Doubt Cloud: Not a chance. Fashion models have to measure at least 5’8”. You barely reach 5’6”.
Whip Cracker: Wait a minute. Don’t give up just yet. Men’s magazines have much looser requirements. If ya’ sexy, and have a nice body with a pretty face, I’m sure they’ll let you have a fair shot.
Miss Vanity: I don’t see what’s hard about making love to the camera. I dig it.
Hot Shot: I have an idea. Since Otto is the hobby photographer in the house who already took an occasional snapshot of me topless or naked in the past, surely he won’t mind taking a bunch of nude and semi-nude seductive photos of me by request.
Otto agrees. So today, just shy of my twentieth birthday, we turn the office upstairs into a studio that offers a variety of backdrops. He shoots several rolls of film of me in captivating Lolita poses. The results impress me so much that I immediately mail off the four best eleven-by-thirteen size pictures to Playboy Magazine.
Weeks go by. Today a letter with the “men’s” magazine’s logo on the front arrives. With much anticipation, I rip open the envelope. “Rejected”…it reads.
Miss Vanity: Damned.
Hot Shot: Ehhh, big deal. I’m not worried. They had to because I’m only nineteen. There simply is more work to be done. I shall return. Promise.
Unshackled
With job opportunities remaining sparse in Wolfsburg and with board certification as secretary under my belt or not, I feel depression loom over my very existence.
Starlight: How about moving to America?
Doubt Cloud: Are you nuts?
I share the enthusiasm, but it sure does sound a bit far-fetched.
Hot Shot: It does. But to get your feet wet, why not start out in a large German town first. Sexy models are discovered everyday, even on this continent, you know?
I snatch the Atlas off the shelf this instant.
After several weeks of contemplating and researching, weighing the pros and cons of living in any of the cities I’ve put on my list of favorites, a winner finally emerges: Stuttgart.
~~~
I must have left a lasting impression at the interview for the department secretary position two weeks ago because this morning, the Human Resources Manager of the Stuttgart Environmental Company calls, congratulating and welcoming me on their team.
Starlight: Get the train ready.
CHAPTER 5
Beauty in the Bank
Stuttgart, Germany - 1984
2 a.m. – Bombarded with a whirlwind of thoughts, I finally fall asleep atop the mattress inside my cozy studio apartment that the environmental company arranged for me to live in.
I awaken to two degrees Celsius in my room on my first official day in a city I know nothing about.
Hot Shot: What a relief it is to finally be away from it all and not have anyone leer over my shoulder.
Doubt Cloud: What if you fuck it up?
Scaredy Cat: Yeah, really…all the different things that could go wrong.
Tough Gal: Frankly, I don’t want to hear another word. Everything is gonna be fine. Scram!
Hot Shot: As long as I’ve got my beauty, I’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s like money in the bank. Even if the office expels me, I can still make it in modeling. Just need some time and the right hook ups.
Romy: I’m sure by then I’ll have found Mister Right. This town is a haven for eligible bachelors. More than a million people live here. I’ll get on it right away. Just wait and see.
Starlight: If I’m discovered, I’ll be able to reel in any man I want—effortlessly.
Hot Shot: I know. Then I’d never have to worry again that he’d want someone else.
Albeit my hoping that time would crawl, Monday arrives. At eight o’clock sharp, I take over my new office space inside a five-by-ten-foot sized room. Phones need to get answered, form letters created, mails sent out, brochures put together, coffee made, and on and on. Mrs. Schröder, my boss, is a cynical woman, never paying me a compliment yet always quick to dish out critique. Hot Shot pesters me again, saying she’s too sexy for this shit, and that she does not want to rot in a low-paying, “beneath her” occupation.
Pretender Babe: It’s probably wisest to stick it out, until Mister Right bails you out.
Romy (sighing): I need a guy to hold me now, telling me he loves me, or I’ll go crazy.
Miss Vanity (whining): How in the world am I going to bring in enough cash to protect my image and hang with the cool crowd at this rate?
How many more times do I have to tell that girl now is not the time to throw in the towel? I can hardly see straight through the piles of bills that keep rushing in.
The much-cherished Feierabend approaches. I am off to the U-Bahn. Within minutes, the tube zips me from one end of town to the next, conveniently dropping me off at Friedrichstrasse station, where I exit and board the escalator that reconnects me with the surface. I stop in and out of market places along the road to my house, each time filling my bags with various types of candy, cookies, cheese, and pastries. While I carry on toward my place, I keep on stuffing food into my mouth. That calming, foggy brained feeling sets in, like I’ve just come out of a coma or something.
Scaredy Cat: I’m afraid that if the nice full feeling tapers off, I’m going to die.
Hurriedly, I devour more goods, arriving at my door nauseated with a tummy ache.
Miss Vanity: Oh, dear. Tomorrow will be here in no time. I know it’s gonna mess with my physique. You gotta do something right away, damned.
Alright, alright. Here we go. I finger for the bottle of laxative pills in the drawer. Once the last of the bitter tasting remedy tablets goes down, the clump of guilt recedes.
Hot Shot: Not to worry…you’ll be brand new by morning, not having gained an ounce.
Full Moon
A cool windy night falls upon Stuttgart. It’s Friday, around half past six, and like every weekday after a soul-dulling eight-hour shift at the office, I arrive at my studio apartment with the strong urge to alter my reality. A whopping wave of excitement zips through me as I envision the fun I will have a few hours from now.
Hot Shot, as usual, reminds me that if I don’t turn heads, it would be pointless to be seen in public at all, and so I leap into the shower stall this instant. Well-scrubbed and squeaky clean, I apply some of the richly moisturizing vanilla lotion to my slender physique and splash on some of that exotic smelling perfume inside the copper stained glass bottle shaped like a naked woman who’s sitting on a rock. I pull one of the new outfits from the ceiling-high wall-to-wall mirrored wardrobe and put it on. The black spandex skirt is just short enough to show off my well-shaped, salon-tanned legs. She’s Got The Look blasts from the radio while I watch my body take on diverse poses in front of the mirror, imagining that I am a top model on a photo shoot in the Caribbean.
Pictures of the lusting stares of men and admiring women pour to the forefront of my mind as I take on postures that resemble pros. With each new piece of clothing I slip into, I strike more poses, every time debating which necklace or color headband would best aid to turn me into the ultimate spectacle on tonight’s club scene.
Nine thirty comes. I touch up my make up and tease my hair for probably the fifteenth time before signing off on the final creation. The fact that it only took me three hours instead of the usual five makes me wonder if I missed anything.
I snatch the beige, ankle-long wool coat off the rack and throw it over my back instantaneously pulling my long light brown hair out from under. My straight smooth tresses give a nice contrast to my overcoat as they hang down to nearly the middle of my back. I grab my white rhinestone purse from the couch and let the door fall shut behind me. Showtime.
Passing without complications through the entrance of the Spotlight club makes my confidence soar to new heights. Unable to resist the urges of my internal Werewolf, who, unlike conventional werewolves who crave blood, likes to hunt for giant doses of male attention, I cut her loose to let her shake her
groove thing for hours to supreme disco music in the front row of the raised crowd-teaser stage. Not only does this assure that everyone is mesmerized by my moves and that it makes men ache to get their hands on a piece of me, it also increases Starlight’s chances of getting discovered. Some woman asks me if I am a professional dancer. I feel tempted to tell her “Yes, indeed.” But instead, I say, “That’s the plan.”
While resting in a corner where I can easily view the floor, a handsome guy with dark curly hair, who smells of sophistication, and whom I watched circle me earlier, approaches.
He looks like a “Well-To-Do”. Minutes later, I’m sitting inside his “Porsche” headed for his house which is located in a part of town that I’ve never visited before. My sports car driver and I quickly lose track of time while engaging in a night of crazy blackout sex from which I return to my place at around six this morning.
~~~
It’s afternoon, and I am lying on my stomach on top of the stretcher at the gynecologist office while a nurse jams a big fat needle into my soft behind. She says I have to come back four more times to finish the treatment. Gonorrhea is everything but sexy, I admit. In fact, it literally is a pain in the ass.
Intensely pissed, Ragelina urges me to give that no-good fellow I left the club with a few nights ago a jingle. When I do, the number he gave me comes up as disconnected, leaving me with only the moral of the story that “not every beautifully wrapped package is always going to hold its promise.” Am I going to learn my lesson? Hmmm?
Bare Essentials
Just thinking of something rich, creamy, and sweet passing down my throat, brings me instant happiness. Surely, the benefits are plentiful, ranging from feeling less anxious, less alone, less on edge, and a bunch of other things. Binging on my favorite goodies best hits the spot when carried out in private. That way I can get as messy as I want without another person thinking I am a heathen.
Let’s face it, eating can be a sloppy affair if one goes about devouring things the way I do. Theoretically, I can have a food orgy anywhere should the situation call for desperate enough measures.
Starlight: You gotta stop ruining the only thing you got going for you. It’s your growing thighs that concern me most.
Hot Shot: Join a gym.
Miss Vanity: I’m all for working out, but I ain’t got a clue how to use those machines that look like instruments in a torture chamber. They’re kind of intimidating, if you ask me. As you know, looking foolish is going to tarnish my image, something to be avoided at any rate.
A comment made by the “adults” in my teenage years rattles my memory. The shame I felt when they called my thighs Kartoffelstampfer brings back painful mental slides.
Miss Vanity: Maybe it is best to get busy now before my potato mashers turn into something worse. Between getting fat or looking foolish, I think I’m gonna choose the latter.
~~~
A bunch of cute guys pass me by as I energetically pedal up and down on the stationary bike inside the downtown gym this evening. Once ten minutes are up, I move over to one of the machines that I have no idea how to use. After an initial phase of trial and error, I grow more confident.
Along comes this fellow Reiner, a late twenties male with salt-and-pepper mid-shoulder long flat hair, a nice tan, and sparkly green eyes. He has something that attracts me; I just can’t put my finger on it, but not in a Moth To a Flame kind of way. It’s more of a - “I could take it or leave it” - feeling. He asks if he can share the sets. I let him.
A month goes by. I am no longer dreading the initially intimidating pieces of equipment at the gym, but now look forward to using them. Another piece of news: Reiner and I are an item. Sex with him supplies invigorating experiences, though not in a climactic way; not that it ever has with anyone anyhow.
Romy: I like him, but why is it that every time we are together, it feels like I’m trying to keep an eel from slipping through my fingers?
~~~
Later this summer, tah-dah. Immensely proud, I stare at the pictorial inside one of the popular magazines that display several pages of “soft-core porn.”
Miss Vanity: Wooo-hooo.
I take another eyeful of my “Girl Next Door” spread, which depicts me in alluring poses, some topless, and others clothed. Showing off my bare essentials to the world certainly bricht mir keinen Zacken aus der Krone. Why would it? Because, c’mon—in many parts of the country, people sit around naked in beer gardens.
Starlight: Do you know how fucking rad this is? Now, I am the shit for sure. And I’m gonna be faaeyhehe-mous.
Hot Shot: It’s gonna increase my chances with guys by a hundredfold.
Avengelia: Mother…Otto…this is for you—Bugs Bunny teeth, and all; I made it into a magazine. And Vicki…you may have been given perfect fashion model height. But look who is modeling now! Hate to tell you folks but y’all lost your mother-fucking jurisdiction.
A bunch of copies under my arm, I hurry home to obsess more on how sexy I come across. Too hyped to calm down just yet, I ask Reiner to accompany me to Gilhorn to visit a couple of producers who invited me to show up for a test shoot for Playboy Channel.
Starlight: I can feel it—my big break is near.
We arrive mid morning. After a long chat in the luxurious living room of the couples’ plush hillside property, we all move to the swimming pool behind the house. Blushetta and Scaredy Cat overwhelm me with fear dialogue, but Starlight inspires me to bravely strip down to a g-string bikini and urges me to place myself on top of the flower-patterned cushion of the canvas pool lounger.
Surrounded by humming critters and a carpet of greenery, I tilt my head back far enough that my long copper golden mane hangs down in all its ravishing beauty. With a dreamy expression on my face, I slide one of my hands inside my bikini bottom and give the onlookers a show of pretend masturbation.
A train of staged turn-ons follows…the ohhhs, the ahhsss, the sighing, and the faces of ecstasy. Luckily, no one can pick up that I am not getting a thing from this, that the entire deal leaves me cold as ice. Generally speaking, I do not get the hype around this self-gratification thing to begin with. It sure has never worked for me, and it is not because I haven’t tried because I have—even turned a barrage of fruits and vegetables into victims of my experimentation with them, in front of the mirror at home. But back to the yard scene at hand…
Romy (crying): Can I go home now?
Whip Cracker: Fuck no. Act, as if you are having fun making men crazy.
Pressure builds. Hot Shot gets me to think about the millions of males who are going to sit in front of their screens drooling while they watch me contort myself.
Hot Shot: And just think about all the envious stares of women who fear that their man will fantasize about sexing me up.
Romy: I really need to leave now.
Whip Cracker: Hush, Idiot. Ya’ gonna ruin everything.
Two more minutes go by and the ordeal comes to a close. They tell me I did well and assure that I will be informed of their decision soon.
A couple of weeks after the Playboy Channel adventure, a mutual acquaintance of Reiner and I talk on the phone. He tells me that my boyfriend has been getting it on with a woman who works in television. Making repeated efforts to keep Ragelina from spilling over, I cut that “son of a bitch” loose at once.
Whip Cracker: Looks like you gonna have to become cuter, sexier, kinkier, fitter, skinnier, tanner, richer, shrewder, hipper, more athletic, more blank, blank, blank…after all!
He’s got a point. Because on top of it all, Playboy Channel never follows up with me.
CHAPTER 6
Mula for Mojo
Recapitulating on my life so far, it appears as if men are only after one thing: sex without commitment. Despite the nice face, the gorgeous hair, the sexy figure, and a pleasant personality, guys unanimously vote for my vagina as the winner in the contest of the “most important part of my anatomy.” Once they conquer it, they want it a few more times but
then usually keep their feelers out for the next enticing carnal treasure package.
Hot Shot: I don’t get it. I jump through hoops to be good in bed, and what do I get? Nothing but disrespect.
Romy: I can’t handle one more day of meeting assholes that have no desire to stay faithful.
Miss Vanity: Mind you, it’s expensive to provide these jerks their drug day in and day out. At the rate I’m going, being flat broke and all, I will run out of cosmetics, perfume, lingerie, eye-catching apparel, funds for sessions at the tanning salon, hairdressers, and an on-going membership at the gym, in no time. I must come up with a solution quickly, or I won’t look this appetizing for much longer.
Whip Cracker: I got an idea. Since you can’t seem to win for losing, why not give them what they want? But without the bullshit games they play? And definitely for a fee.
Big Shot Mama: I second that. And to compensate for the mental stresses in applying the new motto of “Pussy for Money,” it’s going to cost those jerks big time.
New hope surges through me, although deep inside I feel Ragelina spew riverbeds full of seething lava.
Flipping through the paper this morning, a classified ad draws me in. “Millionaire Benefactor Looking For Classy Lady,” it says. I apply at once with an enclosed photograph of Hot Shot’s sexiest modeling shots.
Tonight, a week after the fact, Günther, a forty-something-year-old, well-groomed entrepreneur and I meet at an Italian restaurant in an upscale part of town. We converse with ease, although I cannot say I am attracted to him in any other way than the money and the status that appears to accompany him. While we continue talking, another man shows up, which Günther introduces as his good buddy Oswald.
Scaredy Cat: Wait a minute. No one said…
Oswald sits down across from me. He appears to be of the same age as his friend, and, as I soon find out, works as an engineer in town.
Doubt Cloud: You can’t be serious. Are you saying I have to deal with two dudes at once?
Dealing Flesh Page 5
