That one time I was almost raped by a Russian photographer.

Test shoots are essential for models to keep their portfolios up to date. Half of my photos are from jobs and the other half are from non-paying shoots. I hate test shoots. Most of the time I receive great quality photos which I can use for my portfolio. Other times I never even see photos or hear from the photographer after endless emails asking for the pictures. I hate those photographers, they can go fuck themselves for wasting my (precious) time. My agency had been trying to set up a shoot with a very well known photographer who took great beauty shots. After weeks of avoiding calls from my agent about the shoot I finally gave in. It was scheduled for a Saturday. Ugh.

I was living with my wonderful ex boyfriend at the time so I borrowed his Escalade to drive to the city. I usually took the Long Island Railroad to the city but I felt like torturing myself with NYC traffic just to feel some sort of emotions because Zoloft had zapped my brain and I couldn’t feel happiness or sadness, I should’ve just become a cutter. What the hell am I talking about? Sorry I just blacked out. Photo shoot, traffic, right.

There was some sort of fucking parade going on so I parked 6 blocks from where the shoot was. I don’t understand why anyone would ever go to a parade other than to be angry at themselves for wanting to go to a parade. I walk to 37th street and reach my destination. I buzz the number 8 because that’s what my email said to do. Nothing. I buzz again. Nothing. I try to open the door, it’s locked. Fuck. I look in my email for any contact info but all I have is the photographers name. Let’s call him Vladmir because I’m racist and that’s the only Russian name I can think of right now. I google Vladmir and find his website, I find his contact info and call that motherfucker. Voicemail. Are you fucking kidding me? I leave a nice message and wait. 15 minutes passes. I call him again and leave a message, this time I used phrases like “where the fuck are you?” and “this is bullshit.” I wait 10 more minutes and decide I’m bailing. I start walking back to my car when I see Vladmir and his makeup artist walking up to the door. He doesn’t acknowledge me.

“Are you Vladmir?”
“Yes, who are you?”
“Melissa, the model you’re shooting today.”
“Oh, I thought that was at 3?”
“Nope, 1 o’clock, exactly as it says here in the email you sent to my agency yesterday.”
“Oh, you’re right, I’m supposed to be shooting another girl right now, could you come back later?”
“No, I drove my boyfriend’s car from Long Island and I have somewhere to be tonight, it’s either right now or never.” (I had absolutely nothing to do that night other than get drunk and watch TV)
“Okay, well, maybe I can squeeze you in.”

MAYBE you can SQUEEZE me in? This is your mistake, not mine, Vlad. After a few more minutes of talking he says he can shoot me but I’ll have to wait until he’s finished with another model. Okay, whatever, I’m there, I might as well wait. We walk up to his studio on the 5th floor (the elevator is broken and its 90 degrees). His “studio” is a tiny room with some light boxes and prints hanging on the wall of other models he’s shot. Half of them are naked. Awesome. Feeling really good about that. I walk back to another room where the makeup artist has her shit set up. Vladimir goes back into the other room and continues shooting the other model. After 30 minutes of sitting on a very uncomfortable stool getting makeup caked on my face I walk to where Vladimir is. I see the other model and recognize her. She’s the new 17 year old also with my agency, so I wave to her. She smiles uncomfortably. I see that she is wearing jeans and a strapless bra. It’s a beauty shoot which means it’s going to be a super close-up shot of my face, the 3 zits on my chin, and the wrinkle forming underneath my right eye that I can’t stop obsessing over. Thank god for Photoshop.

He finishes shooting the model and tells me to have a seat. I sit on a tiny stool behind 50,000 watts of light burning into my face. I take off my shirt so I’m now just wearing a strapless bra and some cutoff shorts. He adjusts the light and stares at me awkwardly.

“You look like someone, a model.”
“Okay, who?”
“Paulina Porizkova.”
“Right, I get that a lot.”
“Will you be my Paulina?”
“What?”
“You are gorgeous, look at those eyes, you will be my personal Paulina.”
“Umm…”

Dude, stop talking, just take the fucking photos and get on with it. He continues to shoot, but after each photo he pauses and creepily smiles at me.

“Your eyes, they are incredible, I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“Thanks.”
“I want to get a side shot, cold you take off your top?”
“Nope.”
“Oh I won’t show anything.”
“I don’t feel comfortable doing that, sorry.”
“But you are a model, you have to do that.”
“No, I don’t. I came here for beauty shots of my face, not my body.”
“It’ll just be your shoulder and a very slight side shot of your breast.”
“I’m sorry but no.”
“Okay, your loss.”
“My loss? Really? My loss?”

This asshole spews more bullshit and I get more and more annoyed. I refuse to take off my bra and he finally accepts that. He comes over to where I’m shooting and puts his hand on my shoulder to turn my body slightly. I flinch like a gargoyle just touched me after smoking meth for 48 hours.

“Geeze, relax, you are so uptight, what is wrong?”
“I’m fine. I don’t like people touching me.”
“Okay, okay, I get it, let’s just finish this shot okay?”
“Right.”

He takes more photos, pausing after each one to stare at me awkwardly. We finally finish an hour later and I put my shirt back on.

“Oh but I wanted to do another look, more dramatic makeup.”
“Oh, umm, I really have to go.”
“I think we could make some really beautiful images with more makeup.”
“The ones you took will be okay, I don’t need anything crazy for my book, thanks though.”

I continue to pack up my shit and make my way to the door. Vladmir comes in for the hug. Oh HELL no. I’m not a hugger. I barely hug boyfriends. My parents didn’t hug me or tell me they loved me until I was 20 years old. I’m not a casual hug type of person. The word hug gives me a panic attack. You know who I hug? My cat. I do NOT hug strangers. Let me repeat this: I DO NOT HUG STRANGERS LET ALONE RUSSIAN PHOTOGRAPHERS. I pretend like I didn’t notice his disgusting attempt at a hug and walk towards the door.

“Not even a hug? I am sad.”
“Ehh, I got that germ phobia thing.”
“Right, right, did you walk here?”
“No, I drove my BOYFRIEND’S car, and parked my BOYFRIEND’S car a few blocks away.”
“Ahh, well I will walk you to your car.”

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! It’s daylight, it’s NYC, it’s safe. I don’t need to have any other conversation with this guy other than a fake thank you for a great photoshoot.

“I will walk you, I insist.”
“Great.”

We walk down the 5 flights of stairs and out onto 37th street. I’m standing at least two foot away from him and slightly in front of him.

“You know, your beauty is very unique, I’ve never shot someone like you.”
“Oh really? That’s nice.” I say as I’m texting my boyfriend about how creepy this asshole is.
“I would love to take you for coffee sometime.”
“I have a boyfriend, sorry.” LIKE I SAID 50 TIMES ALREADY YOU MORON
“That is ok, it will just be friendly.”
“I’m busy, I can’t.”

Vladimir is not getting the hint. Actually, I take that back. Vladimir IS getting the hint but is a pushy asshole who thinks he can take advantage of young naive models. Guess what, Vlad? I’m not one of them and I will have none of your fussbudgeting (I just made that word up, what is this, 1867?). Vladimir tries to grab my hand. I give him the “are you fucking kidding me?” look and walk faster up 8th avenue.

“I have a very nice house in Bensonhurst.”
“I don’t know where that is, or care, really.”

We continue to walk a few blocks, I see the parking garage where my car is.

“Okay, there’s my car, gotta go, thanks!”
“Wait wait wait, Melissa, I cannot let you go like this.”
“Gotta jet, bro.” (Ok I didn’t say that)
“When can I see you next?”
“Never.”

I walk to the valet counter and hand him my ticket. It’s $60. Fuck me.

Vladmir says “At least let me pay for parking.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, I do not mind.”

I let money bags pay for parking, which was a mistake because he goes in for the hug and tries to kiss me this time.

I tell him “I don’t know what the fuck your problem is but what part of I HAVE A BOYFRIEND do you not understand?”
“I’m sorry, let me make it up to you, I will buy you coffee next week, I will text you I have your number saved.”

Ugh, I forgot that I called him before the shoot. Now this creep has my number. The valet pulls up in my car and I literally run to driver’s side and get in.

“I will call you soon, Paulina.”

I drive onto the street and don’t even acknowledge him. I call my boyfriend immediately and tell him I am retiring from modeling. The worst part of this story is I get the photos a week later and they’re AMAZING, so of course I use them for my portfolio. Way to go, Vlad, you fucking creep.

Vlog #2

More impressions! I’m really good at them, right? RIGHT????

Vlog attempt #1

Apparently if you’re an even remotely attractive chick you should have videos of yourself on the internet doing things. I’m really good at impressions so I wanted to share some with you.

The Commercial Audition

Commercial auditions are the equivalent of selling your soul to play air guitar with a can of Coke. You’re basically a puppet for casting directors to see how far you’ll go to book a $20,000 paying national commercial. I’ve gone to tons of callbacks for commercials but I have yet to book one of the big ones, I’ve only done the smaller shitty ones. Why? I don’t know. I’ve been told my look isn’t “commercial” enough, I’m too pretty, too weird looking, too tall, too animated, and too boring. I’m always “too” something, yet I continue to torture myself at these auditions because I feel like I don’t have a choice. I do mostly print work, those are easy to book, “We’re looking for a girl with bangs and blue eyes, how about that Melissa girl we shot last month?” “Ok cool, call her agent.” Bam. Done. No audition, no casting, just booked based on what I look like. Commercials on the other hand… “I want you to pretend like you’re in love, walking on the beach with your boyfriend, tell him you love him, now dance with him like it’s the best day of your life, hold his hand, kiss him, now act like you’re at a party, now have a serious look on your face, no laughing, just like that, yeah, perfect.” I wish there was a special pill to make me happy for the 20 minutes I’m waiting at an audition, oh, right, it’s called cocaine.

There’s something about forcing myself to be happy that makes me even unhappier. Oh wait, I’m just depressed most of the time. Maybe that’s why I never book commercials? Maybe my acting isn’t strong enough to convince the director I’m not dying inside while I’m pretending to have a conversation with a pretty bubbly blonde girl about the cute guy across the room for a Captain Morgan commercial.

But the BEST part of auditions is the waiting room. Who doesn’t love watching middle-aged actors practice lines for their Hot Pocket audition? There’s something about the waiting room that is depressing as hell. I don’t want to be one of those people when I get older. I don’t think of myself as an actress, I think of this as a job. I’m a model, sure, but calling myself an actress just doesn’t sound right. I don’t think of myself as knowing how to “act.” I can’t, I’ve tried. I can only be myself. If I go to an audition for a “mid-20s brunette who loves Seinfeld and making fun of herself, but can’t really act” then I’m golden. Until then I’ll try my best to be the “cute girl drinking a Corona at a beach party” so I can continue to pay my rent.

Older Men and Prostitution

I’m not a prostitute nor do I have any ambition of becoming one. Throughout my last relationship I was harassed constantly online (being insulted anonymously on the internet? that’s unheard of!) because my boyfriend was born during the Kennedy administration and made decent money. Surely I volunteered over a year of my life to be sucking old man cock because I had nothing else going for me. Did I lose you yet? Let me explain… He was (to me) one of the funniest and craziest men I’ve met, which is very attractive in my eyes. I’ve dated multiple men over 40, usually divorced and working in some facet of the comedy/entertainment industry. I’ve never actually seen that written out, WTF is wrong with me? I think I’m attracted to guys who are attracted to me. Wait, that sounds weird. I’m attracted to guys who aren’t necessarily attractive themselves, but are attracted to me because I’m pretty AND funny, right? I don’t fucking know, let’s just move on.

Dating a man who supplied me with a cushy lifestyle was fun, obviously. I still worked while we lived together because I would lose my mind if I had no responsibilities for over 48 hours. I didn’t have to work, at all. I could’ve sat on my ass like a freeloading piece of garbage but that’s not me. I bought some sweet ass Alexander Wang shoes though, come on, I’m a girl. What I’m trying to say is, does that make me a gold-digging-prostitute because my boyfriend bought me expensive things? Fuck no. And to be completely honest, I was making decent money modeling so I could easily afford being a fashionable chick. Our relationship was like any other normal relationship, we loved each other and spent most of our nights watching Twilight Zone and Seinfeld. That’s normal, right?

I don’t want to say I felt imprisoned after the initial love sparks wore off, because it was my choice to stay in his house. The relationship ended months before we actually broke up. We clearly fell out of love and were co-existing because confrontation just seemed unbearable. I felt stuck, I thought this was going to be my life for a few years, and I had gotten used to it. I know there are worse places to be than a giant house in Long Island with a pool, but it’s all relative. My life was not my life. I wasn’t hanging out with my friends or going to concerts, or even listening to the music I loved because my life revolved around him. I know this may sound redundant but I was not living my life how I wanted, and Zoloft wasn’t helping much either.

I was in this world where I was financially stable, had a place to sleep, and a boyfriend. The sense of security I felt was incredible, and for me that is extremely important. I barely have two of those things now and I’m a complete anxious mess. I cannot put a price on peace of mind. I think that’s how a lot of young girls who are dating older men for money feel. Knowing you can pay your rent and afford fancy cheese at Whole Foods are two of my favorite things. Going on dates with an older man seems like a piece of cake, but when it turns into something you rely on financially it becomes unhealthy and probably the worst thing you could ever do to yourself.

I know a girl. She’s in a relationship- wait, I can’t call this a relationship because it’s just too fucked up. She’s in something with a MUCH older man, and has been for over a year. They go to dinner, hang out, have sex, and he gives her money. She pays her rent with that money. She currently doesn’t work. He yells at her when she wants to leave his house and they argue nonstop on the phone when they’re not together. Every week she says she needs to get out of this relationship because it’s stressful and he’s psycho, but every week she falls back into his trap because ultimately, she needs to pay her rent, and I don’t blame her. She hasn’t had a job for a few months, and as nice as that is, she feels stuck. Her choices are either: get a job or continue getting verbally abused. For me, getting a job is the obvious choice, but after a few months of not working I can see how enduring the abuse seems easier than finding employment.

Enter Tom Cruise. What the fucking shit fuck was Katie Holmes thinking? I’ll tell you exactly what she was thinking. 3 million dollars a year to marry her childhood crush. Score. What girl in her 20s WOULDN’T do that? Honestly, I couldn’t tell you what I would have done in her position, but had I agreed to it I KNOW I would’ve regretted it. She was in fucking prison for 5 years. She disappeared, she couldn’t talk about anything, she fell off the face of the earth. I’m not her, I’m not in her brain, but I have a feeling she regrets it. For 5 years she didn’t have to work or worry about anything, from my experience of one year of that I’m surprised she didn’t lose her fucking mind. I mean, if that was in fact an arranged marriage, she spent the end of her 20s – early 30s shackled inside the Cruise house doing who knows what. What a bummer.

So in conclusion: I have no idea where this is going. Date older men, do it, it’s great. I do it all the time. I’ll occasionally hang out with a guy in his 20s to remind myself that I could be having fun, but then I remember I enjoy the company of a man who is just as neurotic and mentally unstable as myself. Oh, and the sex is better.

Stetten out.

You’re pretty, so everything must be easy for you.

If being pretty solves all your problems, then I must be living in some sort of fucked up world that Rod Serling couldn’t even write. Maybe one episode of the Twilight Zone where that crazy broad Janet gets plastic surgery to improve her looks but it does nothing and everyone looks like monsters or something, I don’t actually remember, it doesn’t fucking matter. Apparently being pretty is the reason I just cried my eyes out brushing my teeth so my best friend couldn’t hear me in the other room because I’m so worried about my personal life. It’s the reason I’ve had a knot in my stomach since Monday wondering if I’m going to have a job next week and what city I’m going to be living in and if I’m going to have enough money to fly back from LA to NYC. It’s why I have a slew of text messages from guys- comedians, musicians, guys twice my age, some younger, some crazy stalkers, some men who’s hearts I’ve broken, and some who have broken my heart- in my iPhone asking to hang out, not knowing if they just want to have sex with me because I’m a model or actually get to know me. It’s why I hang out with these men only to be disappointed that none of them get my Seinfeld jokes or understand who I’m talking about when I quote Pedro from The Real World, or talk about Bill Bellamy or say “YOOOOOOU ARE A BLABBERMOUTH!” (Ralph Cramden, anyone?)

I’m misunderstood, and I’m not looking for sympathy because I’m a fucking strong person like Beyonce and can handle shit, but I feel like I get judged too soon because I have blue eyes and I’m genetically tall. I’m an anomaly in the modeling world, I know this, because I’m 28, I’m considered old as shit. I lie about my age to book jobs, I have conversations with 17 year old models about Miley Cyrus (who the fuck is that anyway?) but I’m honest and I genuinely love people. I don’t do cocaine every weekend, I’m not bulimic, I’m not a stuck up diva, I can’t stand wearing heels, and I don’t think I’m better than anyone else. In fact, I hate myself probably more than you know. I’ve been on over 10 different anti-depressants and look to men for comfort and support. I’ve never not been in some sort of relationship where I needed a guy to tell me he loved me to feel good about myself. It’s sickening to me.

I spend my life being judged physically by casting directors and fashion designers. There is never an hour that goes by where I’m not worried about my skin breaking out or how many calories are in this tuna sandwich I just ate. I hate my thighs, small boobs and the left side of my face underneath my eye where I can see a feint wrinkle forming. I’ve googled botox and face lifts because I’m insecure about aging. I don’t want to be a model anymore, but it’s the only source of income I’ve relied on for the past few years and now I’m stuck here. I like being the prettiest girl at the photoshoot, I like the attention, but it is the most unfulfilling job for someone like me. I’ve never wanted to be reliant on my looks to get me through life. I was an ugly girl from Kalamazoo, I had zits on top of zits and poor posture because I hated being tall. I wore giant flannel shirts and baggy wide-leg jeans which are the most unflattering pants created. I never thought of myself as pretty, I wasn’t. I never had a boyfriend in high school, I was too scared to smile because my teeth were fucked up and my parents couldn’t afford braces until I was 16. I never said a word to anyone because every time my mouth would open a string of embarrassingly sarcastic unfunny jokes would come spewing out. I was “that” weird girl, and up until recently I never embraced it because I hated myself.

Now I’m in magazines, giant ads in Target, TV shows like 30 Rock, and I have the perfect life according to most everyone. I can get “any guy I want” and clothes look great on me. The problem with that is I’m attracted to older neurotic men, for some reason I still haven’t figured out. My parents are happily married and my neighbors never tried to molest me (at least not that I remember). My issue is that I’m jealous of “successful” women with “real” jobs. I don’t know exactly what that means but I have somewhat an idea. I want to be respected for my talents and personality, not what I look like. There’s so much more to me than my photogenic face and it frustrates me that I don’t know how to properly manifest it.

The only way I know how to cope with my frustrations is to distract myself with boys. I had a guy pick me up on his motorcycle a few days ago to eat cupcakes. It was an amazing two hours but now I’m back here wondering when the next guy is going to come along and be my prince charming that I don’t even fucking need. It’s a cycle that I don’t know how to break and it makes me resent modeling. Why didn’t I just stay in college and have a normal job like everyone one else? Why do I need to prove myself to people I don’t even care about that I’m pretty and I can be in magazines. What kind of sick self-loathing narcissistic woman am I? I don’t know. I really have no fucking clue.

Stetten out.

“I love her!”

Waiting in the Diane Von Furstenberg model closet.

Oh goodie, it’s market month again. That means two things: I’ll make decent money and I’ll be bored out of my fucking mind. I’m actually writing this from a showroom, wearing a nude-colored american apparel one piece swimsuit and uncomfortable heels so I’m ready to run over to a designer’s rack in case clients need to see clothing on a model. I’m tired. I went to bed at 3 and woke up at 8. I don’t ever sleep. I’m sitting in a room with two other models who are also on their laptops drinking tea. One girl flew here from Paris a few days ago, her boobs are giant for a model. I’m surrounded by French speaking people and so far the only word I understand is “bleu.”

The designer I’m assigned to is a French label that is almost entirely printed silk dresses. I want to own every single one of them. I feel like a hot piece of ass in those things. The retail price for most of them is over $2000, so I can say goodbye to that dream until I become famous or marry a rich man. I’ve also discovered the most annoying thing humanly possible: watching an old person operate a digital camera. Some of the ladies who own boutiques in NYC where they’re slanging these expensive dresses are old as shit. I have to stand in front of them waiting for them to figure out which button to press on the camera, squinting at the screen and asking me to come closer to them so they can get a close-up of the pattern. Now this might not seem that annoying until you have to look at them over 100 times and they STILL can’t figure it out. I want to strangle them and yell something about how the Holocaust was a hoax, tear off my dress, and never return. Man, I would love to do that.

Yesterday a buyer came in to see the collection. I could tell when she liked a dress because she would exclaim “I LOVE HER!” Yuck. I feel like that phrase is replacing “SO CUTE” from last market. Which replaced “I DIE” from that Rachel Zoe woman thing. Either way they’re all obnoxious and make me want to puke on everyone. This is only day one of an entire week, I’m already losing my mind, but the catered lunch isn’t bad so I guess I’ll stick around. It sure beats going to castings in the rain sitting in hallways with 17 year olds comparing thigh sizes to them. I’m too old for this shit. I’m sick of not eating pizza because I have a job the next day and my stomach might not be flat enough to fit into a size 0 pencil skirt. I want to drink a diet coke and not be lectured by another model how I should be drinking a kale shake because processed foods cause cancer. I get it, you bring your own vegetable juice to jobs, you’re better than me.

Don’t worry, this isn’t my suicide letter.

xoxo
Melissa