by S. C. Adams
Despite his command being in all caps, I choose to continue my casual pace. I park in the first open spot I see, and I sit in the car for a few minutes to make sure my appearance is acceptable. I know some of the girls that will be on the beach and what they look like in their bathing suits, so I make sure I’ll impress.
Fortunately, I willd have an advantage merely walking up to the volleyball net. The girls will see how tall I am, and they always like that. I have natural light brown hair, and I’ve been told it’s sexy as hell.
I also receive compliments from girls often about my wit and use of vocabulary. I am often told that I am charming and confident, which I usually turn up higher whenever I am trying to score. After a while, getting girls became almost a science to me and too easy. I am at a point where I am able to get just about any girl I want.
As I leave my car and walk onto the beach, I can’t help but feel more morose with each step I take in the sand. When I set out that morning, I thought that I wanted to come down, hook up, have fun, and bounce.
Yet, as I play volleyball with my best friend, his pals, and some of the most stunning girls I’ve seen in months, I feel nothing. I go through the motions like a madman, ignoring the smoldering looks some of the girls give me, only hitting the ball when it happens to be going directly for me, and I am ready to get inside and drink.
After we play for about a half hour, we all walk back to the beach house together. Luke is talking to a tall, leggy blonde, leaving me defenseless on our way back. Soon, a different blonde comes skipping up to me, carrying her sandals.
“The sand is getting in my shoes!” the blonde says with enthusiasm, her voluptuous chest bouncing in her skimpy suit.
“Now your feet are all sandy,” I say.
“Yeah, it’s killing me,” she says. “I’m going to have to take a shower after this.”
“There’s four in the house.”
She adjusts her bikini top, arranging her chest for me to see.
“So,” she says. “Luke tells me that your father owns a production company here.”
“My father and I don’t talk,” I say.
“Oh, Luke made it sound like you worked in film,” the blonde says, sounding disappointed.
“I’m sure he did,” I say, scoffing. “What do you do?”
“I’m an Instagram model.”
“Cool,” I say, uninterested.
I remain uninterested in every girl that comes on to me that night. Many girls come up to me throughout the party, but I give none of them enough energy to pretend to care about anything they have to say. My somberness from earlier hasn’t left me, even with the herd of lovely ladies and limitless liquor at my disposal.
I watch Luke from time to time, listening to him schmooze and network with some of the guests. He has been trying to get his own reality show for years, and while his journey to get it produced has been lengthy and ongoing, he remains optimistic. His concepts would change annually, but he always feels like he has to be on television.
His parents, Bradley and Laura Bishop, are actors on the famous soap opera Riptide Way. They met each other on the soap, got married, and continued being the stars of the soap opera over the next thirty-five years. They are close to retirement, so Luke is really pushing the idea of his reality show being created before the Bishop name fades from the mainstream. He looks at himself as “entertainment royalty” and feels he is owed his time in the spotlight.
Whenever Luke wants a break from his networking sessions, he finds me and chills, bringing me a beer each time.
“I’ve been sending babes your way all night, bro,” Luke mutters. “I expected you to be hooking up with one of these Insta-models by now.”
“I’m good, man,” I say dismissively.
“No, something’s up,” he says. “You come to L.A. to get laid. Are you not feeling well? Do you have the flu?”
“I don’t just come here to hook-up,” I say. “We’re homies. I like to hang out.”
“Me too, but come on,” says Luke. “I noticed you seeming kind of out of it last time you were here, too. What’s going on? Talk to the prince.”
Even though he considers himself entertainment royalty, I don’t exactly share the same viewpoint. “Prince Luke, huh?”
“You can still just call me Luke.” He laughs.
“I don’t know, man. It’s just—it’s getting old for me. It’s all a game. And it’s become too easy for me to play. It’s not really fun for me anymore.”
“I thought it was always fun to have sex with hot girls,” says Luke.
“I want something more meaningful than that,” I tell him. “I’ve been doing the ‘party and get laid’ thing for like, almost seven years.”
“I thought that was what you wanted,” Luke says, growing deflated the more I speak.
“It’s not like I haven’t been having an awesome time,” I assure him. “I’m just ready for a change, I think. Hell, maybe I’ll go after someone with a little more meat on her bones. I forget how populated L.A. is with skinny blondes trying to become models the longer I’m away from it.”
“Skinny blondes trying to become models is an attraction factor for wanting to live out here,” he says.
“True,” I say. “But who knows?”
“What? Are you looking for a brunette or a redhead?”
“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” I say. “I just want to be happy.”
“All I know is, I’m happy when I’m having sex,” he says. “Since when have you wanted something more meaningful?”
“I’ve always wanted something deeper than casual sex,” I say. “I just wasn’t sure when I’d be ready for it. I’ve always wanted a family. I guess maybe now I’m ready for it. I mean, I’m thirty, have my own business, make good money, and I think it’d be fun to share that with someone.”
“I didn’t know you wanted a family,” says Luke. “Since when?”
“Since I was little actually,” I answer. “I was heading in that direction way before now, you know? Brittany was a real bump in the road to hit in terms of where I was headed originally.”
Brittany is a girl that I had fallen for seven years prior to that night. She was someone that I had been seeing seriously, and she was the girl that I thought I was going to end up with. But she broke my heart, turning me off to the idea of something remotely serious that could lead to deeper heartbreak. My reaction to the messy separation was to sleep around and enjoy myself, free of the woes that came with commitments. Luke has always been like that, so we would hang out all the time, party, and get girls. We were true L.A. playboys.
“Don’t bring that bitch’s name up again,” Luke says, referring to Brittany.
“Sorry.” I chuckle.
“So, you’re looking for a change,” he says. “What is it that you want out of life, exactly?”
“What do you mean?”
“I guess I’m just wondering if you want to keep doing deliveries for a living,” says Luke. “Is that what you really want to do?”
“I have no fucking idea,” I snap. “What? You don’t think I’m running my life the right way?”
“I don’t mean to press you too hard,” says Luke. “It’s just that you come to L.A. so often, I wonder why you aren’t living here. How many girls are you going to find in Wrightwood? There’s practically no one living there.”
“That’s the thing, Luke,” I say. “I’m not looking for girls anymore. I want a woman. Those are two totally different creatures.”
“They are?” he asks. “So, I guess you’re not up for group-play tonight?”
“I don’t even know what you mean, but I’m going to pass.” I laugh. “As for a career, I’m not sure about that, either. In terms of doing what makes me happy? Who knows. Maybe I’ll leave my business, or sell it, or whatever. And then, I’ll open up a small café in town.”
“Yeah, I had no idea you had goals like that,” says Luke. “You want to open up a café in L.A.?”
> “Nah, I’d open it near where I live,” I say. “There aren’t many people in Wrightwood, but they love to spend money. I could make a living with a café near their market district.”
“Sounds kinda boring,” he says.
“Maybe I’ll even get married down the road,” I continue. “We’ll get a dog.”
Luke laughs heartily, slapping me on the shoulder.
“Mason Dunn, get married?” he asks in disbelief. “Please! You must be high. Where’s all this coming from? Can I get a hit of whatever you’re smoking?”
“Forget it, man,” I say.
The night goes on and on. Luke gets into his shenanigans, and I feel like jumping in the car and driving back to Wrightwood. However, I have been drinking and don’t want to risk getting a DUI, courtesy of the LAPD. Instead, I go into the only room in the house that is empty, lock the door, and pass out on the bed.
As I drift to sleep, I worry that I might go the way of my dad, sinking to a low that will be hard to climb back up from. I don’t know if I am headed for depression, or if the alcohol is just convincing me of crazy things. I do know one thing: while I am content and comfortable with my life, I’m not happy.
I know that I need a good woman. My only question is: Where will I find her? I have no idea, but I know that a search is about to begin.
21
Jillian
I’m nervous as hell throughout my entire plane ride from New York to Los Angeles. The closer we get to LAX, the harder it is for me to sit still.
I don’t get nervous often. I am usually confident. Whether it is something in my personal life or my career, I always attempt to exude confidence. Even if I don’t wholly believe what I’m telling myself, it feels better to project good vibrations and show good poise than to become overwhelmed by trivial issues with self-esteem or image. I know that abandoning anxiety is key before I even get off the plane. I am determined to start my L.A. journey right.
I grew up on the east coast, living most of my life in New York City. I went to college there, where I met my best friend, Emma Curtis. We were both interested in fashion and event planning, and oddly enough, we became disinterested in those things at about the same time. I chose to stay in college and get my bachelor’s degree. I had already taken a year off after high school, so I was determined to complete it. But Emma decided to leave school after her junior year to pursue a career in modeling.
It is abnormal for someone like Emma, or me for that matter, to attempt to make a living doing modeling work. Emma and I are both heavier than the average woman. We are considered “plus-size,” a label that I don’t mind. I’m not ashamed of my body, nor do I listen to any criticism that is flung my way regarding it.
Emma started modeling within a few months of moving to Los Angeles. She has work nearly every day, and she makes a great living from it. I hadn’t expected her to find many gigs that would specifically seek out plus-sized women, but the need is increasing more each year.
Emma signed with a major plus-sized modeling agency called K-Plus by the time she turned twenty-four, and she is already on several online ads and catalogs, as well as several high-profile photo shoots. After a year of her coaxing me and saying I should come model with her in L.A., I finally folded and decided to make the move. I prefer L.A. to NYC, anyway. Plus, Emma promised me that I would “have modeling work when I arrived” and refused to be any less vague than that. I am extremely curious to know what she is talking about.
The decision isn’t stress inducing in the least. Even if Emma can’t get me a modeling job, I am confident that I can find work. I am a tall—five-nine to be exact—curvy, blonde, with an ample chest and ass, and sharp green eyes. The older I get and the more comfortable with my body I become, I receive less hate and more praise. I know that I have a body that would get me far in the plus-size modeling industry.
So, I took off from JFK, landing safely at LAX. Emma had offered to pick me up at the airport, but LAX is an hour drive from her place. Considering I will be staying at her apartment for several nights for free, I figure I can spend some money on a Lyft and save her the trouble.
I don’t have a place picked out where I want to live yet. I see many gorgeous homes on the Lyft ride from LAX to downtown Los Angeles, realizing that I likely have more options for housing than I expected. I want to have some time to look around and make a good, thoroughly researched decision.
Emma and I are used to staying at each other’s place all the time, so she doesn’t mind me crashing with her for an undetermined amount of time. In fact, she was the one that invited me to stay with her while I search for the perfect job and perfect home. I am happy to take her up on the invitation, and I plan on thanking her by getting her drunk at a nice L.A. bar. It is Saturday, so we expect the place to be packed.
When I pull up to Emma’s apartment, she comes bounding toward me, freaking out and screaming at the top of her lungs. We embrace, hugging each other for several seconds.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” Emma yells.
“I know, me neither!” I reply. “I’m so happy to see you!”
“Look at you!” she says, looking me over. “Your hair looks fucking amazing.”
“My hair!” I say. “What about yours? This is the longest I’ve ever seen your hair.”
“Yeah, I’ve loved how it looks in photos,” says Emma. “I love your outfit!”
I dressed with the notion that we might go out to drink immediately after I arrive. I am wearing a light, silk blouse with a knee-high black skirt and glittery sandals—the ensemble reveals little skin but makes me look great.
“Thanks,” I say. “Your clothes look nice, too. You look like you’re going somewhere.”
“We’re going somewhere,” she says with a wink. “I have a short shoot in like thirty minutes over at K-Plus. We need to get going!”
“Wait, what?” I stammer. “I didn’t think you were working today.”
“Tag along!” she suggests. “You want to be a model, don’t you? Come be seen with me. I think it’d be a good idea.”
I am apprehensive because I want to make sure I look appropriate for going to a modeling agency, but I choose not to overthink it. Emma and I are honest with each other, and if she thinks a different look will be better for me, she would tell me.
She drives us from her place to K-Plus. The agency is only a few miles away from her, but with it being in downtown, it’s still a long drive.
I am a bit bashful at first when we arrive at the K-Plus building. Many people stop to say hello to Emma, and I stand behind her awkwardly. I want to be noticed, but I don’t want to be obnoxious and put a stain on Emma’s reputation.
She walks us to the studio where she is getting photographed. Her agent and two managers are there waiting for her.
“I’ll be right back,” Emma whispers to me. “Wait here.”
I stand by, playing on my phone while Emma has a private discussion with the managers. During their talk, I can’t help but notice the managers checking me out. I sometimes smile, but after the fifth time of looking up from my phone to see eyes staring at me, I start ignoring them.
Instead of Emma returning to me, the two managers approach me.
“Excuse me,” one of them says. “Hi!”
“Hello!” I reply.
“We were talking with Emma, as you no doubt saw,” he says. “I know that this may seem out of left field, and you can certainly say no, but we were thinking of offering you the opportunity to be part of our shoot today.”
I almost drop my phone. My mouth falls open. “Really?”
“Absolutely,” he affirms. “Emma’s told us a lot about you already. She says you just moved from New York to be here?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Welcome to L.A.,” the other manager says, smiling.
“We’re shooting with a few different backdrops,” the first manager says. “We just need Emma for the first round of shots, but if you wanted, you could go back wi
th wardrobe, try on a few of the outfits you’d be styling, and we’d be ready for you in about a half hour. What do you say?”
It is out of left field, but I hoped to be faced with unexpected adventures once I got to California. I happily accept their invitation.
I am incredibly nervous at first, but Emma helps me break out of my shell. Even though most of my shots are with Emma, sometimes they take some with only me. The photographers are both complimenting my style, even though I’m not exactly sure what they are referring to specifically.
Once I am comfortable in front of the camera, I start getting braver, trying out my own things during lulls when the photographers or managers are quiet. I feel sexy, powerful, and beautiful.
The shoot is indeed short. The time has flown by, and we are back in our original clothes in less than two hours.
Everyone commends our work. They say they love how we work together, and they like what I bring to the table. They all say they will call me, but I can’t tell how serious they are.
Then, Emma’s agent Christina approaches me. She is smiling wide, excited.
“Hi, Jillian,” says Christina. “You won’t believe this, but our friends at K-Plus thought that I was already representing you!”
“Oh, really now?” I laugh. “You want to be my agent?”
“Well, they really liked what they saw,” says Christina. “They asked me if you’d be interested in modeling with K-Plus.”
“Are you serious?” Emma squeals.
“They say they would love to work with you,” Christina continues. “Is that something you might be interested in?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately, nodding my head confidently.
I am feeling amazing. Not only does it appear that I have an agent willing to represent me, but Emma’s promise of seeing modeling work when I arrived had come to fruition splendidly. Everything feels surreal. Even as we coast down the street, singing songs loudly without a care in the world, it still doesn’t feel real to me.
Emma suggests we go out for drinks that night—not as a way of me thanking her for the free lodging, but because we have so many things to celebrate!