He was turned away from me when he said, “Let’s try naked now.”
I’d been shot nude a handful of times before, always by men. I’d been told by plenty of photographers and agents that my body was one of the things that made me stand out among my peers. My body felt like a superpower. I was confident naked—unafraid and proud. Still, though, the second I dropped my clothes, a part of me dissociated. I began to float outside of myself, watching as I climbed back onto the bed. I arched my back and pursed my lips, fixating on the idea of how I might look through his camera lens. Its flash was so bright and I’d had so much wine that giant black spots were expanding and floating in front of my eyes.
“iCarly,” Jonathan said, smirking as he shot. Only his mouth was visible, the rest of his face eclipsed by his camera. That was the name of the Nickelodeon show I’d been on for two episodes while in high school.
I put my lingerie back on, and we made our way back downstairs, Jonathan in front of me, gripping the Polaroids in his fists before dropping them on the kitchen table. My face was hot from the wine, and my cheeks glowed and throbbed. He was excited as he scrutinized the pictures, holding one up close to his face and then letting it fall again.
“You know, I thought you would be bigger. A big girl,” he said, his brow furrowing as he picked up another Polaroid for inspection. He told me that when he googled me prior to our meeting, he’d seen a particular shoot that left him with this impression.
“You know, big-boned. Fat.” He half smiled.
“Yeah, no,” I said, laughing. “I’m like really, really tiny.”
I knew what pictures he was referencing, from early in my career. I hated them, and I hated the way I’d felt while shooting them. I hated the way the stylist had made comments about my body, about how I could never be a fashion model. I also knew, even though I never would have admitted it, that I’d been less concerned with my weight at the time of that shoot. Freer. I enjoyed food more and didn’t think so much about the shape of my ass. I didn’t have to; I wasn’t relying on modeling as much then.
I sipped my wine. “What should we shoot next?”
Time warped in the glow of the warm yellow lamps of Jonathan’s living room, the vintage lingerie draped over the musty, floral-printed armchairs. As the night went on, I became sweaty and exhausted and bleary-eyed. But I was still determined. I liked to check out the first few Polaroids Jonathan took with each new “look” and adjust my pose and body accordingly before we continued. I could feel him bristle as I exclaimed, “Oh, I like that one!”
“This one, though,” he said, holding the stack of Polaroids to his chest and flicking one around so I could catch a quick glance of it. “This one is so good because of your nipples. Your nipples change so much from hard to soft. But I like them when they’re gigantic,” he said, opening his phone to show me a vintage pinup of a woman with oversize nipples. “I love when they’re giant,” he told me. “Giant and exaggerated.” He looked back to his phone, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. I said nothing and nodded, confused but somehow feeling that he meant to insult me. I felt my stomach turn.
I had no sense of what time it was when the makeup artist announced she was going to bed. I can’t remember if we had stopped shooting and were just looking at the pictures together or what. I’m sure she was sick of my posturing with Jonathan. I remember the way she sighed as she turned away from me, vanishing. I stiffened as her presence dissolved from the living room. I was upset with her for leaving me, but I didn’t want to admit to myself that her presence had made a difference. I can handle him alone, I thought. She was a buzzkill anyway. I sat up, erect. I started talking faster and louder. I was pumped full of so much sugary wine that I felt wide awake, albeit very, very drunk.
The next thing I remember is being in the dark.
The yellow lights were switched off, and I was cold, shivering, and huddled under a blanket. Jonathan and I were on his couch, and the rough texture of his jeans rubbed against my bare legs. He was asking me about my boyfriends. My mouth was chalky, but I remember I was still talking a lot—about my dating history, which guys I really loved, which ones were whatever. As I spoke, I absentmindedly rubbed my feet against one another and against his for warmth. He told me he liked “that foot thing you’re doing,” and I remember this moment more clearly than anything else. I hate that Jonathan commented on something I’ve done throughout my life to comfort myself. I hate that sometimes, even now, when I rub my feet together because I’m cold or afraid or exhausted, I think of Jonathan.