Don't Ever Do Anything
There was a girl at the massage parlor I used to work at who believed you could get cancer from halogen lamps. She would slather sunblock all over her body all day, until her skin was shiny and her hair was oily. The obese, gay bodyguard used to freak out on her, yelling "Nobody's going to want you if you look like a greaseball!" To which she would just bare her silver braced teeth, and keep smearing the cream on her face.
It was this girl who told me about the man who took nude pictures for money. I was desperate for money at the time. I took the number from her, and called him. His name was Bill, and he lived in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, on a steeply curved street with a movie theater in the bend of the curve. He looked like a redheaded Woody Allen, but felt like R Crumb.
I had only the train fare to get over to his apartment. He made me sign a release for the pictures, which he videotaped me signing. I was nodding out during the videotaping. Then he had me get myself made up, since I arrived without any make up, and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. I had brought several sets of lingerie, as we had discussed.
He began taking pictures of me in the lingerie. I was sitting in a wooden chair, facing a window. I was too skinny, and my hair was too long and unkempt. I was not smiling. He positioned me in different ways, and I flexed like plastic about to break. It was very quiet in the apartment. The room was dark and dingy, in dusty greens, browns and mustard yellows.
After some rolls of me in the lingerie were taken, it was time for the nudes. I feigned experience, and acted comfortable. They were vulgar and tasteless. I was tied to the chair with my back arched, and my legs spread, my feet in heels that were two sizes too big; I was laying on the dusty bed with flowers between my legs. There were others I don't care to mention.
When the shots were done, I asked Bill for the money. It was then that I learned that you get paid after the pictures sell. The pictures sell? I don't know if I was thinking that they were for his private collection, or what, but it hadn't really dawned on me that the pictures would sell. I started to think about my pictures being in shoeboxes of photos, and magazines around the country. About my future. Then I pictured myself dead in a few years anyway, and I was comforted.
My grandfather had said to me "Don't ever do anything that will bring shame to the family." It was too late. I'd signed the release. I needed the money. I was dopesick. I asked Bill for an advance on the money, but he only had $2.00 on him. I took it for the train ride home, in a sullen mood, realizing I would have to go to work sick.
About three weeks later I received a letter from Bill stating that the pictures had sold, and I could come and collect $500. It had his phone number on it. I took the letter with me, as I abandoned my apartment and went to stay with my mother before ultimately going to rehab. I carried the letter to rehab. I brought it with me as I ran away from the clinic, and lost it on the way.
I never did get paid for that day. Unless you count the $2.00.
It was this girl who told me about the man who took nude pictures for money. I was desperate for money at the time. I took the number from her, and called him. His name was Bill, and he lived in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, on a steeply curved street with a movie theater in the bend of the curve. He looked like a redheaded Woody Allen, but felt like R Crumb.
I had only the train fare to get over to his apartment. He made me sign a release for the pictures, which he videotaped me signing. I was nodding out during the videotaping. Then he had me get myself made up, since I arrived without any make up, and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. I had brought several sets of lingerie, as we had discussed.
He began taking pictures of me in the lingerie. I was sitting in a wooden chair, facing a window. I was too skinny, and my hair was too long and unkempt. I was not smiling. He positioned me in different ways, and I flexed like plastic about to break. It was very quiet in the apartment. The room was dark and dingy, in dusty greens, browns and mustard yellows.
After some rolls of me in the lingerie were taken, it was time for the nudes. I feigned experience, and acted comfortable. They were vulgar and tasteless. I was tied to the chair with my back arched, and my legs spread, my feet in heels that were two sizes too big; I was laying on the dusty bed with flowers between my legs. There were others I don't care to mention.
When the shots were done, I asked Bill for the money. It was then that I learned that you get paid after the pictures sell. The pictures sell? I don't know if I was thinking that they were for his private collection, or what, but it hadn't really dawned on me that the pictures would sell. I started to think about my pictures being in shoeboxes of photos, and magazines around the country. About my future. Then I pictured myself dead in a few years anyway, and I was comforted.
My grandfather had said to me "Don't ever do anything that will bring shame to the family." It was too late. I'd signed the release. I needed the money. I was dopesick. I asked Bill for an advance on the money, but he only had $2.00 on him. I took it for the train ride home, in a sullen mood, realizing I would have to go to work sick.
About three weeks later I received a letter from Bill stating that the pictures had sold, and I could come and collect $500. It had his phone number on it. I took the letter with me, as I abandoned my apartment and went to stay with my mother before ultimately going to rehab. I carried the letter to rehab. I brought it with me as I ran away from the clinic, and lost it on the way.
I never did get paid for that day. Unless you count the $2.00.
posted by HalfWit at 5:23 AM
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