constellation, and thought, Man, the next time someone sees the bones of my pelvis, it will be at my autopsy!
There were so many boobs in that room—I mean, they were everywhere—that the only thing that popped in my head was “Got Milk?” There was one endowed lady who was so . . . bountiful that I couldn’t figure out how she even managed to brush her teeth, and that’s when I realized I was staring at THEM. At her. I felt like a guy, but I couldn’t help it. They were circus big, and defied gravity so devoutly I was positive the implants were reinforced by magnets.
“How many payments do you have left?” I wanted to ask her, but was afraid that she’d hit me with one of them and knock me out cold. So what if my “best feature” touches my lap when I sit down, so what? I reminded myself. At least they don’t accrue an annual percentage rate on my Visa.
I took a deep breath and settled down to fill out the application form.
Height,
the application requested.
“5′6″,” I fudged.
Weight.
“N/A,” I wrote.
Hair.
I thought a moment. “Clean,” I jotted. “AND strong enough to dislodge a particularly stubborn piece of corn!”
Special Achievement.
“In 1994, I quit smoking,” I scribbled, “gained forty pounds, and got a guy to marry me anyway.”
I signed the model release just in time for David, the photographer, to tell me that he was ready for me.
“Okay,” he said as I entered the bedroom they had set up as a studio, “you can disrobe now.”
I untied the robe and stood there.
“Um,” he said, looking at me, still covered in my gray jumper, black shirt, and tights. “Didn’t you want to . . . change?”
“If I take any of this off,” I said kindly, “waves of horror will burn your corneas to a crisp, and you’ll probably grab the nearest utensil to claw them out yourself. Really, I’m acting in your best interest.”
David nodded. “Okay, well, then, lean on the bed over here and kind of shake your hair with your hands,” he instructed me. “Now smile!”
I leaned on the bed, I lifted my arms up to tousle my hair, I smiled. Then I smelled bagels. Onion bagels. “You have snacks in here?” I asked, looking around.
“No,” he said as he clicked the first photo. “Turn your head more to the right.”
I complied, thinking him stingy not to share until I caught a really strong whiff of a Jewish deli and realized it was coming from my right armpit.
“Well, that’s enough of that pose!” I said, shooting my arms straight down to their sides.
David came over and positioned me for the next photo, turning me completely around. “Hold still,” he said as he backed away. “Hey, I think lunch is here. I smell onion bagels!”
I stood staring at the wall, and then it hit me. “You’re taking a heinie shot!” I cried. “You’re shooting my heinie?”
“It’s a big lens,” he commented. Click. “Okay, we’re done. You did VERY WELL.”
“You know my mother is going to make me go to confession for this,” I said as I handed him back the bathrobe and gathered up my stuff. “But if you choose me for a pictorial of reporters, the only way I’ll do it is if you put my nudie shots in between Barbara Walters’s and Helen Thomas’s.”
On my way out, I passed by the girl I had gawked at earlier. I smiled. She smiled slightly, sweeping her eyes over my jumper, and then sneered.
I stopped. “David said I did VERY WELL,” I mentioned. “But I think I’ll actually score a lot higher on the essay part of the contest.”
Her face dropped. “There’s an essay?” she said, shocked.
“Oh yeah.” I nodded. “With footnotes and everything.”
Visibly, her panic grew. “I can’t write with my feet!” she cried.
“Better start practicing!” I said with a tiny giggle before I headed out the door.
I Think at Night It Flies
I t’s 2 A . M ., and I’m sitting on my couch in the living room in the dark, wearing only a sweatshirt and my underwear. I
There were so many boobs in that room—I mean, they were everywhere—that the only thing that popped in my head was “Got Milk?” There was one endowed lady who was so . . . bountiful that I couldn’t figure out how she even managed to brush her teeth, and that’s when I realized I was staring at THEM. At her. I felt like a guy, but I couldn’t help it. They were circus big, and defied gravity so devoutly I was positive the implants were reinforced by magnets.
“How many payments do you have left?” I wanted to ask her, but was afraid that she’d hit me with one of them and knock me out cold. So what if my “best feature” touches my lap when I sit down, so what? I reminded myself. At least they don’t accrue an annual percentage rate on my Visa.
I took a deep breath and settled down to fill out the application form.
Height,
the application requested.
“5′6″,” I fudged.
Weight.
“N/A,” I wrote.
Hair.
I thought a moment. “Clean,” I jotted. “AND strong enough to dislodge a particularly stubborn piece of corn!”
Special Achievement.
“In 1994, I quit smoking,” I scribbled, “gained forty pounds, and got a guy to marry me anyway.”
I signed the model release just in time for David, the photographer, to tell me that he was ready for me.
“Okay,” he said as I entered the bedroom they had set up as a studio, “you can disrobe now.”
I untied the robe and stood there.
“Um,” he said, looking at me, still covered in my gray jumper, black shirt, and tights. “Didn’t you want to . . . change?”
“If I take any of this off,” I said kindly, “waves of horror will burn your corneas to a crisp, and you’ll probably grab the nearest utensil to claw them out yourself. Really, I’m acting in your best interest.”
David nodded. “Okay, well, then, lean on the bed over here and kind of shake your hair with your hands,” he instructed me. “Now smile!”
I leaned on the bed, I lifted my arms up to tousle my hair, I smiled. Then I smelled bagels. Onion bagels. “You have snacks in here?” I asked, looking around.
“No,” he said as he clicked the first photo. “Turn your head more to the right.”
I complied, thinking him stingy not to share until I caught a really strong whiff of a Jewish deli and realized it was coming from my right armpit.
“Well, that’s enough of that pose!” I said, shooting my arms straight down to their sides.
David came over and positioned me for the next photo, turning me completely around. “Hold still,” he said as he backed away. “Hey, I think lunch is here. I smell onion bagels!”
I stood staring at the wall, and then it hit me. “You’re taking a heinie shot!” I cried. “You’re shooting my heinie?”
“It’s a big lens,” he commented. Click. “Okay, we’re done. You did VERY WELL.”
“You know my mother is going to make me go to confession for this,” I said as I handed him back the bathrobe and gathered up my stuff. “But if you choose me for a pictorial of reporters, the only way I’ll do it is if you put my nudie shots in between Barbara Walters’s and Helen Thomas’s.”
On my way out, I passed by the girl I had gawked at earlier. I smiled. She smiled slightly, sweeping her eyes over my jumper, and then sneered.
I stopped. “David said I did VERY WELL,” I mentioned. “But I think I’ll actually score a lot higher on the essay part of the contest.”
Her face dropped. “There’s an essay?” she said, shocked.
“Oh yeah.” I nodded. “With footnotes and everything.”
Visibly, her panic grew. “I can’t write with my feet!” she cried.
“Better start practicing!” I said with a tiny giggle before I headed out the door.
I Think at Night It Flies
I t’s 2 A . M ., and I’m sitting on my couch in the living room in the dark, wearing only a sweatshirt and my underwear. I
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