“So let me tell you, that girl would never have had the career she has had she kept her clothes on,” you say. I can see why you think that’s true.
David Fincher said in an interview that when he wanted to cast a girl in Gone Girl whom men were obsessed with and women hated, Ben Affleck brought up my name.
Having a role in a serious film that had been cast by a well-respected director was something I was proud of. I had a fancy credit to add to my résumé, and other directors （almost always men） were impressed by my proximity to Fincher. In interviews, I knew to elaborate on how I’d worked for the role, how I’d read for the part on tape and then won it with my in-person audition with him.
But I was topless in his film. And although I had the new title of “actor,” a growing bank account, and fans recognizing me on the street, I also began to get comments online that filled me with self-loathing: “this girl can’t keep her clothes on”; “nice tits but not much else going on”; “enjoy your fifteen minutes before those things start to sag.” The hairstylists on the set of Gone Girl warned me that it was time to stop doing nude photoshoots now that I was no longer just a model and muse—but their guidance was confusing: Hadn’t I booked the role, at least in part, because of the way I’d stripped for men like you, Steve?
* * *
You’ll remember when you kissed me. Or maybe you don’t. We were saying goodbye after the launch party for my cover issue of your magazine. It was late, and I was drunk on sponsored champagne and how special you’d made me feel that night. You were using my body and the pictures you’d taken of it to promote your magazine, but I wasn’t focused on that piece of our dynamic then. Instead I felt as if you had thrown a fancy party in my honor, with all the guests there to celebrate the most desirable girl du jour （me） in all the land （Los Angeles）。
A model friend a decade older than me had called a cab to take us home. “I’ll drop you off,” she said. I turned to hug you and say thanks. You pushed your body against mine and softly pecked me on the lips twice, and then you pressed your mouth to mine. You slid your tongue past my teeth. I kissed you back. I thought of how you stood before the blown-up images of my naked body （they were for sale, I’d learned when I spotted the prices） telling everyone that I was a very special girl, holding a miniature bottle of Mo?t with one hand and circling my waist with the other.
My friend interrupted the kiss. “Come on, babe! We gotta go!” she yelled as she held the door open, waiting.
You pulled back, a glint of excitement in your eyes. You were old enough to be my father, and you knew that I shouldn’t have been kissing you, but you raised an eyebrow as if you were waiting for my signal to pounce. I burst into laughter, feeling a rush of glee at the power I had in that moment as the object of your desire. My friend took me by the wrist, yanking me away from you.
“Bye, Steve,” she called as she stuffed me into the car and slammed the door. I didn’t resist her. The truth was that I had no interest in you, only in the way you had made me feel, in the way you’d looked at me.
“You don’t want to do that,” she muttered. It was dark in the backseat. I drunkenly sat next to her, still a little giddy from the kiss and slightly embarrassed by the authority she had exerted over me. I was confused. In my na?veté, I assumed that she must have been trying to control me. Now I think of her solemn profile, dimly lit, and I understand. What must she have experienced with men like you to gain the wisdom I did not yet have?
It’s frightening now to think that I might have let you lay claim to my body and use it in that way as well. How much harder it would have been for me to conquer my shame at having tried to impress you, at the giddiness and gratitude I expressed, and at the way I surrendered my body to you so easily.
You say in your interview:
No one wants to see an old man fucking young girls anymore. It’s embarrassing. That may have worked in the ’70s, but women are so much more independent and powerful these days, and that has changed. I’m an older guy, and these girls are half my age.
You once flipped open your magazine and pointed to a model, topless and with her mouth open, to tell me you’d slept with her. You acted slightly sheepish about it, although I’m not sure whether it’s better or worse to know that you understood.
* * *
Do you remember the triptych of my naked body? I didn’t want to do the shoot, but my agent had said it was for breast cancer awareness and you promised it would just be an hour of my time.