Almost 5'4". Isobella Jade

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       $$$

      It took a couple weeks to set up my next shoot because the photographer said he was so busy. He also said in an email, ‘I’ll pay three hundred dollars for three hours of nude modeling work, plus a CD of the images.’

      For a beginner, it was decent money. The thought of being paid was a compliment, like I was worth paying for. Suddenly, I was my own business and I eagerly said yes.

      Three hundred dollars for three hours sounded right, I figured. For one, I didn’t have any credits that would put me in the ‘experienced’ category. Besides that I had shot with a bunch of amateur photographers who could hardly hold the camera properly, and who gave me items out of their fridge to model. I packed a few cute panties and tops. I was going to be nude most of the time anyway, so the outfits didn’t really matter. I was just thinking about the money.

      I heard a knock at my door and Maryam entered. ‘I’m going to get some ice cream by the promenade. You want to come?’

      ‘I have a shoot.’

      She wanted to know the details. For some reason I felt slutty admitting that a photographer was paying to shoot me nude so I just told her I had a job for a new lingerie company. I left quickly to cover my embarrassment.

      The photographer was in Queens. I had only been there once before, an ex-boyfriend of mine lived there. We hadn’t talked in months, but it crossed my mind that at least he was someone who could help me if anything went wrong.

      I slid my subway card through the gate and sat for almost an hour on the F train. The weekend trains were always packed. When I got off, a blue 1989 Volkswagen was waiting for me. The photographer was older than I expected, and no way would I have ever talked to this man if it weren’t for modeling. He had gray hair, light fair skin and a beard. He looked only a little older than my father. I laughed to myself and almost felt bad for the guy. He was married with kids and shooting women half naked in his freezing basement. From the look of his clothes, he didn’t make a good living and I wasn’t sure if I would get lunch, the photos, or if I’d even get paid. The fact he had white stains all over his black shirt freaked me out.

      His basement was his studio. It took him about fifteen minutes to set up, which allowed me a little time to think of an escape plan or some way to make this shoot comfortable. I wore a new white lace and satin lingerie baby doll from Victoria’s Secret that I hadn’t even worn for Danny yet. I also had black boy shorts, which itched a little but looked really sexy. As I organized my make-up and clothing, I looked in the mirror and rolled my eyes at myself. I had way too much blush on and I grabbed some toilet paper to rub some off. It scratched my cheek a little and made it redder. You don’t even know this guy! He can’t really help you; is the money even worth it?

      I mumbled to myself, ‘You’re crazy, crazy, so fucking crazy,’ as I applied some eyeliner. I could hear music: ‘…Gimme the beat boys and free my soul.’ I didn’t know who sang it, ‘…and rock and roll and drift away.’ It was some oldie. It reminded me of my father singing along to Willie Nelson. I made a mental note to call him later. For now, I needed to hurry up and get my eyeliner on. I applied it gingerly across my lower lid and hummed to the oldie, like I knew it by heart.

      I looked at myself all red – painted like some freak show, like a hooker. I thought about leaving the dirty bathroom and going home, but it was too late now. I could already hear him rattling the lights and tearing open the film. Adding a little more lipstick and mascara, flipping my hair, I whispered to myself, ‘You look like a twelve-year-old.’ I turned my phone off, took a deep breath and walked down the basement stairs.

      On set, I took off the lingerie slowly as the photographer suggested. He kept saying, ‘Okay…okay, yeah, that’s pretty, that’s pretty.’ I felt awkward as I stood with my breasts hanging out and some thin fabric across my legs so my vagina wouldn’t show. Maybe it was the photographer’s age, the smell of the basement, or the lack of confidence I felt in this man that made me so nervous. It was like posing for your senior portrait nude. The lighting was the same, but this wasn’t a picture I wanted my classmates or family to see.

      There wasn’t much space to work. It was just me, the pull-down white canvas background, some machinery and car tools, and the camera. Shooting nude during my past photo shoots felt more natural because I was in control. I picked the pose, I had the ideas, and I was free to run, jump, yell, or laugh. It was ecstasy. This was different. I had to do what the photographer wanted. He was a paying customer; I was the muse trying to inspire the perfect image. For three hundred bucks.

      After the basement we packed up the Volkswagen and went to the park. Quiet and secluded, it looked like a place where a girl could be found dead. The day felt like it would never end. Before we got out of the car, he handed me three one-hundred bills and said, ‘So, you don’t have to worry that I won’t pay you.’ I smiled lightly, barely curling my lips. I was confused whether his statement was meant to make me feel guilty that he had to pay me, or just his odd sense of humor.

      I stashed the cash in my purse and started to change my clothing. I had brought along a suit jacket and some dress pants in the hope for some classy shots but the photographer wasn’t paying me to be classy. After just a couple of poses with clothes on I was naked again, this time straddling a tree trunk which had fallen across a stream. The air was cold and crisp, the tree rough and scraping my legs, my insides.

      Once it was all over, I jumped on the F train and СКАЧАТЬ