Victoria and I held our drinks, hers with a cig, as we waited for “Sylvia’s” return. I asked V to block me as I covertly shoved half a napkin in each of my pumps as they, regardless of their cute factor, are one size to big and I had previously been stumbling around like an idiot. I felt like a little girl playing dress up.

As Victoria inhaled a long drag I eavesdropped on close conversation. “Yes, I am here for Nicholson. I too am a designer and she inspires me.” Another group talked about promiscuous sex and the joy of a one-night stand. I fixed my peacock feather earrings and tried to sit more erect.

“You look like a bitch, bitch,” Victoria laughed. She, I must admit, is a breath of fresh, sassy, vibrant air in the midst of the stale smoke other people seem to emanate every time they talk. She too could make the same statements about Nicholson and promiscuity and somehow it wouldn’t be at all annoying or patronizing. It would just be.

Sylvia returned in all her Gucci gold-jacketed, Hermes-pumped glory and we found our seats at the first show. I fingered through the program on my seat and thought it was terrible. I leaned to the girls, whispering, “Wow, guns and skulls. How revolutionary. They are going to be all over next spring!”

They giggled and Victoria snickered back, “I know. You may not think it will catch on, but Hot Topic is already ordering stock in it. It’ll be huge.”

I smiled and sat back feeling like a huge snob. All I could think of was how terrible the music was and how amazed I was by the lack of fashion sense in all the attendees. Then I wondered, who set this bar in my head? How did I decide this music is bad and why do I think my dress, socks, and pumps are far more acceptable then that man’s “so 3 years ago” mesh hat and Von Dutch purposely ripped and faded jeans?

Although, I have to take a deep breath and not panic. I honestly don’t think like such a highbrow when I’m walking down the street or among friends. In real life, thank God, I don’t hold anyone against an issue of Italian Vogue or Nylon. I suppose last night just felt different. My mind justified my arrogance by reason that walking into Smashbox, LA during Fashion Week is invited others to recognize, or choose to hate each other’s clothes and the composition of them. I can safely assume someone hated my clothes too…

I continued to look around the room and Sylvia pointed out a 20-some year old guy with a mod haircut staring at me. I had to smile as I noticed him chewing nervously on his lip, like he felt like I was staring back at him. Then I noted that nearly everyone in that room was biting their lips; everyone feared someone was staring at them. All those fashionistas, writers, and editors clung to the pretense of confidence and self-esteem, but it was obviously not the truth in many cases. No one smiled and no one laughed.

Wait a second, there was cackling. Enter Janice Dickinson and her company of three beautiful gay men. They sat directly across from us and were undoubtedly making fun of things twice as much as we had been.

The Jennifer Nicholson show was far more fun and relaxed. Usually I find that successful people are more fun and more laid back and this huge room was full of such types. As I took pictures of the runway, I had to admit my appreciation for beautiful women. The idea of an incredibly tall, beautiful, idealistic woman with fine features strutting with a blank stare as though she wouldn’t notice you if you tried to reach her is, undoubtedly, pretty sexy. It makes me feel like a 10 year old darling again, longing to be a woman. And hey, my tissue stuffed shoes only served to confirm such feelings.

Speaking of ten year olds, I was sitting a row behind three very specific ones. They all hooted and hollered as loud as they could the shorter each passing skirt became. My fears only deepened when one placed his v’ed fingers to his lips and swirled around his tiny tongue. Victoria shrugged and wisely cautioned, “I know, I know. But, you can’t determine a boy by his antics. He could be a great kid.”

At the end of the night, it only went to further communicate the lesson of the week: Even though these shows are created to do exactly this, one cannot and should not judge any book by its cover.

I hereby solemnly promise to not care how you choose to cover your book.

 by Steven Meisel

 

It is amazing how a girl can be offered sex a million times, yet feel repulsively unattractive.

Two months in New York, New York. It was the height of fashion week and the city had a loud buzz in the air. For those of you that aren’t privy to this information, fashion weeks take place in the major fashion capitals of the world, from New York to LA to Paris to Italy, and are simply a showcase of runways in which each designer presents his or her new line of clothing. I was right in the center as personal assistant and slave to an aspiring designer we’ll call “Steven” who would later rob me of a grand, while attempting to take my dignity, as well.

I plan to share many of these New York adventures with you, this being my first stab at a difficult subject. Everyone’s names will be changed with the exception of my lovely God-sends Leah, Kyle, Robbie, Estrella, and Tracy. Let it be known that I have high respect for the publicists involved and dearly love many of the key players. However, to assure my ability to be entirely blunt, as I tell these tales from my perspective, I will preserve the secrecy of those involved.

That being said, here is my first New York tale: Models Rent Islands and Perverts Prevail.

Standing in that gentile charcoal dress I began to feel pretty again. I was gaunt from living off of coffee, minute amounts of sushi, and constant runs to and from the subways. Even still, our stylist “Devon” made it a point to always note, “G’Dammit, Brenda! If only you’d lose like 12 pounds you would be a huge model!”

At my early expression of interest to model in the show, Steven agreed with Devon, “Honestly, you’re not fitting in any of these clothes.” There were even several times, without my solicitation, they offered I tried things on to gain accurate measurements. It only served as humiliation when they loudly concurred, “So, just picture it several inches smaller. It will look great on a real model.”

However, they didn’t say it tonight; not while I stood in Steven’s black dress.

They may have still thought I was fat. After all, it wasn’t until the very end that an assistant Kyle yelled in his fabulously flamboyant nature, “Damn, Brenda! You are skinnn-ieee!” That Devon finally turned, “Hmm, yeah she is, isn’t she?”

Most times it’s simply business, but sometimes it was personal, and the difference sliced a little paper-cut into my mind each time. Truth be told, as sick as it may be, models are primarily, hired clothes hangers. I even caught myself say at our casting, “Oh no, her boobs won’t fill that dress, at all,” right in front of a model. My eyes widened. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten that she was a real live woman, and I had made her breath raise her real live boobs when she reacted emotionally. It was the first, and I should hope, the last time I ever dwindled a precious woman down to a dress hanger…

Sadly, in defense of Devon and Steven, I am indeed a fat model in New York City. Sorry to blow the cover for those bubbly super-models that enjoy the claim of a diet of large pizzas and “Whatever I want!” but for the average model, that is simply not true. A woman’s body is created with procreation in mind, and the Lord simply doesn’t give girls the bodies of 12 year-old Asian children to do so. That kind of figure takes one in a million genes, massive starvation (I spoke to one girl who lives off a cup of oatmeal a day), or cocaine, or speed, or all of the above.

I smiled with nausea in my tummy when the infamous Kate Moss “scandal” came to surface. I thought it was terribly wise of the fashion industry to pretend they didn’t know, and certainly didn’t solicit the use of such a drug. When, in fact I know and have seen that it is quite the opposite. Kate makes the industry millions of dollars thin as a rail; if you don’t think they would risk a woman’s precious health to do so, you are sadly mistaken. I know of more than a few 15 year old girls who were given speed and laxatives from agents and “friends” “as a start” that would lead to cocaine to keep skinny and energetic. Hooray!

Leah and I trekked to the subway in our stilettos. Watching several businessman’s eyes widen at the sight of us made my heart skip a beat.

By the time we reached the ferry, my feet already ached, but I didn’t care anymore as Liberty Island became clearer and clearer. Straight off the ferry there was a long red carpet, which we common folk weren’t invited to walk upon. “Doesn’t matter,” I thought, as we trailed up the walk, which was lined with thousands of tea-light candles. At the center, there were open bars around the perimeter with anything a heart could desire. We turned right and my eyes feasted upon the banquets of caviar and exquisite food before the open water. The hill before us was decorated with hundreds of oriental rugs covered in plush pillows. Lines of beautiful lights streamed across and between all of the trees. Crewmembers hurriedly set up the floating stage upon the water in preparation of Duran Duran’s performance…

However, human decor couldn’t compare to the beauty that God created in the form of Natalia Vodianova. Thank you to Steven’s publicist, I was working the event and in charge of the VIP section. I was meant to guard all the beautiful model’s carpets but the security guards felt they could do a more adequate job. I was excused after only an hour to, “Enjoy the party.”

I hadn’t eaten all day, so Leah and I sat and ate as prettily as we could. Photographers continually approached me inquiring about who I was. I let them take my picture and followed their question with, “Brenda Marie” and a shrug. Devon joined us and the adorable man and gossip queen spewed out all the Steven scoop, which was always quite harsh and detestable.

After sighing and listening to “Come Undone,” Devon announced his and Kyle’s departure and I begged, “Oh, wait for me. I don’t wanna leave alone.” I watched in amazement as some of the wealthiest blokes in New York scurried to grab all the hill’s pillows as if they were party favors. Moments later Devon rushed by with two purple ones in tow, “Let’s go, bitches!”

We flagged a cab and immediately flew onto the driver’s bad side as Kyle and Devon flirted and chased each other around the cab. “Get in!” Leah and I begged. “Get the hell in!” the cabbie concurred. At last they did and the ride was spent arguing over who would pay. “I only brought my license in my shoe,” I announced. Kyle and Leah paid, perhaps a dollar short because Kyle yelled, “Run for your lives!”

“Fuck you guys!” the driver screamed as I noticed my phone on the seat- “Wait!” I begged as the driver flew away slamming the door at the force. Now, people joke about my phone being my lifeline, but then, oh my did I need it. I couldn’t bear the thought of a day spent without talking to my parents and friends; my sources of sanity in this insane place! If my life were a movie, this would be the scene where the crane glides up for an overhead shot of me falling to my knees in desperation, flailing my arms around and screaming into the night…

I called my cell and the driver picked up. “Ok, I know we gave you a hard time, but I will pay you to bring back my phone.”

“Goodbye,” he answered.

By that point our publicist “Tiffany” arrived in another cab, “Jump in,” she said. I sat inside for a moment only to hear the game plan was to arrive at Bungalow 8, catch Steven seducing an underage model, and humiliate him publicly. As much as Steven drove me insane, nothing within me desired to arrive at an elite club with a posse who intended to make a scene in front of Puff Daddy or Marc Jacobs or the Olson twins or God knows whom else. No thank you. I assured everyone I would be fine, and they sent me out into the street, in the gentile black dress, at 3AM, blocks away from the studio Leah, Devon, and I slept in. I wasn’t scared of the lonely streets. I’m not naive; I watch bazillions of forensic shows on TV. I was just angry, and extraordinarily tired. Not to mention, I had a distinct feeling of being surrounded by a towering angel’s wings. Literally, I felt invincible in those moments. I am almost positive that if Charles Manson was approaching me on that street I would have flipped him off and excused myself to bed. Ironically, I’d never felt so safe. Thank God.

The studio was unexpectedly locked. I walked a few more blocks. Our design studio was also locked and the man who rented to us was nowhere in sight and not in his apartment. Without my phone, all the contacts I’d made in New York were but a mystery of infinite ten-digit number combinations. All I wanted in life was to lie down.

I spotted an open deli and walked in. I explained to the owner, “I’m so sorry, I have no money on me, but could I just sit at one of your tables?” He nodded and I rested my head. I woke up a bit later to the man sitting at the next table, staring intently at me. My heart jumped, but I tried to play it off, “Oh. Sorry I fell asleep.”

“That’s quite alright,” he answered seductively. Wow, look at the time!, I thought. But that wouldn’t work so I simply decided upon, “I’m going to go. Thank you.”

Directly next door stood an NYU dormitory. I peeked in and spotted the couches in the lobby as though they were the treasure at the end of what had become a dark, black rainbow of an evening. The man at the desk was a decently attractive guy in his thirties. I explained my situation and he responded, “I will get in a world of trouble if my boss walks in and sees you sleeping here. But, you can sit on the couch until morning.”

I wanted to scream but instead, “Ok, whatever. But you are gonna have to talk to me for hours or I’m gonna pass out.” He agreed. I smoothed the dress down my thighs for optimal modesty and looked at the clock. Only 4AM. I had hours to go. Meanwhile, the guard stood by his promise and told me all about himself, his goals, his wife, and then suddenly, “How many men have you been with?”

“Inappropriate,” I announced.

He smiled, “Sorry.” Then, “Listen, I have a friend that drives a taxi. He is a nice, regular guy with a spare room. He gets off in a half an hour. Why don’t you just crash there?”

Instantly, I could practically see God waving an enormous red flag and my dad crying in shame. “Um, that’s ok.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he persisted. “He’s a nice guy.”

“No, no thank you. My mom would slaughter me; I’m not even supposed to take candy from strangers,” I laughed.

“Tell ya what. Lemme just invite him over, you can meet him, and then decide from there.” I was too exhausted to argue. Twenty minutes later, a cab rolled up and the guard called me outside. I shook the driver’s firm, sweaty hand and he gave me a wink…

 by Terry Richardson

“Nice to meet you.” I frowned and excused myself back inside. The guard waved goodbye to his friend and stormed in.

“Hey! He came all the way here for nothing!”

“I told you I would never sleep there!”

He rolled his eyes and sat behind his desk. “Forget it,” he sighed, “I mean, he would’ve expected it, but you didn’t have to sleep with him.”

“Excuse me? There was never a chance in hell I was gonna sleep with him! I’m a virgin, OK?”

He sat in silence for a bit. “Do you do other things?”

I snapped back, “None of your business!” Only 4:45? Someone shoot me! If my dress were down to my toes it wouldn’t have been modest enough for this evening.

We both sat in silence for a bit until, “My wife just had a baby boy.” I sighed with relief at the shift in gears.

“Congratulations,” I said with sincerity.

“Yeah. It was only a week ago and we’re not supposed to have sex for 40 days.”

I rolled my eyes, “Welp, small sacrifice for an amazing baby.”

“Yes, but I’m not used to that. When I saw you walking in here, in that dress…I’ve cheated on her before”- my eyes shot up to him- “I thought it was fate. I was hoping you were coming here to…” his voice trailed off and he offered me a sick half-smile.

Literally, vomit rose in my mouth and I held it back. I coughed as my mind spun; this was the final straw. I couldn’t take it anymore! It had been months of situations just like this. Every time I smiled, every time I tried to look pretty, every man in my path thought I’d dressed up and smiled just for his sick, selfish pleasure. I was everything from hit-on to bribed and blackmailed. I never gave in and, obviously this would be no exception!

Finally, “You’re trying to raise an asshole?”

“W-What?” he stuttered.

“You are an asshole. You don’t think your son’s gonna see that you’re an asshole? You don’t think he’s gonna learn how to treat women by watching you treat his mother like the asshole you are?”

“I-I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” I begged as I gathered myself together and headed for the door. “Tell your wife the truth and give her a chance to leave your pathetic-excuse-for-a-man self and let a real man raise your son.” I pushed the glass door and entered the newly, sunlit street. I walked to the design studio and the door was open, at last. I peeked into the back room and found Steven asleep on the only couch. I wouldn’t shut my eyes within 50 feet of him anyway so I went back the main room and lay on the thin, itchy blue carpet and fell asleep.