I have had a lot of odd jobs over the years, and I have Craigslist to thank for many of them. One of my most infamous, outside of the land of madness and dildos, was as the personal assistant to an exotic dancer-cum-reality star-com-adult model.
We met in Starbucks, and I of course had diligently googled her beforehand, and had also diligently confused her with a similarly-named porn actress and buddy of my hometown’s hero Kevin Smith. The conversation got off to an awkward footing as it became increasingly clear I was lauding the achievements of her pseudonym doppelganger, and not her own. Corrections were made, chai was consumed, and I found myself with a job. From the beginning, my duties and pay were incredibly vague. I may or may not eBay her shoes. I may or may not pick up her dry cleaning. I may or may not write things for her site.
There was a photographer that lived a half mile from my apartment at the time, her photographer, who ran a number of porn sites that he shot photos for, including a Jersey-themed one. The guy was nice enough, but sent up in me that skittering feeling that made me want to edge away from him when my pseudo-employer left to use the bathroom. I stepped down the hall to bring her the requested shirt (a scant piece of fabric with a few armholes for good measure) and was confronted with a fully nude woman I’d met only yesterday, nonchalantly applying makeup in the bathroom mirror. No prude I, the shirt was handed over with only a few blinks of surprise.
The next hour was spent watching her writhe around on his ridiculously red couch, pulling at various bits of her clothing like it was full of bees, making moues at the camera. It was later that I would have to put pen to paper to tell the world in her voice how she just couldn’t seem to keep her clothes on or her hands off of herself. Naturally, I took it for the fantasy it was intended to be, but as I wrote, I couldn’t help but think I was cashing in some of my women’s lib points to get a paycheck.
Other shoots that day included (hilariously) the three of us piling into her BMW, parked in the lot outside the apartments. I was assigned the dubious task of holding a flip camcorder through the sunroof so that site members could, in time, watch my employer strip down, inexplicably in the backseat of her own car. Spanish families walked by and raised eyebrows at the apparent clown car of paparazzi that had exploded mere steps from their front doors. Other escapades included a shoot in a semi-abandoned airplane assembly yard, with a crew of mechanics watching appreciatively as she tottered around in stripper heels and the faintest notion of a skirt. Later, in a state park*, we were chased down by rangers who had caught her on camera, prancing around naked in stilettos along a hiking trail with a pervy photographer and my nondescript jeans-and-t-shirt self in tow. There are few things more chastising than slinking out of a state park with a pair of fuck-me heels in hand that don’t even belong to you.
The woman was younger than I was, and, though undeniably pretty, looked ten years older than she was. She ran her life, and her sexuality, like a business – right down to perfecting her image and body through implants and liposuction, the latter of which I was informed of when I complimented her on what I thought was a rigorous gym schedule. A few years before she hired me for those scarce few months, she had gone on a reality dating show in a bid to get her name out in the world, keeping a partner back home all during filming. She won, turned down the “prize”, and came home to build her image and make an empire of sorts. I wrote her bio, amazed at the amount of times she’d been in fairly high-profile nude mags, despite her lack of a sex tape or any sex depictions on her paid-membership website.
She took me to Lane Bryant, dressing me up like a personal “curvy” barbie doll in clothes she felt I should wear, but privately I thought looked atrocious. She was the boss though, and wanted me to have a certain image, so I kept my head down and nodded while I slipped on yet another nautical-themed jean jacket. When the working relationship tapered off shortly after, I ended up returning the clothes and getting things that were a better fit for my wardrobe. I was the broad-shouldered semi-butchy purse puppy to her sparkly stripper self for a few weeks, and it was an interesting employment experiment. I made the most out of picking up her be-fringed thongs from the tailor, driving her to the airport for Spring Break party hosting in tropical destinations, and getting to watch her lounge across her dining room table and laundry machines for photo shoots, as if her own sexuality just reared up and possessed her meek cheerleader-outfitted form in the middle of housekeeping.
The time I spent with her taught me that I wasn’t willing to pay the prices needed to be that sort of sexy, and despite her occasional unthinking comment about my weight, made me more comfortable with my own body. I’ll never be a model, but damn do I respect the ones that are.
Here’s to you, K. Thanks for the fun times.
* Earlier, I’d watched a girl dildo-fuck herself in the ass atop one of the park’s tables in videos on the photographer’s other website. There was a family of four cheerfully eating sandwiches off the same table when we were there.