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Illustration by Molly Crabapple. About a month ago, I was daydreaming at work and a bunch of random memories flooded into my mind. One in particular was this flash of me and an ex-gf from long ago, hanging out in the living room of the apartment we shared. I remembered how this girl, who was a dancer of sorts, could just do these faces and body movements out of nowhere, just in passing, as something intended to be a joke, that would floor me. I've always wondered how some ladies can turn this fountain of sheer, gun blast sexy power on and off, aiming it at exactly who they want, when they want. I asked my new friend, well-known artist and professional sexy lady, Molly Crabapple , to try and make sense of the ramblings I wrote her one day, and this is what she came up with. We'd been bumming around Morocco for three weeks. Despite my warnings, Z was increasingly disgusted with me for provoking constant street harassment. I covered myself chin to toe, but guys at the bus station would hiss at me like snakes anyway. While picking ants out of our mint tea, we struck up a conversation with two other westerners.

My answer was obviously, "Um, yes! More than one woman said to me, "You're so brave. I could never do that. I'm too self-conscious about my [insert body part of theirs I had actively envied] to be naked in front of other people. Apparently, being naked is still a radical act. Though I considered myself pretty damn comfortable with being naked you'll find me naked at home on my couch as I write this, laptop balanced atop my bush , what I found out at Hedonism is that I had an entire other layer of shame around my nakedness and body, just waiting to be shed. To my own surprise, my four days at a nudist resort profoundly changed my life. I left feeling, with a nearly evangelical surety, that being naked in "public" is something every woman should get to experience at least once in her life. My first moment of public nakedness came on Day 1 aboard a sailboat, when I was going snorkeling with the other journalists invited on the trip. In an attempt to be naked as much as possible, I hadn't even packed a swimsuit, so I knew I was going in topless.

Illustration by Molly Crabapple. About a month ago, I was daydreaming at work and a bunch of random memories flooded into my mind. One in particular was this flash of me and an ex-gf from long ago, hanging out in the living room of the apartment we shared. I remembered how this girl, who was a dancer of sorts, could just do these faces and body movements out of nowhere, just in passing, as something intended to be a joke, that would floor me.

I've always wondered how some ladies can turn this fountain of sheer, gun blast sexy power on and off, aiming it at exactly who they want, when they want. I asked my new friend, well-known artist and professional sexy lady, Molly Crabapple , to try and make sense of the ramblings I wrote her one day, and this is what she came up with.

We'd been bumming around Morocco for three weeks. Despite my warnings, Z was increasingly disgusted with me for provoking constant street harassment. I covered myself chin to toe, but guys at the bus station would hiss at me like snakes anyway. While picking ants out of our mint tea, we struck up a conversation with two other westerners. They were wind-burned, milk-wholesome Scandinavian girls. Z told me that he bet they never had guys stalking them around Marrakech.

Turning it on and off was something I thought about when I was lying naked in a warehouse in the Bronx, surrounded by hard-boiled eggs. The man photographing me adamantly denied having an egg fetish. After the shoot was over, he'd offer them to me to bring home and eat. I was broke enough to say yes. I was I'd been working as a naked model for two years.

Back in the early aughts, there was a flourishing semi-legit business for girls like me, based off Craigslist and OneModelPlace. Girls too short, fat or plain to be legit models, unwilling to give the "fuck you" to convention it takes to be in legit porn, would pose for amateur photographers. They paid bucks an hour. We showed up in their hotel rooms.

We posed on their beds. We told each other who was a good guy and who was a sociopath, knowing full well that if a GWC raped us, the police would do nil. A girl I knew was working as a bondage model. The photographer threatened to kill her. She wept. He let her go. When she went to the police, they shrugged her off.

The photographer later murdered a model. Surrounded by eggs and softboxes, I was doing my best to escape the trajectory of art school-retail-professional failure that, as a broke student at a bad school, I was marked out for.

I wanted to make money fast, shove it into my business and then get out of here. I was young, which meant I had nothing to interest people with besides my looks. While those held out, I wanted to use them to get other, more versatile trading tokens. My tits came in when I was Guys hassled me ever since.

My family isn't one that sees no intermediary steps between early puberty and teen motherhood, but the Hasidic men who offered me 50 bucks for a handjob didn't much care. Walking down Brighton Beach at 14, a year-old Rodney Dangerfield lookalike asked me on a date. I declined. When I declined again, he told me I was ugly anyway. For every free coffee beauty privilege gets you, it also gets you a guy following you down the steps on the subway, saying he wants to work his tongue into your ass. A woman's beauty is supposed to be her grand project and constant insecurity.

We're meant to shellac our lips with five different glosses, but always think we're fat. Beauty is Zeno's paradox. We should endlessly strive for it, but it's not socially acceptable to admit we're there.

We can't perceive it in ourselves. It belongs to the guy screaming "nice tits. My art school roommate was a camgirl. She worked out of a cubicle, mechanically fucking a motorized dildo that the guy on the other side thought he controlled. She soon figured out more lucrative arrangements. I met her johns over a luxurious dinner, but sugarbabyhood wasn't for me. Filet mignon didn't taste like much in that company. I wanted to be an artist.

Any tool to get there—even a website or properly printed portfolio—required more money than I could make working retail. If money drove me to the naked girl business, it was something else as well. I wanted to test myself. I wanted to see if I could work in a field fraught and stigmatized, and emerge unscathed. I wanted to burn off childhood. In the years since I was a naked girl, anti-trafficking activists have shut down the Craigslist adult services section.

In typical anti-trafficking fashion, it accomplished nothing but irritating sex workers. The ads for webporn and used panties have migrated over to Talent, crowding out casting calls for no-budget movies. The first man who took my photo swept that all away. T met me in a coffee shop with what I can only describe as a binder full of naked women, all blinking and razor-burn and raw red knees; awkward human creatures that he proudly thought he'd made sexy.

What I lacked in modesty, I made up for by being vain. My tits could be on the internet, but not my vulnerability. I posed for him anyway for a hundred bucks, arching my back till my muscles wept, after convincing him black and white film would make the photos "artistic. When I first took off my clothes for T, I thought the world would end. After a few times posing I kicked my dress away impatiently, indifferent to my skin.

If I was going to be naked, I didn't want it to involve unflattering contortions in T's living room. I took the best of his photos, jacked the contrast on my cracked photoshop, and put them on a website called One Model Place. OMP's Floridian tackiness and dot-com pretensions went with its insistence that it was used by the fashion industry.

It was not. Soon my Hotmail pinged with offers. I went to hotel rooms thrice a week, shucking my clothes and speaking to the "photographers" with the careful mix of distance and friendliness that projected the fact that they would not be getting blowjobs. It got better. I got better. I bought latex and bright lingerie from Strawberry's, and sex shop platform shoes.

In each hotel room, I loved two things: painting my mask in the mirror, and letting my robe drop. I was a sleek machine for extracting money.

The GWCs? Most were nice, if awkward. They had corporate jobs. They wanted to hire a naked girl up to their rooms, but feel like an artist doing it. The few who tried to touch me got barked at, kindergarten teacher style, and didn't try again.

Some got off insulting my body. One GWC, who was rich enough to have original Toulouse Lautrecs in the living room, berated my tits the whole shoot. He insulted her too. When I was 21, I dropped out of school. Art school is a scam, a way to fit a blue-collar trade into an expensive collegiate format. But I also wanted to seize my window of professional naked-girlhood, to make as much money as possible while I was still young enough.

By that time, I hated it. I came into each shoot expecting the GWC to rape me. If there's a beauty privilege, there's a good girl privilege too, where only virgins locked in their rooms are presumed innocent. By working in the sex industry, I had utterly thrown that out.

Sex workers like trans women are believed to have brought violence on themselves. For money. As protection, I had only the routine of making a guy comfortable while pouting through the baroque pantomime of a glamor mag.

While driving me home from a shoot, one GWC begged me to fuck him. She says it will kill the baby.



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