Executive Engagement

I’m so fucking bored. Another day hanging around in my apartment.

No jobs on the horizon. Not that I need the money, but I need to be fucking stimulated, for fuck’s sake.

Ten years of modeling, and I’m reduced to this. Keeping my own goddamn company.

I remember when I moved into this building eight years ago. I was so excited.

Cash was just falling out of my pockets, and I couldn’t wait to move in with such a hip crowd. Now I find them all mortifyingly annoying.

Well, most of them.

My phone does its jingle thing, and I pull myself up from the big white couch. White chairs, white curtains, white everything. Hardwood floors in golden honey and lots of light.

I love it as much now as I did years ago.

I’m hoping the phone is a job, but it’s not. It’s Emilia.

“Hey, babes! How’s it cookin?”

I’m so happy for any distraction. Fuck, I sound like one of those positive people.

“Hey,” Emilia says.

Even through the phone, I can tell she’s upset. Her voice just has that sound to it—like she’s either just finished crying or she’s trying not to start.

“Wanna go out tonight?” she asks.

Oh, Jesus, fuck. I’m in over my head now.

“Evan problems?” I say, picking up one of my magazines for a look-through.

Excellent black and white shoot. I look incredible. This photographer really knows his shit.

I thought black and white would wash me out—long, dark brown hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. He’s a fucking genius of grey tones, though.

“Not anymore. So are we going out or what?”

“Nope. Uh-uh. Sorry babe, but you know I can’t support this. You two are being idiots—you know that, right?”

“He’s being the idiot,” Em argues. “I’m totally justified in every way, not at fault at all—et cetera, et cetera.”

“Yeah, uh-huh.” I roll my eyes. “Call me when you guys are back together, and we’ll talk.”

Like, I don’t believe in this soul mate shit, but if there have ever been two people who are meant for each other, it’s those two dummies.

I pick up the magazine again. I’d like to work with this photographer again. He was awesome, and not just with editing.

He really knew how to position me so my tits and pussy looked just delicious. I’m getting older now—not that thirty-two is old, no fucking way!—but it certainly helps to have someone that understands angles.

Three hours of soft touching and instructions, and I couldn’t figure if he was wicked professional or just gay.

When did I start doing nudes? When all the good face shot jobs got taken.

When I got told I was ‘too tall’ for a runway. Too tall…ever heard of a model who was too fucking tall? For fuck’s sake.

It’s not like nudes or porn is difficult. The first one was, for a while.

It was outside on a cliff near a beach. We went out early to catch the light and because it would be quieter, or so the photographer said.