
It worked. Now I can afford to give you the best doctors and a private room.
“You didn’t do any of it for me.”
Yes, I did, Mommy.
She turns my arms over and looks at my wrists.
I’m happy, Mommy.
Does this husband of yours know, does he care?
Let’s worry about you.
“You don’t love him.” She tries staring through me to see if she’s right.
He doesn’t want me to change for him, Mommy.
“Look me in the eye, Lisa. You haven’t changed?”
Cameras are safer than eyes. I look into them.
Ten days later, Mom lies still under a hospital sheet. I say, she wants a blanket. I say this over and over again. The medical examiner steers me away to sign a form. I collapse in tears outside the hospital. The paparazzi get it on film. A headline says, “Hot Living is Hard.” My mother died. They don’t get it?
There’s a message on my phone from Brody.
“Hey. I wasn’t sure if I should call but . . .  I’m sorry about your Mom.”
I listen to it six times. I hold the phone close to my ear. I hold my phone to my chest then sit without knowing how long I sit until Jet finds me and says, “What’re you doing, angel?”
Where do I start?  
Hugh Hefner announces I’m Playboy’s “Playmate of the Year.” I make the talk show rounds. I appear in a print ad for Candies. I appear in a commercial for Rimmel. I appear in a sitcom. Guess jeans contacts my agent. They’re interested in me as the next Guess girl. I top Maxim’s Hot 100. My husband begs, “Let’s disappear a while.” Impossible. A major movie star called. He wants to meet about a movie. I’m almost a star. 

Alana Noel Voth keeps a blog here:

September 07, 2012


The Water Runs Rose

Perfect skin, a harsh white light illuminates no discrepancies. Rich wondrous eyes scan the shelves. Various vegetables are enlightened.

Television shits sound from the other side of the large open room. Voices significantly too excited shout the praises of multiple strips of pork affixed atop a hamburger. Hot liquid cheese product holds everything in place.

Soft, delicate ears prick up, caught by claims, intrigued by lust.
Desire flows through elegant arms. Slight fingers tap at the steering wheel and high priced boots tap the floor.
An electronic vocalization makes confirmation.

Bright white teeth sink through bun, bacon, cheese and beef. Animal grease adds to the congenital glisten of full fleshy lips. A waifish body tingles as sugars and proteins begin to metabolize.

Drivers seat all the way back, long limbs outstretched, the toes past the pedals and fingers reaching just short of the back window. One hundred seventeen pounds begin to feel like another ninety.  
Loose sweat pants tied tight over tighter skin. An otherwise flat stomach has an almost imperceptible bump. The curse of cognizance of self begins to tie itself to faint thoughts.
Endless eyelashes begin to feel far too weighty. Unblemished breasts break the high water mark of the antique tub. The water runs rose. As the blade slips from failing fingers it glints in the light of a bare bulb.

Old memories come flooding in where the blood flees. Flash bulbs and fawning photographers. Late nights spent crying in the dark. Slumber never finding its way.

Sleep comes quick and heavy this time.

sga is a no good nobody. He resides in Montréal