I got orange juice, walked into the living room. It was filled with the most diverse set of women I’d seen. Each had distinctive marks — one with a tattoo across her chest, another with red hair and seven piercings in her face. There was a model that wore a cape with half her head shaved. She was saying, “They didn’t tell me they were gonna hang my body from the ceiling. They wrapped my arms and legs, pinched my nipples with these clippers that really stung, and it was cold as hell. I was hanging bare-ass naked, but they got into a big argument about the lighting. I was like, guys, can we hurry this up?” Everyone burst into laughter.
In another circle, they were talking about the travails of corsets and aluminum garters. “Did you hear how Jessica had two ribs removed?”
“How much did your boob job cost you?”
“I had the doctors drain twenty pounds from my stomach.”
“How you doing?” Rick asked.
“Fine.”
When a pair of models passed by, he called them and introduced me. They looked through my book of photography. “These are really beautiful and mysterious,” they said. “You really like the noir look, huh?”
I nodded.
“And what are the backgrounds?”
“I recreate urban legends,” I answered.
“Why those?”
“I think urban legends are an outlet for the psyche and it’s a representation of something real that people don’t like to deal with consciously. You guys have a portfolio?” I asked.
One of them handed it to me. All the pictures were Goth nudes displaying bondage, S&M, artistic pornography in which they looked like they were in pain. “These are great,” I said.
Rick took me out to the backyard for a breath of fresh air.
“Don’t be so tense,” he said. “You gotta get used to this kind of thing.”
“This isn’t my style,” I said.
He laughed. “Go and mingle. Remember, you don’t have a girlfriend anymore. You’re allowed to have fun.”
There were pockets of social activity, people sucking on their cigarettes and chatting about the quirks of particular models. It was cold, thick clouds making it gloomy, atypical weather conditions on a LA summer night. I headed for the tent they’d splayed out back, took a seat. Across from me were two girls. One had dirty blonde hair, looked like she was in high school with thick eye shadow and mascara surrounding her pupils. She was pale with a grungy shirt that slit above her belly, revealing a pierced navel. She waved exuberantly when I sat. Next to her was a very attractive girl with darker skin, a bit more rounded, though not plump. She was smoking a thin cigarette, but wasn’t looking in my direction.
I introduced myself.
The blonde was named Jenna and the other, Desdemona.
“You’re a photographer?” they asked.
“Yeah. You guys are models, right?”
“Yep.
“You guys have a portfolio?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Jenna said. “I’m looking to make contacts so I can make one.”
“I just came along to keep her company,” Desdemona added.
“What about you?” Jenna asked.
I handed her my book. She went through page by page.
“You idealize women,” Jenna said. “It’s funny how it’s always one way or the other.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the photographers here fall into two categories. Guys who despise women and debase them, and guys like you.”
“Photography is about extremes,” I said. “That’s what makes it interesting. Who wants to see pictures of ordinary women?”
“I do,” Jenna said, then laughed. “No, you’re right. This is beautiful work. I’m not knocking it.”
I grinned. “Thanks.” I took the book back from her. “How long you been modeling?”
“I just started. I’m actually from West Virginia and I’m thinking about moving out here to get my career going.”
“How’s your journey going?”
“Pretty good. I made some contacts at a convention and saw some celebrities.” She named four people from TV shows I’d never heard of. “I found out about this party through harakirigirls.com.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a really popular site. They do lots of the Goth, bondage kind of stuff. It’s really big and I wanted to be one of the models. She’s,” referring to Desdemona, “one of the models. She’s crazier than me though and can do it all. She was just in bugxxx.com.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s where a model gets paid to be taken captive for a weekend.”
“Captive?”
Jenna laughed. “You want to explain?”
Desdemona seemed irritated but said, “Basically, the guys put you up in a really nice hotel for a day, capture you and take photos for two days. They’re really long and grueling but it looks a lot worse on camera. They’re actually really nice and they take good care of you.”
“What kind of stuff do they do?”
“Anything short of actual penetration.”
“Penetration?” I said, confused.
“Use your imagination,” she said.
“What about you?” Jenna asked. “How long you been doing photography?”
“A couple years now. I do a lot of fashion shows and production stills for movie sets. How do you like LA?”
“It’s great! Check this out.” She suddenly stood up, dropped her skirt, revealing a g-string and a bare rear. There was a tattoo of an elephant shaped like a human on the left cheek of her butt. “I got that in Venice.”
“Why an elephant?” I asked.
“It’s not just an elephant,” she said. “It’s Ganesha.” Seeing my confusion, “He’s a Hindu god.” She described a couple places out on Sunset she’d been to, getting drunk the night before at a gay bar, hunting down places for karaoke. “We only found one place but the line was way too long.”
“You gotta go to Koreatown,” I said. “They have the karaoke places with your own private room.”
“Do you know where they are?” Jenna asked excitedly.
“Of course. You want to go?”
“Yeah! Let’s go!”
I laughed. “All right. But only after the party dies down. We still gotta make contacts.”
“Sounds good.”
Rick came by and I introduced him to the two.
“How long you in town?” he asked Jenna.
“Two more days. I was hoping to meet some photographers so I could get some photos before I went back.”
“Well today’s your lucky day. The two of us will take your photos.”
“REALLY?!” she exclaimed.
Rick laughed. “Really.”
“Do you guys mind taking different kinds of photos?”
“What do you mean different?”
“I mean nudes,” she answered.
“Not at all,” Rick said.
Jenna peered over at me furtively.
We chatted more, poured additional drinks. Desdemona and Jenna went to take a quick bathroom break.
“That girl digs you,” Rick said to me.
“Who?”
“Jenna, who else?”
“She’s just being nice because I’m a contact.”
“She digs you, man. You guys have chemistry.”
I laughed and shrugged it off. But inside, I wondered, does she? She was attractive, funny, quirky. I was interested.
When the two returned, Rick said, “Why don’t you take a couple photos right now?”
“I don’t have my camera,” I said.
“You can use mine. It’s in the car. Here’s the keys.”
“I’ll come with you,” Jenna said with a bright smile.
We headed for his Jeep.
“I don’t know what it is, but lately, I feel like everything I do is a lie,” I said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I don’t feel inspired anymore. I keep on wondering, is this it? I mean, yeah, you can make more money, but how do you get better? How do you push the art without just trying to be provocative to get attention?”