**This is half of chapter 4, from the middle of a story. Let me know what you think happens next between Sandy and me!**
The ideal shoot, I hoped, was just around the corner. I decided I could have fun safely, and keep my honor intact, with a female photographer. I was sure there was one that would love to work with me. I was going to be a lot safer that way.
A long search turned up just a handful of female model photographers in my area. I emailed several and a couple of them phoned me soon after. Somehow I was more nervous talking to a woman than I was to male photographers. The conversations were cordial, but they went in circles and, somehow, I couldn’t get anyone to take my ambitions seriously. Two offered to shoot with me, but unless I was willing to pay, it couldn’t be soon. I didn’t have the money and knew my mom would never go for that. I perused a few more female photographers, but the images were old fashioned…they just weren’t exciting!
Then, I found salvation online, a female photographer, Sandy Benton, who specialized in girls with bodies like mine in breathtaking poses. My hope for a photoshoot grew and I became excited about my prospects. I sent her a generic introduction. She didn’t reply for three days and I tried again. Was she ignoring me? I assumed that she wanted money to photograph me, like all the other female photographers had. I sent a third message: “My dream is to become a model. I’ve been passionate about modeling since I was little and I’ll do absolutely anything to get to where I need to be.” I’d learned from Luke what “absolutely anything” meant to some male photographers, but a female photographer wouldn’t misinterpret me. I included a link to my Facebook profile.
Sandy’s company was Down Town Foto Productions. She friended me from the DTF Productions Facebook page and we started communicating. She was pretty and young, and I quickly grew comfortable with the idea of putting my modeling fate into her hands. I sent her a photo and her interest in me made me feel special and hopeful. Shortly after, she asked me for my phone number, and we started texting regularly about stuff we could do in photo shoots. I had found the perfect photographer to work with! She grilled me with a lot of questions, like if I was in school, had a job, and how old I was. Wanting to make a good impression this time, I decided to embellish. I told Sandy that I was working on my PhD, which wasn’t completely untrue. If modeling didn’t work out, I could be in college by the fall. I wanted to impress her and figured I would never need to follow up with details concerning college.
She asked for lots of pictures of me. In return, she sent me photos of girls in sexy outfits that she had photographed. Sandy sounded great, but she wouldn’t commit until she saw more pictures of me, specifically ones that proved I understood what DTF Productions was all about. I wanted to send her impressive photos, but I didn’t have any shots from my only two real photo shoots. I found inspiration on Sandy’s website which showcased a lot of photos of contestants at a wet T-shirt contest. The annual contest was coming up again soon, and was an opportunity to get shots to impress Sandy. It took me a few days to officially decide to enter, but I ultimately concluded that the pros outweighed the cons. This was something I would never usually do, but seeing as how my last photoshoot ended in me posing completely topless for a flashing camera, at least I would be able to keep my shirt on for this. I didn’t even have to try to win– I just needed those free photos of me being part of the big event. How hard could it be?
The day of the contest, I went down to the beach, along the boardwalk, to a bar with volleyball courts where they were holding the competition. The stage was between the courts and the bar. I got in line with the other girls who were signing up for the contest. I was taller than most of them and definitely bustier than any of them. I signed up at the bar, worried about being under twenty-one, but since all I had on was my bikini—no pockets—the guy just smiled and let me sign up without ID. I looked older than I was, but had no idea I could pass for twenty-one. Or maybe he didn’t care. I was so anxious that I glossed over the fine print and signed my name.
I didn’t know anything about wet T-shirt contests and up until then didn’t think there was anything to know about them. There were lots of screaming guys waiting to see the girls go on stage.
Backstage, we put on the white T-shirts the bar had given us. I glanced around surreptitiously at the pretty girls. Most were lean, many were busty; though none came close to my proportions. Still, they sported an armor of confidence that I longed to have. After putting on their shirts, the other girls removed their bikini tops, so I did the same thing. I knew about this part, but the shirts were thinner than I expected and you could make out the girls’ nipples beneath the dry fabric. Several girls cut up their shirts with scissors, making them skimpy. I guess I had suspected what was coming, but somehow hadn’t thought through the details. I hadn’t expected to feel so vulnerable. My nipples hardened from nervousness; a self-perpetuating situation. I wanted a mirror, but there weren’t any around. I asked the girls near me how I looked. One obviously drunk girl said, “You are so fucking hot, I would kill for those,” pointing to my breasts. “One word of advice: don’t flinch when they spray you, just roll with it.”
When it came time to go on stage, my heart started pounding so hard I felt it in my ears. I grew feverish. My nervousness intensified, and the butterflies in my stomach turned to lead. I had second thoughts, but I had to stay in line with the girls walking towards the stage, and just kept following the girl in front of me. As I stepped on the stage, I remembered, “Just roll with it.”
The stage was three or four feet above the ground, so everyone could see us well, and we could see the whole crowd. Between the mob of spectators and the stage was a roped off area for staff. Large guys in black “Security” t-shirts stood at each end, monitoring the audience. In those few feet of no-man’s-land, a guy spraying a high-pressure hose doused our t-shirts.
My world narrowed to tunnel vision of just the girls near me. The cold water pelted my breasts, soaking the shirt from top to bottom. It was so chilly and forceful that it stung. The other girls had already started dancing and so I started dancing too. A lot of them were shaking their hips hard and squeezing their breasts, but I just danced in one place and moved my arms by my side. This wasn’t like doing a photoshoot. The contest followed a predetermined formula. It lacked the direct attention of being one-on-one with a photographer. In this chaotic bar, I couldn’t tell who was cheering for who.
Many girls turned and shook their butts to the crowd. I turned my back and continued dancing in the same stiff, awkward way, my arms swaying by my sides, moving my shoulders back and forth, wiggling my hips, lifting my feet and putting them back down in the same place. I knew I would have to kick it up if I was going to get noticed in this lineup, so I shook my ass harder, but I didn’t really know how. I didn’t really want to dance for this crowd. My instinct would have been to avoid this level of noise and confusion. But I was on a mission. Then came the cold spray of water again. It dripped all the way down my ass. The hose sprayed my butt and between my legs. It soaked my bikini bottoms and pummeled all sorts of sensitive areas making me stifle a gasp.
The audience was almost entirely made up of guys— some college-age and some older, all cheering. But I had no idea who they were cheering for. A particularly pretty girl, with short auburn hair, well-defined curves, and a flat stomach, swung her hips and full breasts at the crowd. The cheers swelled and there were increasing whistles and whoops. I turned to face the crowd again. For the first time, I took a good look at the men all smiling, yelling, and waving their arms in the air. I lifted my arms over my head and danced vigorously. I really wanted to just dart out of there, but there was no easy way to do that. I thought, There’s no way I’m going to win this thing.
Then the guy with the hose came back. He sprayed my shirt even though it was already wet. He sprayed each breast individually. It pulsated on my left breast, directly on the nipple; then my right breast, also directly on the nipple. I danced the best I could. There was an electric tingling in my nipples that was definitely pleasurable. He aimed the hose lower and got the rest of my shirt. And then my bikini bottoms. He was spraying me everywhere: my hips, the tops of my thighs, between my legs. The water pulsated on my more sensitive parts. It seemed like I was getting turned on, but I really couldn’t tell if it was because everything was soaked.
I was so anxious and confused that I didn’t really know how to feel. I liked the attention but I wasn’t sure the cheers were for me. It was nowhere near as fun as a photoshoot, but it was far from boring!
The judging was conducted by crowd applause. There were numbers written on our legs and the announcer would call out each girl’s number. Most of the girls raised their arms, danced, and jumped up and down when they were called and the crowd went wild. I was so dazed, so happy that I wasn’t getting sprayed with water anymore, that I just stood there. I wasn’t even sure what my number was or when it was being called out. I was just glad that this was almost over and soon I could retreat off the stage, claim the top of my swimsuit, dry off, go home, and revel in having done something different. I would look online later for my free photos.
The announcer walked up to me, raised my arm in the air, and said my name. “Congratulations to our winner!” he announced, then he said my name again. Oh my God, was I dreaming this part? Had I really won? I looked around at some of the girls who were holding their T-shirts closed. Apparently they had ripped them open and flashed their bare breasts during the contest in a bid to win. I had just stumbled in, and without really trying, took first place. We walked off the stage and I was handed five hundred dollars in cash. Only one girl congratulated me. A couple of them glared. I quickly put on my bikini top, balled the money up in my hand, and ran home.
A couple of days later, photos from the wet T-shirt contest were online. Some of the girls had gotten topless. Although I admired their dedication, I was happy that I had won without having to be that exposed.
I prayed to God that I wouldn’t get in a whole mess of trouble for being involved with this. Paranoid scenarios flooded my mind: neighbors stumbling across the photos online, my mom seeing them, the bar finding out I wasn’t even close to twenty-one; and what they might do if they did.
I wasn’t used to being able to do essentially whatever I wanted without the harsh gaze of my mother and her restrictions. I sent some of the photos to Sandy, and she really loved them. Then came the message I was aching for: Sandy offered me a photo shoot.
I prepared by listening to a few episodes of the modeling podcast, soaking up the advice of a girl who had over a year in the business. If you’re starting out, just go with the flow… trust the photographers to know their job and yours. Okay, so far I was on the right track then. She also said that purchasing cute clothing was a good idea, especially if you need to broaden your range. I opened my wallet and looked down at the bundle of cash I had won from the contest. I could use that to buy new underwear without my mother noticing. It’s okay if photographers want to photograph you in an outfit or pose that’s not entirely comfortable… modeling is about how you look, not being pampered. I fanned the cash out on my bed, listening to the podcast hungrily. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I was doing everything right… I’ve got this!
I dragged Shaun to the mall with me in anticipation for my next shoot. I wanted sexy, classy underwear and I didn’t know where to start. Shaun would be my fashion guru.
“Why don’t you just get a sheer thong?”
“What?” I balked.
“Seriously, thongs don’t have very noticeable seams or obvious panty lines.”
Shaun pulled a sheer lace set and an almost-invisible set off the rack. He held the tiny panties up proudly, flashing his fabulous smirk. “Get one of each, a sexy set and a barely-there one. Professional, then sex kitten. Ta-da!” Shaun shoved them into my hands, my face growing red. I examined them for a moment, then sheepishly grinned.
“You’re right….these will be perfect,” I said, knowing I’d opt for the more conservative thong if I chose one at all.
The morning of the shoot, I put on my nicest dress—a knee-length green one that I used to wear to church. These days, it was so snug it no longer concealed the tops of my breasts. I tried it with and without a bra. The bra pushed my breasts so high that they spilled out the top, threatening to show my nipples. I never would have worn something so daring, before the wet T-shirt contest changed my perspective on being sexy. I wanted to look as sexy as possible for my photo shoot and make Sandy proud of me. She was so good at making girls look sexy and I wanted to be a part of that success.
I took extra care with my hair and makeup. I wanted to appear put together, professional, and not trashy. I settled on leaving my hair loose, then turned my attention to makeup. Crap, I thought, noticing a little red bump near my hairline. I thought I was past breakouts! I had to spend longer than I wanted covering the pimple and making sure my skin still looked natural, causing me to be late. I managed to get out of the house without my mother seeing my outfit, feeling confident in my appearance.
Just before I got to Sandy’s photography studio, I slipped on my high heels. Inside, I was met with a big shock: Sandy was a man! He greeted me in the doorway. Although he had a charming smile, he loomed over me, almost as if he knew he was catching me off guard.
I was so confused. Her picture, I mean his picture, was a pretty young woman. I didn’t realize it at the time, but photographers commonly use portfolio photos to represent their business online, even for the profile picture where most people put a selfie. I felt so stupid, but also apprehensive. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go through another photoshoot with a male. I was super nervous.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/sypnav/half_a_chapter_trying_to_get_into_modeling_fm