Catwalk Fail

by Jason Godfrey

I sit down and with all the sophistication I can muster, fold lettuce, onion and tomato between a turkey cold cut and tweeze it into my mouth. I wish I wasn’t so hungry.

  “Beatrice is good. Why do you want to switch?” Apple squints beneath her lenses.

  “I don’t think they’re promoting me right.” It’s not a lie. Being unrepresented is bad promotion.

  “One Models can rep you to an agency if you agree to make us your mother agent,” Apple says.

  I knew she’d pull out the mother agency shit. A mother agent is supposed to guide a model’s development by sending them to the right markets to build their portfolio, but in reality, mothers ship you overseas and take ten percent of everything you make so they can sit at home binge-watching Netflix while you shoot sportswear campaigns in China. Getting rid of your mother agent is like getting rid of cancer.

  “I don’t need a mother agency,” I say. “That’s why I showed you my reel. That video is on my YouTube channel. I just need to email the top agencies, and send them this link.”

  The video will speak for itself.

  “Or you could let us make the connection for you.” Apple is really trying for that ten percent. “Agents in Milan don’t usually answer unsolicited emails.”

  “Apple,” I say, pausing long enough that she raises an eyebrow. “I’ve operated without a mother for years now. It’d be a step backwards for me. I just want to know who the top agencies are in Milano right now. Can you just tell me that?”

  “There’s Fashion, Why Not, 2morrow, and Nologo. They’re all good, but you won’t make it past the spam filter,” she says. “I’ve placed a couple of models with Giovanna at IMD. I can touch base with her and—”

  “I can get the bookers emails from my friends.” I’m reviewing in my head who I know with those agencies. “Once they see the video—”

  “The video isn’t what you need,” Apple says.

  She should fire her shitty optometrist because he obviously fucked up her prescription. The video is awesome, it makes me want to hire me—and I don’t even need a model. “You need an established agency with connections in Milan to get represented there.”

  My phone vibrates. It’s a message from Damian.

  Remember that rich cunt from the Vogue shoot? She wants to book us for a private event tonight. 1000 USD net for two hours.

  If you don’t tell my agency, I won’t tell yours.

  Apple waits and I give her a smile as I type my response to Damian:

  Fuck my agency, I’m in.

  “I think I can handle this on my own. And it’s Milano, Apple,” I say. “Milano.”

  The bitch from the Vogue shoot lives in a three-floor penthouse halfway up the Peak that has a postcard view of the skyscrapers in Central. She’s richer than I thought. Damian and I are in a guest bedroom changing into suits from Armani’s new collection. At least she was joking about putting us in G-strings.

  “This has high potential for getting weird, bru,” Damian says, adjusting his collar in the mirror. I nod, but don’t know what he means. This rich bitch just wants to impress her rich bitch friends by having a couple models serve them drinks while they discuss Botox and the best ways to spend their husband’s money. I care less about them and more about what happened with Damian and Taylor after Sheldon’s party.

  “That party at The W was pretty good, huh,” I say, knowing Damian wouldn’t even know who threw the party or why. Models don’t need to know who’s giving them alcohol. They only need to know it’s free. “Where’d you guys go later, you and Taylor?”

  “We didn’t do anything special,” Damian shrugs.

  “You didn’t go to Asylum?” And I try extra hard to sound casual when I add. “Or back to your place, or—?”

  “Bru, Taylor and I aren’t remotely together,” Damian says. “You keep asking about her, maybe you got a thing for her?”

  “Nah,” I say, feeling a great relief now that I know they didn’t go home together. I check myself in the mirror, and pull the wrinkles out of my jacket. I look great. “These are awesome suits.”

  “Yeah, I wore this suit for an editorial shoot last week,” Damian says. “Each one is worth, like, five grand US.”

  I’d love to own a suit like this. Walking into Asylum, or even better—Beatrice in Milano, wearing head to toe Armani would be incredible. Damian slaps me on the shoulder and says, “Let’s get this done, bru.”

  We leave the guest room and head down the steps towards the living room. The main floor is now full of an assortment of wealthy women with too much jewelry, too much make up, and too much surgery, who all turn to gawk at us as we enter. Wrapped in the Armani suit, I suddenly feel like a bacon wrapped gazelle parading around a lion-filled savannah.

  “Good evening, ladies,” Damian says, grinning that cheesy-fuckinggrin and the old bitches eat it up.

  “Girls, this is Damian and Colin,” the Vogue bitch says. “Boys, have a seat and get comfortable. Feel free to have some fun tonight.”

  “Does anyone want a drink?” I say, hoping to get to the kitchen and away from this poofy haired mob, as Damian sits with his arms up on the couch between two overjoyed ladies that are hanging off his every word like he’s got the key to solving climate change lodged somewhere in that pretty head.

  “That’s what maids are for,” Vogue bitch says. A middle-aged Filipino woman walks out of the kitchen with a tray of drinks and sets it on the coffee table. “Come sit with me, Colin.”

  So much for serving drinks for two hours.

  “The suit fits you perfectly.” Vogue bitch brushes off my shoulders and runs her hand down the front of my jacket, flattening the fabric against my chest. This powdery-faced, collagen-injected woman touching me in a familiar way makes me twitch with revulsion. I fake a grin.

  “Sit with me.” She takes me by the hand and leads me to a love seat. I look to Damian for back up but he’s engrossed in what seems to be a hilarious conversation with a pair of mummified socialites.

  I’m on my own.

  It’s been two hours of faking laughs while stealing glances at the clock. I’ve been nursing my glass of wine while Damian has knocked back bottles of the stuff. He’s chatting, surrounded by women who laugh and find excuses to touch him. I must not be doing a stellar job because Vogue Bitch is resting her face on her hand, staring at Damian like she’s wishing she were talking to him instead. Whatever, it’s time to get my money and get the fuck out of this nursing home.

  “Ma’am?” The Filipino maid stands at the door with her jacket on. “Yes, that’s all for tonight,” Vogue Bitch says. The maid leaves. I envy her. “One minute, Colin.”

  Vogue Bitch gets up and leaves the room with a bit too much sway in her hips. I shudder that I even noticed. Damian plops onto the couch next to me. I can smell the white wine coming out of his pores. I’m smiling when I say, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Is it time already? Shit, I didn’t even notice.”

  “I did,” I say. “Let’s tell them we’re done and collect our cash.”

  “Relax, bru,” Damian smiles, waving at one of the women. “They’re nice, we don’t have to rush out of here. Don’t want to be rude.”

  Fuck being polite to these bitches. They’re the female equivalent of every male asshole who thinks having a job in finance entitles them to a blowjob from any girl they choose.

  “Let’s have some real fun.” Vogue Bitch enters with a metal tray covered in a mountain of white powder. I’m hoping it’s flour and we’re about to make some muffins or a nice layer cake. When she sets it on the table and starts to cut it into lines, my hope we’re having some kind of old lady bake-off dies. Vogue Bitch is the first to rail a line before the next woman takes a snort. The only thing scarier than a room of wealthy cougars—is a room of wealthy cougars on coke.

  I’m watching these women snort cocaine, wondering if their grandchildren have any clue how fucked up grandma really is. Damian does a line and wipes his nose. Vogue Bitch did her homew
ork—free drugs are bait for most models. Luckily, I’m not most models.

  Vogue Bitch sits next to me.

  “I think I’m going to get changed and go. It’s been over two hours,” I say, and begin to move but she places her hand on my knee.

  “You know, Colin. You could keep that Armani suit if you wanted,” she says. “I bought it for you, got it tailored to your size, no one else is going to look as good in it as you.”

  I check my reflection in the panoramic windows. The charcoal-black pants fall just above my shoes. The jacket is fitted through my mid-section, making my torso look triangular. Not in a beefy, testicles-shrunken-from-steroids way, but in a refined, arriving at an art gallery, Armani way. I’d never be able to afford a suit this high end.

  “It is an amazing suit,” I say. “So, you want it?”

  I nod, aware I probably look like a kid nodding in the checkout line of the grocery store when his mother asks if he wants a Twix.

  “Then one little thing and it’s yours,” she says with a big smile and takes my hand. “Come with me.”

  Black is the unifying element of everything in Vogue Bitch’s bedroom. The furniture is black teak, the mirror on the wall is rimmed in black, and even the walls are painted a claustrophobic midnight black. The only thing that isn’t black is the gold Gucci lettering on the black bedspread. I didn’t even know Gucci made bedspreads. This is exactly how the devil would decorate his bedroom if he lived in a fucking penthouse in Hong Kong.

  “Shut the door,” Vogue Bitch says, disappearing around a corner. I press the door softly shut but don’t move deeper into the room. “Relax, Colin. If you can relax, that suit is all yours. Are you relaxed?”

  Staring down out of the ceiling to floor windows at hundreds of skyscrapers gleaming in the dark like electrified trees in a vast concrete jungle, I’m wondering why I’m here. Maybe she thinks we connected in some meaningful way when I fake laughed for two hours on the couch, and now she wants to show me whatever it is rich bored old ladies collect—a closet full of yapping Chihuahuas stuffed into Chanel bags or a drawer full of alimony cheques.

  “I asked you a question, Colin. Are you relaxed?”

  “Yeah, I’m relaxed.”

  “You don’t sound relaxed,” Vogue Bitch says, reappearing and why I’m here becomes clear.

  She leans against the wall, wearing black matching bra and panties with a lace garter belt. I always thought getting danger-close to a senior citizen in lingerie would make me scream, yet I can’t help marvel that being rich does have its advantages. Vogue Bitch has the body of a thirty-yearold, and I had her pegged at one-hundred-and-fourteen judging from the taxidermied look of her face.

  “How do you feel now?” she goes for purring, but pulls off constipation. My penis is seeking shelter in my stomach.

  “You’re going to be a big hit in that suit,” she prowls toward me like a dumpy lioness. I sort of feel like hurling myself out of the window, but the mention of the Armani makes me stay. Rocking this suit for my first day of castings back in Milano would make the right statement. Then the idea of adding a pocket square pops into my head, and I want to clap like a giddy schoolgirl.

  Fuck it. How bad can this get?

  “You want something?” She smirks and invades my jacket, rubbing a fossilized hand over my chest. Hesitating is only going to drag this out. I might as well put my head down and get it done.

  Clamping my eyes shut, I lean into kiss Vogue Bitch, hoping she won’t feel as powdery as she looks. She mashes an index finger into my lips, stopping me.

  “Mmmmm…” she moans, and I open my eyes. “In a rush, are we? You want this really bad.”

  Her eyes are narrowed at me as she gently bites at her bottom lip. “Okay,” I sigh. “I want it.”

  “But you have to earn it,” she says. “You don’t deserve to kiss me yet.”

  I nod and inside I’m cursing because I was wrong. This is going to get bad.

  She grabs me by the hair and yanks my head to breast level.

  “You want these, don’t you, you wicked, naughty, boy,” she says through gritted teeth. The massive cleavage of her bra-squashed c-cups is less than an inch from my nose. “Yes, you want these, but you can’t have them.”

  “Okay,” I say. It’s hard to come up with creative sex talk when you’re not into the sex.

  “Maybe you deserve a little taste of what you want,” She says, and slams my head forward into her breasts. “Oh yes, there you go.”

  She’s alternately jamming her nipples into my cheeks and I wish I’d seen this coming because I would’ve prepared by taking a deep breath. I open my mouth, trying to inhale air, but all I get is silicone, and my saliva drips down the side of her breast.

  “Calm down, you animal,” She says, yanking me by the hair back to standing. I suck air into my lungs, feeling lightheaded. “You like it kinky, don’t you? Ever tried a sloppy aardvark?”

  “Is that a sandwich?” I say, and the way Vogue Bitch smiles, I know it’s not a sandwich. She plants a hand on my groin, her palm mashing up and down against my zipper and I flinch as pain surges through me. She doesn’t get the hint, and I jut my hips away from her like it’s a grade school slow dance.

  “Playing hard to get?” She grits her teeth and grabs for my crotch again, her manicured nails grazing my zipper as I dodge her. “Oh, I knew you would be a spirited lover!” She continues grabbing for my groin alternating hands, and I keep slapping them away until we hit a steady rhythm that I’m surprised is achievable without dedicated rehearsal.

  Finally, she realizes I’m not playing hard to get, puts a hand on her hip and says, “What’s going on?”

  My penis is fractured and a cocaine fueled senior is going for it like a rabid street dog. But I can’t tell her about my injury. Vogue Bitch is a socialite. Gossiping about someone’s mangled crotch is practically her job. If I tell her, I’m telling the entire HK fashion industry.

  “I have a… uh… condition,” I say, nodding toward my groin.

  “It’s not herpes, is it?” She says, holding her hands up like she’s wishing for antiseptic wash. “Christ, I nearly touched it.”

  “It’s not herpes,” I say, realizing that letting her keep this assumption is worse. Now I have to tell her the truth. “I broke my penis.”

  Vogue Bitch is silent and she angles her head like she’s seeing me for the first time. Maybe she’ll be sympathetic to my pain. Maybe she’ll understand that penile fractures are a tragic reality. Maybe she’ll reveal her motherly caring side and let me keep the Armani without forcing me to perform humiliating sex acts.

  She bursts out laughing.

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says, as her laugh becomes a snicker. “Do you have it in a little cast?”

  At least I’m not the only one who thought that was a solution. “Honestly, if you have herpes, I’m glad you stopped us, but you don’t have to make up lies,” she says, pulling the black cover off her bed and shrouding herself in it like she’s got a black cauldron to stir somewhere.

  I’m not ready to let that Armani suit go. Maybe I can turn this to my advantage. If my debilitated penis excuses me from sex, and I can still land the suit, then it’s not all bad.

  “Maybe we can still hold each other,” I say. “Spooning is fun.”

  “Now, that’s funny,” Vogue Bitch cackles, cloaked in black like fucking death herself. “Colin, I trust you can leave my Armani suit in the other room.”

  Turning to open the door, I glance back as she says, “And please, get your herpes checked out.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Colin Bryce Hamilton

  I’m starting my personal countdown to Hong Kong fashion week!

  31 people like this.

  Britney Lind

  Guess who’s coming to HK for fashion week? See you soon, handsome!

  2 people like this.

  OUT OF THE ten guys standing in a row with me, only two are obviously taller, and th
is makes me stand as straight as I can. We’re at a casting for one of the top show houses for fashion week. It’s only two months away but they start the castings early to make sure they get the best looks to fit their collections. The shows are always a mix of models in town, flown in, and fresh faces that the designer decides they must have. My goal is to book at least eight shows and open most, if not all, of them. Hong Kong isn’t like Milano or Paris, where booking top shows can get you massive exposure and score you high fashion campaigns. But you never know who’s going to be in town for any major fashion week.

  The show choreographer paces, looking us up and down. He wears a wide-brimmed hat, oversized shades, and a rope of pearls. It looks like he raided Audrey Hepburn’s wardrobe from Breakfast at Tiffany’s but nobody told him he was a short, fat man with male pattern baldness.

  “I hate these all-guy castings,” Marek whispers. “It’s the opposite of an all-girl orgy. Would it kill them to cast a few chicks?”

  Marek sounds bitter. He must be in a dry spell, which for a model like him can’t be more than a three-night stretch. This reminds me that the only recent action I’ve had was unsuccessfully prostituting myself for a suit. I wonder if Damian got a suit. He wasn’t downstairs when I left the other night. I don’t know what happened with him, but I have my suspicions.

  Dumpy Hepburn sashays across the room, stops with one hand on his hip, and says, “First model. Walk to me, pose, then turn. Do the walk twice.” The first guy steps out of line like he’s been chosen for a suicide mission. He starts his walk, his arms dangling like sausages in a butcher’s window, wearing an expression like he’s been surprised by a flash. This guy won’t book anything for fashion week, and should probably go back to wherever he’s from and start that career in food service early. “You ever been offered money for sex?” I whisper to Marek.

  “I know a few girls who’ve loaned themselves out to make ends meet,” he says, as guy number two starts his walk. Guy two is confident, but his walk is New York fall/winter from a couple seasons ago. Update yourself, please.