by Baron Sord
Sailor Moon and Sailor Man (he should’ve shaved his hairy legs, or worn taller boots and a longer skirt).
A stand out fan-favorite was the sexy female Darth Vader. Picture bondage gear Vader in a mechanical corset that showed a gratuitous amount of boob. Every guy who saw her (and quite a few women) had to stop and stare. In lieu of a red light saber, Mistress Vader (or was it Darthess Vader?) had a red leather whip. My guess was, she would be more than happy to “Use the Force” on you.
Were she to offer to use it on me, I would be hard pressed to say no.
Last but not least, the non-gender swap version of Princess Leia in her metal bikini from Return of the Jedi. Every year, there were dozens of bikinied Leias in every size, shape, and age you could imagine, some who could pull off the costume and many who unabashedly didn’t care that they couldn’t. Extra respect to those women who weren’t afraid to unfurl their nerd flag for all the world to see.
There was no judgement here at the Con.
And yeah, my Star Wars Rock Concert T-shirt fit right in, Pinstripe.
Not bitter at all.
At 10:00am on the dot, the main doors opened. The bustling sea of people clogging the lobby surged inside the mammoth exhibit hall.
How mammoth?
Think acres.
Once past security, the front runners ran to get ahead of the onslaught of humanity pushing in behind them. In less than an hour, it would be too crowded to move here inside the main hall.
I poured on the speed as I worked my way through the maze of aisles and booths toward where Crash Comics had theirs.
Myself and others affectionately referred to Crash Comics as Trash Comics. They weren’t known for their originality, but they were known for their T&A. Jeff Strickland, the editor-in-chief, was well aware that sex sold.
When I got to the booth, it was already filling with male fans ogling the three booth babes. I immediately recognized Mistress Victory with her dark green cape, mask, and mint green tights. No surprise, her body was as tight as her costume. Also here was S&M, which stood for Sex & Men. She wore — you guessed it — skin-tight liquid-black vinyl that was barely family friendly.
Was anyone complaining?
I certainly wasn’t.
But I was here to talk to Jeff.
Although I had shown him my work in years past, he never remembered me. To him, I was probably nothing more than another forgettable penciller with a forgettable portfolio. Hopefully that would change today. My art had improved a lot in the last year.
Unfortunately, Jeff was nowhere to be seen, and I didn’t see any staff wearing Crash Comics shirts either. Maybe I should ask one of the booth babes if they had a signup sheet for artists?
Mistress Victory and S&M were both busy talking to fans and signing copies of their respective comics with silver Sharpies. The only other person left in the booth to ask was the third super-heroine.
She wasn’t signing anything at the moment.
From the side, I didn’t recognize her character. She was dressed in a tight costume of red, white, and blue. How tight? It looked painted on. A Stars-and-Stripes cape hung down her back, covering her assets. But her front was in plain view. I could see every one of her perfect curves.
I wondered what her character name was?
Captain Ameri-Woman?
I had no idea. She was probably the star of yet another Crash Comics knock-off.
I had to say, booth babes were always supremely hot, but the Captain was over the top. Call it her super power.
Without warning, she spun around to face me.
“Hi.” She wore bright red lipstick and a blue masquerade mask, the classic kind Robin wore in the Batman comics, but with upturned cat-eye corners on the outside edges. The Captain’s mask did little to hide her beauty. Between it and her dark hair, she had a mysterious and sultry Wonder Woman appeal that was undeniable.
Yeah, she was a walking work of art. The living version of an Olivia De Berardinis pinup painting.
Needless to say, I was speechless.
The Captain laughed nervously, “Um… can I help you?”
I tried to speak, but her hotness had melted my mind.
The Captain started to frown.
The longer I went without talking, the more likely she’d think I was a stalker. But I couldn’t think of a single word to say. The Captain was literally stunning.
To wit, my inability to speak.
I reminded myself she was just a person, not a goddess. I could talk to her.
The Captain’s eyes darted around nervously, “Um… did you want something? Or should I…?” Run away, which was what she seemed to be thinking?
I sighed, “No, I’m looking for—”
I was cut off by an 11 year old kid standing behind the Captain. He tugged her cape while holding a comic book for her to sign. “Hey,” he said in a squeaky pre-teen voice. “Can you sign this for me?” The comic in his hand was titled Lady Liberty. The picture of the super heroine on the cover looked exactly like Miss Red, White, & Blue herself.
“Where do you want me to sign it?” The Captain smiled at the kid.
“Anywhere is cool.”
Speaking of comic creators, who drew Lady Liberty anyway? I grabbed a copy off the nearest table.
Lady Liberty #1.
The premiere issue.
Cool cover with great art. I flipped to the first page and read the credits.
Created by: Lady Liberty.
Story, Art, Letters, and Cover by: Lady Liberty.
I paged through it. The art was stellar. Strange. How did I not know about Lady Liberty or her art? I knew every good artist in comics by name. I could pick out their styles from a mile away. From the old days when Jack Kirby was king, to now when Fiona Staples was queen.
“Sorry about that,” Lady Liberty said, turning back to me after finishing signing for the kid. “What was it you wanted again?”
I held up my art portfolio. “I wanted to show my pencil samples to Jeff. See if he has any work on any upcoming books. Like Lady Liberty or something else.”
“Oh,” Lady Liberty winced, “I do all the art for Lady Liberty. Sorry.”
“Really?”
Angry, she frowned, “What? You don’t think a woman can draw?”
Foot, say hello to mouth. I sighed, “Not at all. You’re way better than I’ll ever be.”
The look on her face said, “That’s obvious.” She sure had attitude, but at least she hadn’t said it, which was a plus.
I said, “What I mean is, you’re art is… incredible. Adam Hughes incredible.” Adam Hughes was a living legend. One of the best pinup artists ever. His pretty women were second to none, and the female fans loved his art as much as the men. “You draw sexy women as good as Hughes does.”
“Thanks,” she blushed.
“Do you use photo reference? Your anatomy and proportions are… they’re perfect.”
Now she was the one who looked nervous. She bit her cherry red lip with her perfect white teeth.
“What?” I pressed, sensing her opening.
She leaned toward me. “Don’t tell anybody, but I shoot photos of myself. It’s the only way I can get everything right.”
“Do you trace your photos?” I flipped through the comic. “They don’t look traced.” Traced art always looked stiff. I knew all about stiff, but her art was very fluid.
“I would never trace,” she said proudly. “But sometimes I get the shapes wrong if I don’t look at reference first. Especially when it comes to forced perspective and weird angles. You know, the hard stuff.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, knowing all about the hard stuff. I was fully impressed with how she was handling mine. I meant the drawings. The drawings!
More importantly, she was talking like a true artist, which set me at ease. As unlikely as it was, we actually had something in common, unlike with Pinstripe. That said, it was difficult to believe I was now having a real conversation with The Captain.
> But I was.
Feeling confident and a little bit giddy, I joked, “I shoot photo reference of myself too.” I didn’t. “It’s the only way I can get the anatomy heroic enough.” It was a lie. Under my clothes, I wasn’t heroic at all. I was average. A tallish Peter Parker at best, and that was on a good day.
I waited patiently for my joke to land.
Still waiting…
Waiting…
How far did it have to fall?
Lady Liberty slowly forced a polite smile. Clearly, she didn’t think it was funny. Perhaps we didn’t have as much in common as I had hoped.
Oh well.
I tried.
Back to business. I said, “Yeah, anyway, I just wanted to show my art to Jeff. Do you guys have a signup sheet for portfolio reviews?”
“Can I take a look?”
“At my art?”
“Yeah,” she smiled. “Maybe I can put in a good word with Jeff.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. On second thought, there was no way she would be impressed. I blurted, “You’re probably busy.”
“I’ve got a minute,” she smiled genuinely. “Don’t be nervous. Just show me your art. I’ll go easy on you.”
I gave her a smirk that said I didn’t believe her.
“I promise,” she smiled and her eyes lit up a crystal blue. Bluer than the sky on a clear summer day.
I almost fell into them.
After what could have been seconds or minutes, I realized I was staring at her. In my experience, women hated being stared at. I was about to look away when I realized she was not looking away. She was looking right at me. So I kept looking. The next thing I knew, my chest tingled with what I assumed was an adrenalin rush that went straight to my… secondary brain.
My male brain, if you will.
The lady’s eyes sparkled but she kept looking.
My secondary brain was telling me this was on. My primary brain wasn’t so sure, but one thing was for certain: Lady Liberty was the starer.
She proved it by continuing her stare. Undaunted, she folded her arms brazenly across her chest, which emphasized everything. Clearly a challenge for me to not look down.
I was up for it.
The challenge, I mean.
I did not look down. Kept my eyes pinned on hers.
Honestly, I was having trouble making sense of this situation. Nothing like this had ever happened to me. It appeared I was having a moment with the most beautiful woman in existence.
No. That was ridiculous. I was imagining things. Yes, she was the most beautiful. No, we were not having a moment.
Still staring, she smirked, “Were you gonna show me your art, or are we gonna stand here all day not saying anything?”
Chuckling, I kept my eyes on hers and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Oh, I’m ready.”
I swallowed hard. Was that innuendo? It sounded like innuendo. No, it couldn’t be innuendo. Not coming from her and aimed at me. If I were a movie star or model, yes. But I wasn’t.
Yeah, no. It wasn’t innuendo.
“Well?” she giggled. “Show me already.”
I held out my portfolio, “Here.”
She unzipped it.
Why did I feel like this woman was unzipping my pants? Because my secondary brain had taken over the controls? No, it hadn’t. Primary brain still had the helm for the most part. I was referring to my art. Showing your art to a pro when you weren’t one yourself was never easy. Would they be impressed, disappointed, or horrified? You never knew until you whipped it out.
“Try not to laugh,” I chuckled nervously.
She flipped through the pages, taking her time.
The longer she took, the more nervous I got.
When editors, publishers, or other artists were impressed by your art, they told you right away. Usually, they gushed. I had seen it happen to other better artists many times. When they weren’t impressed, they had to struggle to find something nice to say.
I sighed, “You can give it to me straight. I don’t mind honest feedback. I’m used to it.”
“There’s some good work in here,” she said absently.
In other words, good for a beginner but not good enough for a pro.
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound sour. Being told no never got any easier. You just got better at pretending it didn’t bother you. One thing was for sure: whatever moment we had been having earlier had been trampled under my less-than-professional portfolio.
She scrutinized my face, reading me like a comic book. “You’re too hard on yourself. I’m serious. I really like your style. It’s unique and it’s honest.”
“Honest?” Honestly, at that moment, I was more disappointed our moment was over than I was about the shortcomings of my art.
“Really. Your art is different. I really like it. You’re not trying to be another Jim Lee clone or whatever. It’s original.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, unsure if “original” was a compliment, or code for “bad.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “You’re very original. The only way to stand out is to do your own thing. Look at Kate Beaton. Her comic strip has heart and it’s hilarious. People don’t want more of the same. They want something fresh. Like your art. It’s fresh. In a good way.” It was now clear her encouragement was genuine.
“Really?” I was shocked. If she was telling the truth, this was the biggest compliment any comic professional had given my art.
“Yes, really.” She was looking right at me.
To say her eyes were mesmerizing was an understatement.
Had our moment returned?
Not wanting to waste a golden opportunity, I stared back.
She giggled nervously but kept staring.
I had to say something. “Has anybody ever told you your eyes are—”
She suddenly winced, probably because she sensed I was about to hit on her while she was trying to have a serious conversation. She probably hated that.
Obviously, I had misread the moment.
Unfortunately, I realized that fact too late to stop myself from finishing my thought.
I muttered, “—100% cyan?”
It was an observation a colorist would make. Comic books, like most things printed in color, were printed using four colors of ink. Cyan, Magenta, Yellow, and Black. When combined, they could make almost every color in the rainbow.
As she digested my cyan comment, her wince melted into a smile and she said, “Actually, no one has ever told me that specifically.”
I grinned, “Well, they are. 100% cyan.”
“100%?” She challenged. “That saturated?”
“Okay, maybe 95%. Or 90%,” I chuckled nervously but I was telling the truth.
She nodded thoughtfully, still smiling, “You know, you are actually the first guy who ever told me that.”
I was surprised. “No, really?”
“Yes really.” Now she was grinning. “I like your shirt, by the way.”
“Are you serious?” I glanced down to make sure I was still wearing my Star Wars Rock Concert shirt. Yup, still Star Wars.
Lady Liberty nodded, “It’s awesome. I love how Princess Leia is supposed to be Bruce Dickinson. Only she could pull that off, right?” Bruce Dickinson was the bombastic lead singer of Iron Maiden. The fact that Lady Liberty knew that made my eyes goggle.
I said, “Wait, do you like Iron Maiden?”
She smiled, “I love Maiden. But what’s up with Darth Vader hanging from wires?” She pointed at my shirt and frowned, “That’s a Gene Simmons move. Somebody screwed up this mashup.”
“What?”
She frowned, “Gene Simmons? You know, from the band KISS?”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just… Do you actually like KISS?”
“I know, they’re old, but they’re classic,” she smiled. “I mean, who doesn’t like KISS? Or rocking and rolling all night? And while you’re at it, you might just want to party every day.”
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Had she just made a joke by quoting a KISS song?
I think she had.
Ka-BOOM!
Mind blown.
All I could do was stare at her.
A sexy woman comic book artist who liked Iron Maiden and KISS? Had I just landed in DC Comics’ Bizarro World? Because this had to be reverse reality in an alternate universe.
Once again, I looked into her cyan eyes.
She looked into mine.
Our moment appeared to be back.
If this was really happening, it was the most—
Somebody tugged on her arm from behind and said, “You’re the real Lady Liberty, right?” It was a high school girl dressed exactly like Lady Liberty.
The real Lady Liberty turned to the teenage cosplayer and beamed, “Look at you, girl! Did you make that costume yourself?”
“Uh huh,” the teenager nodded proudly.
Lady Liberty smiled back at me, eyes glimmering with pride, “Can you believe how good her costume is?”
“It’s terrific,” I sighed, trying to hide my frustration that my moment with Lady Liberty had been stolen.
The teenage girl held up her phone, “Can I get a selfie with you? Please?”
“Of course.” Lady Liberty smiled at me in a way that made it clear I was supposed to give her some space so she could get back to work meeting and greeting her fans. A few others had gathered behind the teenage girl.
I backed up a step, ready to leave.
Lady Liberty said to me, “When I see Jeff, I’ll tell him you came by and he should look at your art. What was your name again?”
“Doug. Doug Moore.”
“Okay, Doug Moore,” she smiled. “Nice to meet you. Jeff said he’d be here around 1:30pm. You should come by then.”
“I will,” I smiled. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Lady Liberty.”
I frowned, “Uh, I meant your real name.”
Her eyes went glassy and her face sagged like I had said something offensive. Or maybe asked her something I shouldn’t have? Did she not want people knowing her real name? Apparently not. Her grimace made it painfully obvious she didn’t want me asking.
Feeling slightly toolish (which was short for a foolish tool), I muttered, “I should go.”
Before the nameless real Lady Liberty could reply, the teenage girl version of her jammed two copies of issue #1 of her comic in her face. “Will you sign this? It’s for my brother. And this one too? It’s for me.”
