“But what about you?”
“Me? No fucking way, dude,” he grins. “You gotta have standards. I would never have sex for money.”
Guy three has a slouchy slacker walk that could either work against him, but more likely score him points for appearing like he doesn’t give two shits about anything.
“Again, but this time in your underwear,” Dumpy Hepburn says. Doing the I’d-rather-be-shoving-a-Pringles-can-up-my-ass-than-be-atyour-casting walk is a cliché, but a constant fashionista pleaser. The guy disrobes to his striped skivvies before doing his slacker walk again. Dumpy Hepburn makes certain his assistant is taking lots of photos.
“I mean, this one time in Paris I was staying with this lady who worked at the Belgian embassy. She must have been in her late thirties,” Marek whispers. “I fucked her a few times, mostly whenever she harped on me for rent money or for twenty Euros for utilities. That usually shut her up.” I nod, though I don’t see the difference between sex for lodging and sex for money. Guy four does a walk straight out of the walk off scene in Zoolander, and I search his face to see if he’s being ironic, and conclude he’s not. Poor bastard.
“It’s sort of the same thing, isn’t it?”
“But dude, that wasn’t for money,” Marek continues. “Fair enough, I wouldn’t have fucked her otherwise. But that was to keep a roof over my head, you know? It wasn’t for cash. I gotta live somewhere, right?”
“I guess,” I say, and stare at the floor.
Guy five struts toward Dumpy Hepburn wearing only bikini briefs. I must have missed his first walk, or he forgot to wear pants. Then I say, “This rich lady offered me a five-thousand-dollar suit to have sex with her.”
“What? That’s fucking awesome!” Marek says. “Did you do it?”
“Of course not,” I say, glossing over the fact that it was a case of mistaken herpes that stopped me. Guy six does some kind of dead-leg runway walk that makes me think he’s got a massive charley horse in one of his appendages. “I thought you said you wouldn’t have sex for money.”
“I wouldn’t, but no one’s offered me a five-grand suit. Designer?”
“Armani.”
“Sweet,” Marek scratches his chin. “Was she hot?”
Dumpy Hepburn calls guy seven, and I step out of line. I’ve worked on a new walk, something between glamour and street—I call it Gritty Couture. I push my palms slightly outward to help keep my shoulders back, striding half the length of my usual steps as I walk. It doesn’t have conventional street swagger, making it more accessible to high fashion, but it also has just enough strut to work more urban clothing lines. I’m not even done posing when Dumpy Hepburn tells me to strip to my underwear. I smile as I unbutton my pants. I’ve passed the first initiation on my way to rocking Hong Kong fashion week.
As we’re leaving, Marek asks for Vogue Bitch’s number and I’m happy I don’t have it.
In Hong Kong, McDonald’s is the cheapest food option available, a fact that disturbs me almost as much as Marek’s eagerness to whore himself out for rent, suits—and despite its affordability—probably a Big Mac.
As I collect my double cheeseburger combo, I promise to eat only every other fry and rip excess bread off my burger to minimize calories. I can eat fast food but I can’t lose that dedication.
A few days ago, I sent an introduction with my YouTube link to bookers at the best agencies in Milano, and I added it on Reddit. With the buzz my video is going to create, it’s not going to be long before I hear back from someone. Part of me worries that the video could go too viral and get London and New York after me, because then scheduling would get really tough.
I take a seat near the entrance and eat a fry, then take a second fry and drop it on the floor to ensure I won’t be tempted to eat it off the table. This is how I live up to eating only half my fries. Dropping food on the floor is a surprisingly effective dieting technique.
Flipping to my YouTube channel, I see that my video has only been viewed twice and realize both those views are most likely mine. Then I realize I’ve eaten four fries in a row, so I grab a handful and drop them onto the floor.
“Something wrong with the food?” I look up, and it’s Taylor. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s carrying her portfolio. She’s probably hoping I’ll ask to see it, but I looked her up the morning after we met and am already familiar with her work.
“No.” I don’t want to explain my diet method. The scent of her lemongrass shampoo teases me. “You’re eating McDonalds?”
“Yeah, I shouldn’t.” Taylor flinches and her freckles bunch up. “Besides the entire modelling thing, it’s not very healthy. But it’s so cheap and there’s one on every corner.”
I’m in disbelief that we’re having a conversation where I’m not being ridiculed, and am about to invite her to join me for a double cheeseburger, when Damian appears. He’s stuffing his mobile into his jacket pocket, and I want to slam my head into the metal ketchup dispenser, but instead I give him a big smile.
“The agency says it’s down to me and—” then he spots me. “Oh, hey bru.”
“Hey.”
There’s an awkward silence between Damian and I. Taylor gives us a weird look. Most people would identify this as the silence between two people who have slept together due to extenuating circumstances like an impending earthquake, or drunk friends who think they’re being helpful. I wish I could tell Taylor the truth. I bet she’d think twice about going to lunch with a guy that fucks old ladies for money.
“Okay… I’m going to order,” she says, eyeing us. “I’ll be back in a bit.” We let her walk out of hearing range, and Damian pulls a wad of cash from his pocket.
“Angela said you left before she could pay you,” he says, handing me the money.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“I know, bru. This is just for showing up at her place. Doing her event, not doing her,” Damian coughs up a laugh. “Sorry, things got weird the other night. I knew it was going to go that way.”
“You knew they were going to use Armani suits to try and coerce us into sex?” I take the cash. It’s the original one thousand USD she agreed to pay. Taking it makes me feel dirtier than I thought it would.
“I had a hunch something like that would go down. You know rich people, they figure they can buy everything.”
That’s the first time a rich person has tried to buy me.
“Did you, you know—” I say and can’t help glancing down at Damian’s zipper as if I may see some hint of geriatric sex.
“No, bru!” Damian says. “Nah, I went into the bedroom with a couple of those ladies and told them straight this isn’t what I’m about. We had a bit of a talk and I got the money from Angela when I left.”
I believe Damian about as much as I believe a kid with a face smeared in chocolate when he tells me he didn’t eat my Dairy Milk. I reach for another fry and realize I’ve eaten all of them. That’s an extra hour on the fucking treadmill.
“But…uh…are you ok?” Damian says. “Angela mentioned some stuff. Maybe you should get a lotion or some kind of medicated creams…”
“What—?” Fucking gossipy Vogue Bitch. It’s already starting. “No, dude. I was making excuses to get her off me. There’s nothing wrong, especially not down there.”
“Cool, bru,” Damian fist bumps me. “That’s good, cause one time I had chlamydia and the meds turned my piss bright orange. Like glow-stick orange. Fuck, bru, when your piss is that bright you realize it goes everywhere. I even found specks on the handle of my toothbrush and it was on the sink!”
I’m happy Damian isn’t thinking too hard about my gossip herpes, but I’m sad he told me about peeing on his toothbrush.
“Anyway, don’t mention the other night to Taylor,” he says. I start on my cheeseburger. I shouldn’t eat it but refuse to deal with Damian and Taylor on an empty stomach. “She’d think it was odd that I was even over there.”
This makes me wish I’d taken ph
otos of Damian snorting coke while flirting with dirty old women, so I could send it to Taylor over Facebook and blow his good guy routine out of the water.
“What’s going on with you and Taylor anyway?”
“Here she comes, bru. Shhh…”
Taylor puts her tray on the table and sits.
“Hey, do you have that casting later for Beachcomber?” Damian asks me.
“I’m going there after this.”
“Cool,” Damian says, as he gets up to order. “Taylor and I are going to head over there, you should come with us.”
The only thing that sucks worse than going to your own castings is going to somebody else’s. Even good models, like me, only get a small percentage of the jobs we actually cast for. Most castings, we never hear from again. That makes most castings a complete waste of time. But going to somebody else’s castings, waiting in line, and then not showing your book to anybody—there’s no illusion you’re going to get the job. You’re pissing your time away, and you know it. And Taylor is going to Damian’s casting. She has to be head over heels in love with him.
Heading to the 25th floor, I watch the numbers creep by at the top of the elevator. Damian is using Snapchat to make himself puke rainbows or some shit and showing Taylor, and she’s eating it up with a giant spoon.
I can’t take it anymore.
“Hope this isn’t a cattle call,” I say, hoping to derail their annoyingly perky antics.
“Your agency didn’t tell you?” Damian says. “This is a shortlist casting. It’s down to just you and me.”
Fucking great.
“What’s Beachcomber? I don’t even know the client,” I say.
“It’s some luxury hotel chain in the Mauritius. Whoever gets this is going for a week of shooting on the beach. It’s going to be a good gig, bru. Good luck.”
“Yeah, same to you,” I say, but really, I’m hoping Damian gets put on a terrorist watch list and detained in some cargo ship in international waters.
“You didn’t cast for this?” I say to Taylor.
“I think they didn’t cast with my agency,” she says. “Too bad, it actually sounds like a job I’d want to get. A free trip to Africa? It beats all these fashion shows and magazine jobs.”
Mauritius is in Africa? Damian doesn’t ask, so neither do I.
Soon the three of us are sitting in an ad agency boardroom, while a guy wearing a Deadpool t-shirt and a stern-looking blonde woman, go through our portfolios. We sit in silence as they look at our books, look at us, look at Taylor, and then grunt to each other before cycling through the process again.
There’s no doubt, this is direct competition. It’s like the finals in Wimbledon but for modelling. Me versus Damian.
“Where’s this shot from?” says the guy whose name is John.
“That was for a Gucci campaign in Lisbon,” I say in a matter of fact tone, but inside I’m giddy that I got to say this in front of Taylor.
“Cool.”
Fifteen – love for me.
The blonde woman, who introduced herself as Genevieve notices a black-and-white shot in Damian’s book. “This is very nice,” she says in a heavy French accent. “Where was this shot?”
“I booked Numero out of Milan, but it shot in Zurich.” Fifteen fifteen.
“Numero,” John says, ignoring my book to gawk at Damian’s tear. “Very nice.”
Fifteen – thirty, for Damian.
“Do you guys do any water sports? We may shoot something like that,” John says.
“I can swim, does that count?” Damian says, which gets him some laughs.
Fifteen – forty, Damian.
“What about you?” Genevieve says to me.
“Wakeboarding, kite surfing… I actually used to be a semi-professional,” I lie, keeping a straight face. I’ve never done either of these activities but I’ve got nothing to lose. If they make me do it during the shoot and realize I suck, it’ll be too late to replace me. Genevieve gives me an impressed eye raise.
Thirty – forty, still in favour of Damian.
“Cool, bro,” John says, writing something on my card. “That’s great.” Deuce.
John looks at Genevieve and says, “Do we need anything else?”
“Maybe we can see them with their shirts off,” Genevieve says.
“You never miss an opportunity to scope out the boys.” John grins at her and she rolls her eyes. “Can you take your shirts off, guys?”
It would have been a surprise if they didn’t want to see our bodies for a beach shoot, so I’ve been sitting here the whole time secretly flexing and contracting my abdominal and pectoral muscles.
Damian and I take our shirts off, and though I’m flexing so hard it feels like I’m giving myself a haemorrhoid, I maintain a calm expression. I practiced the full-torso-flex-with-sensual-face for a two-month stretch when I lived in Barcelona. I take a casual step back like I’m getting comfortable, but it’s really so the overhead light shines straight down on my washboard abs. Lighting is the key to body shots. Even if you’ve got the muscle, shining a light straight at your torso will make your ripped bod look like a smooth slab of dough. It’s the shadows that accentuate muscle definition. Damian doesn’t move into the good light, and though he’s cut, his definition isn’t popping out like mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Taylor is scoping me out.
Advantage, me.
“All right, think that’s it.” John hands our books back and I put my shirt back on.
“What about that thing? The uh, how you say it? For the one on the dock?” Genevieve says, sounding like her English is suffering a power failure.
“Right, right,” John says. “Can either of you do a back flip? We need you to back flip off a dock—”
Without hearing more, Damian, who still has his shirt off, jumps backwards, rotating once through the air before landing easily on his Converse All-Stars. He taps his feet together, raises his arms in the air, and breaks out his catalogue grin.
I gnaw at my lip to keep from screaming fuck until my vocal cords disintegrate.
Deuce.
“Holy Christ!” John says, clapping like he just watched the finale of Cirque du Soleil instead of crappy Damian doing a stunt any two-bit circus clown can do. Genevieve cracks a smile and even worse, Taylor is shaking her head and laughing. “How the hell did you do that?”
“I lived in Rio De Janiero for a couple months with my ex and studied Capoeira. I can’t beat anyone up, but I learned how to do a tight back flip.” Damian grins, getting more laughs.
I wish Damian would back flip in front of a bus. Advantage, Damian.
“That’s awesome. Just awesome.” John is scribbling on Damian’s card, probably something like: best model ever, book for everyfuckingthing. Then he says to me, “What about you? Can you do a back flip?”
I think about launching myself backwards into the air as hard as I can and hoping for the best. Then I picture coming straight down on my head, breaking my neck, and having to lie on the boardroom floor paralyzed while Damian stands over me calling me bru and giving me pointers for my next back flip attempt.
I don’t have the energy to lie. “No. I can’t do a back flip.”
The clients stare at me, nodding very slowly. Match point – Damian.
Fuck.
CHAPTER 10
Colin Bryce Hamilton
At Asylum. Again. Maybe it’s not a party if it happens every night.
Damian Bruckman Jasmine Verano
Hamilton and 23 others like this.
Jasmine Verano Hamilton
Hong Kong rocks!!
4 people like this.
FOR THE FIRST time in my life, I don’t want to be at Asylum. But Damian has been bugging me to come out all week, and I can only lay on my bed watching Chinese period pieces where all the characters have shampoo-campaign quality hair for so long.
The crowd gets denser as I move from the open-air lounge into the dark thumping innards of Asylum. The interi
or is bathed in a blue glow from a wall of strobing lights, and it’s late enough that things are getting predictably chaotic, though it won’t be hard to find Damian.
It’s ten minutes to midnight. That places Damian in the vicinity of the model table in Asylum. If it were an hour later, I’d be looking for him at the model table in Fly. And if it were three hours later he would be at the model table in Volar. This is Damian’s nightly arc. Multiply it by seven and this is his week. Damian’s alcoholism is like clockwork. Nearing the model table, I emerge out of the normal crowd and into the company of fashion instantly feeling a sense of calm. It’s like walking out of an undergrowth of skulking shrubs and into a forest of majestic towering redwoods.
Damian and Marek are ahead surrounded by a bunch of model girls. All of them are pouring drinks down their throats so fast it looks like they’re trying to water-board themselves. My sense of calm bursts. I shouldn’t be here. With Dr. Leung’s no sex order, there’s no point. And watching Damian and Marek flirting as they decide which girl to take home makes me want to nail gun my eyelids shut. Nobody wants to watch the big game when they used to be the star quarterback.
I’m about to disappear into the crowd when Damian glances over and looks right at me. Shit. I smile back. He detaches himself from the group, and saunters over.
“Bru, glad you finally came out,” He slurs, holding out a fist. “Been busy?”
“Yeah, it’s been crazy,” I lie, completing the fist bump. The only thing crazy about this week is how much Cantonese TV I’ve been staring at.
“Where’s Taylor?” I say, hoping that she’s figured out what a douchebag Damian is. “Thought you guys… you know…”
“Bru, Taylor and I?” Damian laughs. “I told you nothing is happening. She’s booked tonight and tomorrow. She’s still on set shooting.”
If he knows her schedule off the top of his pretty blonde head, then I guess they’re still hanging out.
“It’s a good thing nothing’s going on with Taylor, because I’ve been killing it with the ladies this week, bru.” Damian puts his arm around me, but I don’t want to hear what he probably sees as a fascinating, adversity-overcoming tale of how he picked up a bunch of drunk girls.
Catwalk Fail Page 10
