I’m smiling, walking; people are staring at my ass. Smiling, one foot in front of the other, crap is that a nipple! Smiling, don’t look directly at them, head up, tits out, hands – have to find something to do with my hands. Does this thong come with pockets?
I’m a non-model who’s modeling lingerie in front of hordes of strangers. Oh and I’m not sure if that’s a pube poking through my seamless, crotchless panyhose. I blame my friend Maria and her aunt Maryanne for this. I met my friend Maria at one of my countless jobs (shoe guy ‘OCD Joe’ – read my previous blog). She was or is an engineer, I was an executive secretary (do they even have those anymore?).
Maria had other interests outside of our day jobs. One was opening her own boutique and she was good at getting me to do things I wasn’t really sure I wanted to do. Not because she had such a persuasive way about her but because she was commanding and when she asked you to do something it wasn’t really a question so much as ‘you are doing this.’ So when she asked me to model clothes for her in a local fashion show to promote her newly opened boutique I really didn’t have a choice. It was more, ‘you are going to model clothes for me in my local fashion show. . .’ But when she introduced me to Aunt Maryann and the fashion became lingerie I had my reservations. Yeah, I still did it – whore!
My first fashion show was with real clothes, I had never modeled anything before but I knew how to put my pants on and work it. I was an 80’s girl in my 20’s – you worked it every night at the disco. Yes I said ‘disco’ it was the 80’s, get on my level! The fashion show requirements were – fit a size, any size, because she didn’t want women to think it was a skinny girl kind of shop, if you had big hair you made it bigger, red lips you made them redder and plaster a smile on your face regardless of what you’re wearing. I supported all of her local high school shows for the PTA, fund raiser type of events, clad yet smashing in the latest hideous. Yes those were the days and I didn’t think they could be topped, I was wrong.
Aunt Maryann was also in the clothing / fashion business. I use the term fashion extremely loosely because I’m not sure that underwear and house coats are really considered fashion. This time I don’t even think there was a question, the plan was hatched, and I was part of it, there would be scantily clad me on a runway somewhere in Queens or was it the Bronx showing off the latest in bedtime boudoir apparel. I figured what the hell; I’ll never see these people again.
When we arrived at the civic center in Co-Op City, a series of high rise apartment buildings in the Bronx, the people were waiting for a ‘show’. There were rows of chairs setup theatre style, a podium in the front with Aunt Maryann at the helm. A civic center, really? No runway, no backstage or dressing room. Just a big room with bad fluorescent lighting and a dirty floor. This place made backstage high school auditoriums look like a Broadway production. This was no ladies auxiliary crowd. These people were here to see a bunch of women in their underwear parade around the room. The show must go on right, fabulous!
The clothes racks had been setup in the back of the room and situated in such a way to keep us hidden from the audience. Some creative positioning of the men’s bathroom door that we had wedged opened with our rolling racks of underwear, baby dolls and house coats kept us from view while we disrobed. For three women, of varying size and weight hiding behind a rolling clothes rack with an open bathroom door on our left and a friggin urinal on our right it was a make it work moment.
We pushed and shoved and leaned over and on each other to get ourselves into wardrobe, awfully aware of our surroundings and frantically dressing while sleeves and panty hose hit the urinal cake trying not to let our feet hit the floor. Imagine the scene from the other side of that clothes rack! Loud out of control laughing – the kind that makes your belly hurt, the kind that leaves you breathless and the kind that gets you going again at the mere thought of what started it in the first place (urinal cake). Three falling over broads who were about to come out and put on a show for the ‘audience’. All I could think was “Do I really want to do this?” Oh, yeah we’re doing this.
And then began the fifteen minute walk of ‘fame’ shame. I kept my eyes unfocused toward the podium and Aunt Maryann. She would give subtle signals that you needed to remove something as she described the pieces you were wearing to the crowd. I tried to listen to what she said so I would stay on cue but the voices in my head were louder than she was. ”It’s almost over, only 4 more outfits to go, keep your head up, tits out, these pants are way too short for me, am I wearing polyester blend, I hope my heel does not get caught in this robe, did I forget to shave my left arm pit, hands what do I do with my hands, damn I wish there were pockets, how ridiculous do I look right now in patent leather come fuck me pumps and a teddy bear one size fits all sleep shirt, is this the sleeve that hit the urinal cake, I have an itch, am I getting paid for this!”
At the end of the day, we all kicked Victoria’s ass and it was no secret! Truth is I was pretty damn good at doing things Maria told me to do. And if she had asked I never would have done half of them. I kept an open mind, said yes and ended up with a great story. Next time anyone should ask (seriously no one’s asking for anything anymore) I’ll be ready to find my inner whore and work that bitch to death!
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