And truthfully, I didn't have much time to think about it. Almost immediately, Wifey pounced, proceeding to tease and spray my hair to look, as she put it, "dirty and grimy like you've been on stage all night." Then came the pièce de résistance, draped over my delicate little Jew-neck: an enormous crucifix — with dragons. As he started shooting, Joe repeatedly coached me: "Angry! Angrier! I just ran over your puppy! Get angry!" Wifey sat on a Nixon-era couch behind him, watching me pose and biting her bottom lip. She kept fidgeting. On closer inspection, she appeared to be rubbing herself against the couch with enough friction to light a campfire. Through her spandex ensemble, I could see that her nipples were hard and her camel-toe fully engorged. When Joe asked me to lose the jacket I was somewhat relieved. It smelled like him: eau de cheap cigarettes, hair gel, and body odor. I was reasonably sure wearing it too long would result in acquiring an antibiotic-resistant skin fungus. I started to take the cross off, but he told me to keep that on. Only that on. Wifey engaged in a noticeable fidgeting frenzy. "Okay, now, Jenny." (I hate being called Jenny.) "I want you to look right into the camera. Hold up the cross, but use your wrists to cover your, uh, yourself. Look angry. And gimmie some cleavage. Lotsa cleavage." Cleavage? Was he blind? Was he completely oblivious to the fact that earlier I had taken off a Pretty Pretty Princesses brand training bra? As if being flat wasn't humiliating enough, I then had to make a big show of squishing my boobs together, confirming once and for all that there's barely anything there, even when I try to force it. I squeezed and looked angry. Joe licked his lips. Wifey humped the couch. Say cheese!  When the shoot was over, I threw on my clothes and flew out the door as quickly as possible. I did not ask if we could collaborate in the future on a shoot geared more towards my objectives. I did not ask when I would receive the photos. I didn't even put on my bra, since we'd already established the fact that I didn't really need one. When he finally put down his camera and Wifey's twitching dulled to a slow roll, I channeled another group of has-been rock stars, A Flock of Seagulls, and ran so far away.The next day I received my end of the bargain via email. They were so horrid, I had to laugh. I imagined sending them to my family: Dear Grandma, thanks for surviving the Holocaust so I could be here today. To show my appreciation I have decided to pose topless wearing a giant cross. And look — the photographer was even kind enough to Photoshop some tattoos on my arms!!! Remember when the Nazis did that to you?! XOXO! Clearly my brief foray into modeling had gone awry, but that's no reason for yours to. Making use of common sense goes a long way. (I use the term "common sense" loosely, because if it were so common, everyone — my dumb self included — would have it.) Bring a chaperone. Discuss boundaries — such as nudity, religious imagery, and the proper laundering of wardrobe — ahead of time. Settle on a concept before the shoot to ensure that everyone will be satisfied with the end result. It probably wouldn't hurt to request that the photographer's friend with a penchant for furniture-humping not be present. As for me, it's back to the proverbial drawing board. I'm still looking for a photographer to shoot my portrait, someone who can make an un-photogenic woman look hot on a small budget. Any leads would be greatly appreciated, although preference will be given to photographers without affinities for forty-year old Goths and couch-to-clitoral stimulation. n°
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