Читать книгу Almost 5'4" - Isobella Jade - Страница 23

The penthouse had to be over twenty stories high, but it was a beautiful view. I’d never seen a view like it before that day. The city was such a paradise from that angle, and I felt like a princess peering over my kingdom as the photographer snapped away. I willingly leaned forward to show some of my cleavage to him through my very low tank top.

I was trying to stay as still as possible, like a tightrope walker. If I tipped a little to the left I would be a goner.

He said, ‘You’re the only model who hasn’t been afraid of sitting on such a narrow ledge in such a short skirt. Or looking down.’ Taking it as a challenge, I decided I wanted to be the first and did just that. I felt proud that I might be remembered for this risky pose.

His apartment was big and bright, with loads of sunlight. He wasn’t talented, but with the right lighting and angle, he could get a good enough shot. He was in his thirties and had a full-time career in real estate. I wondered if he was looking for a girlfriend or a playmate because most of what he shot was sexy. Naturally, he had contacted me through Onemodelplace.com.

I immediately wanted to shoot with him. The girls shown on his mini-site were beautiful: flawless skin, no scars, perfect hair and teeth, big supple breasts. All were ahead of me in that sense.

Later, I learned that he wasn’t skilled enough to shoot me. Nor was he capable of really capturing a person’s essence. He just wanted me in a sexy garment, which was fine by me. He knew nothing about lighting. He didn’t even own any lighting equipment. And he only knew a small amount about cameras. Although he owned a digital and called himself an artist, really he just pressed a button as I ran around and twirled.

I needed practice on how to be natural, to give a real smile, and to show myself off in different ways. At these shoots I got to be an actress, to show emotion and to maybe even get one or two good shots out of the deal. I was like a porn star without the sex.

Later, I changed into a black thong and a denim zippered top. Next, I jumped and teased in a pink dress, posing with the city as my backdrop. I felt so proud, so admired at that moment. He was on the other side of the roof, pointing. Then suddenly he said something and flapped his arms around like a bird. I couldn’t hear him because the wind was whipping round my head, but I started twirling and let my dress spin in case that’s what he meant. He snapped away.

At that moment nothing mattered but the camera and me. I was no longer just a girl from upstate New York. I was the model I had always wanted to be.

He followed me around the apartment. Being nude wasn’t a striptease. It was just what I wanted to do, and the camera followed. The third time we worked together, I sat on the stained, wooden kitchen table. Although it was cold, the sunset’s golden rays were hitting my face, tinting my hair red. Sitting there nude felt right. He hadn’t pressured me to do it. I had done it before. Once I was nude it was as if my body exhaled.

This time, I went to the bathroom and greased myself up with baby oil. It chilled my stomach and glistened as I walked to the kitchen, tiptoeing and petting his cat along the way. I opened the fridge to pull out some condiments and leftovers. Then I emptied the foam icebox. I placed myself in it, sitting there with food all around me. I started speaking like I was in a cooking show.

‘Then you add some mustard,’ I said, struggling to open a few cans and bottles. It made for a sexy shot of me struggling with the caps. I was on a cooking high, pouring sauces on myself and laughing out loud. During the two-hour shoot, I was sitting, smiling and licking my lips, my breasts looking freshly blossomed and petite, and my stomach tight, with mustard, salsa, hot sauce, and butter smeared all over it.

Afterwards, we viewed the photos on his computer, then ate some chips and drank some wine. Yet I always made an excuse to leave early. I hated being at a photographer’s apartment late at night. Going to the apartment alone in the first place was ballsy enough; I didn’t want to hang around.

It was experimental to shoot with him. Only two or three shots would come out that were worth anything. But still I went. Maybe he felt just as powerful taking pictures as I did being nude. In the meantime, I was learning more about my look. I knew what type of photos I was suited to, and didn’t just want to shoot for the hell of it anymore. The rush wasn’t enough. I needed a purpose to shoot.

That was the last time we shot together. He got me for free but I was getting wiser. Things were about to change.

I would soon have a rate. At the time, the thought of being a model was a bigger deal than the money. With hindsight I should have started shooting nude for the cash and used the money for quality photos by a professional. Then I could take those photos to an agency. But at the time, that wasn’t on my mind.

One day, on the way back to Brooklyn Heights on the 2 train, a group of tourists asked me, ‘Do you know how to get to the Empire State Building?’

I must have looked like a true New Yorker. ‘Yeah, just take this train to 34th Street. It’s only three stops away, then walk east three avenues.’ I felt like a champion, and forwardly asked a group of teenage boys who were looking dumbfounded at the subway map, ‘Do you need help?’

They said no.

If only they knew – they were talking to a model.