It took less than 48 hours out of the year to become one of the many faces of American Apparel, a retarded strategy used to get the ex-boyfriend back. Actually, no, getting a tattoo devoted to him and thinking we would frolic into each other’s arms surrounded by stars, hearts and marigolds after he sees it. Now THAT was retarded.
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.
