With the state of mind I was in (desperate with ideas based on stupidity) modeling seemed like the perfect way to get the ex-boyfriend’s attention first and amour later. Photos were sent to agencies and companies, American Apparel being one of them. Nothing happened… except Dov called me. The conversation was a little on the boring side involving curiosities about my nationality and favorite American Apparel pieces. He said to call him whenever but didn’t leave a number.
Like all hipster fucks I end up working for American Apparel and meet Dov in person. He was peculiar and this 70s porn star vibe oozed from his flesh. He was a shower and not a grower. I knew because it was a bulge that could not, would not hide. His pants just couldn’t contain him and I thought how it would hurt my insides. He frantically paced around the store pointing at merchandise while his entourage of beautiful make-up free gals clad in shiny leggings took notes. He was unhappy, something about sales, and left as quickly as he entered.
Fast forward: I quit the retail scene and out of pure boredom I again send American Apparel photos. Dov called, I had a shoot to look forward to but took it as a false promise.
Two weeks later he picks me up and we DID NOT HAVE SEX. Instead, I sat on a stool wearing leggings and a bandeau top which exposed the “devotion” tattoo. Strike one: I learned tattoos are not sexy. The sexually tensed air would dissipate when asked to think and feel sexy. Even a stack of vintage Playboy could not inspire me. Strike two: I lacked sensuality. He set the camera aside, lowered the music, and pulled out some paperwork. I signed a statement acknowledging payment for tax purposes. I was positive my vacant eyes played a part in this one hit wonder. Strike three: My eyes were not inviting. We left and got food at a deli. He offered to pay for my Panini. Pity food. Without him even making a grab for my ass our contact diminished, maybe because I was titillating in the cute “little sister” way. Le sigh.
The photographs were on the site weeks later. It was a good fifteen minutes of fame until I noticed the missing “devotion” tattoo. My strategy was airbrushed off. But alas, baby Jesus pulled through and the ex-boyfriend drunk dialed (three whole years later) his way back to boyfriend status and we happily continue to bone.
