Suck It, Wonder Woman!

by Olivia Munn; Mac Montandon

  “Steven—ze photographer. He says all nude today for Playboy. It’s Playboy!” Gustav responded again in a very what’s-wrong-with-you attitude.

  I told him to go get the photographer and I got on the phone with my publicist and told her to get there right away.

  When Steven arrived he had the same opinion and then added, unhelpfully, “Oh, yeah, you’ll be nude but we’ll just Photoshop everything out.”

  Luckily my publicist got there right then and let them know there would be no nudity and that there was a contract to confirm it. That seemed to be the end of that conversation.

  As the shoot goes on, my publicist and Gustav bicker non-stop. She doesn’t want a lot of jewelry, he of course does. He thinks I should show more skin, she of course doesn’t. The photographer isn’t doing much to help ease the tension. He wants me to pose nude, while strategically placing my arms and legs; my publicist of course doesn’t. He wants to do a shower scene nude with strategically placed bubbles and steam on the glass; my publicist of course doesn’t. It’s exhausting. All the while I’m trying to pose flirty, fun, summery with about five dudes—strangers working the set—watching my every move. One of the shots has me without a top and my long, thick hair covering my breasts. The whole time I’m worried about the wind blowing, exposing a nipple, the filthy five and the photographer snapping away because that’s the shot he wants.

  I can hear them bickering again with my publicist. The photographer and stylist insist they’ve shot more revealing stuff for Esquire and GQ.

  Of course you have! I think to myself. Afraid to speak up and yell at everyone because it would ruin the shoot. I’m the one who sets the tone and energy on the shoot. If I show everyone I’m upset, the shoot will spiral downward faster than it already has. What I want to say is this: “Of course you’ve shot more nudity in those magazines! It’s not Playboy. Playboy still has a stigma. I’ve shown more of myself in Vanity Fair. But that’s different. If I show more in GQ I’m being artsy and sexy. If I show more in Playboy, I’m just one more tart in…Playboy.”

  Getting the cover, and not having to be nude, was a huge deal to me and my team. Only a handful of people have done it without having to take it all off. And here we are, contracts decided, conversations spanning weeks about this day, and everyone has a different agenda.

  The bickering escalates right before my cover shot. We’ve done about four looks already, all the while my anxiety is skyrocketing from the tension and my feelings of not trusting the stylist. We are in the dressing room with my makeup artist, publicist, Gustav the stylist and his two assistants. He wants me to—surprise, surprise—wear a see-through top and nothing underneath. My publicist says…well, I bet you can guess what she said. Then I see something I thought I’d only see in a Christopher Guest mockumentary—the chubby, tall, bald Scandinavian begins to scream at my publicist inches away from her face and not much farther away from me.

  “You know what?! I am a great stylist. I am not one of ze…ze Hollywood stylists. I am European!! And this is not all about Olivia, okay? It iz about me, too! I have my own motivations with this shoot and I’m going to get what I want out of it! Zis iz Playboy!!! She haz to be naked! If not, why iz she do Playboy?”

  Now I can’t take it anymore. All the excitement and preparation leading up to this day had been gone since before I took my first shot. I really couldn’t deal with it anymore. My publicist was doing a great job standing up for me, but I thought I was going to have an anxiety attack if I didn’t say something.

  “Look, Gustav, Playboy came to us and asked me to do a nude cover. We declined the offer and then they came back and offered us the cover, no nudity. We have a contract that says this and you and I have discussed this as well.”

  My publicist chimes in, “Yes, Gustav. The big deal about this shoot is that she doesn’t have to get naked and she still gets the cover. They came to us. We didn’t go to them.”

  Gustav, now looking like a very big, juicy—but not so much delicious—Scandinavian tomato, gets closer to my publicist’s face and says, “Fine! You zink you are so good at style? You pick out ze panties!”

  He flips his head back as if he had a mane of hair atop it, puffs out his chest and as he reaches the door, he snaps his fingers and says, “Girls, let’s go!” And as if they are tiny toy poodles, the two assistants who were arranging shoes on the ground, leap up and scurry out behind him, their four-inch heels clicking all the way.

  The door shut and we all sat in stunned silence. I was fine dressing myself, but I didn’t know where anything was. I was sick to my stomach and wanted to leave. But it was an expensive shoot and I knew I had to keep things copacetic if we were going to finish the day. I called the photographer in, told him what happened and he went and spoke to Gustav.

  Moments later he came in as if nothing was wrong, no apology, just came back in. He wasn’t helpful. He just said yes to whatever we asked. But we didn’t want a yes-man. We wanted a stylist who could offer his expertise and input, but could also stay within the concept and contract of the shoot.

  We go upstairs to the rooftop pool to get the cover shot. As soon as we get to the top, clouds blacken the sky and the wind blows the pillows off the chaise longue chairs. It was like the last scene of a slasher film. If I didn’t know better I would’ve guessed this was God telling me to run…Run as fast as I could.

  And as if the energy wasn’t already bad enough, it just got worse. Everyone is freaking out.

  “You can’t replicate the sun in Photoshop!”

  “The wind is going to make her hair look so messy!”

  “She’ll be too cold and you can’t take away goose bumps easily!”

  “The wind is rippling the water—it doesn’t look as beautiful and still and wonderful as the rest of the shoot!”

  After about an hour of awesome awkward silence waiting for the sun to come out, I jump into the pool. I’ve managed to bury my feelings deep, deep inside—just the way Dad taught me! Yay! And everyone seems to have moved past the horrible confrontations and bickering and negative energy…or maybe they’ve just learned to bury it deep inside just like me.

  We’re in the freezing pool shooting for hours. That was the only way to keep warm—so I did it. Good Lord, did I do it. I peed like I had never peed before and I’d been drinking Big Gulps every hour on the hour for the better part of two decades. The water was suddenly significantly warmer and…urinier?

  Finally—mercifully—the day was done.

  I was mentally and physically exhausted. I kept smiling but really I wanted to break down crying. I felt comfortable and sexy in front of the camera and thought the pictures reflected that…but, man, it wasn’t easy.

  On my way home, after not eating much of anything for about two weeks leading up to the shoot, I stopped by a Mexican restaurant for its “Taste of Mexico” menu. I sure wanted to taste some Mexico. The menu included: one tamale, one enchilada, a beef taco, beans, rice and guacamole. The taste of Mexico! The taste of freedom! I downed it all with a Diet Dr Pepper and crashed out by 8:30 P.M. I slept a full twelve hours that night, with the makeup still on my face.

  I woke up happy that the day was behind me and I had done my best.

  Then I checked my e-mail. Ugh—the photographer said he didn’t think we had the cover shot and wanted to try again the following week. Playboy and my publicist agreed. I absolutely insisted on my own stylist, agreed on a date to shoot and mentally prepared myself to not eat any sweet, sweet pie for yet another week.

  Sometimes, especially on misty fall mornings, I find my mind wandering, thinking about what Gustav is up to at that exact moment. What does Gustav look like while eating breakfast? Orange juice pulp speckled on his lip, his nuts scrunched into mesh underwear. Maybe he’s a sad and frustrated artist, trapped in his work as a stylist to surly stars and stars in waiting (hello!). Van Gogh with a B-movie bad-guy accent. Then I start feeling guilty. Maybe I should call Gustav, see how he’s doing, say wut up. But then t
he image of that black, fishnet bathing suit pops into my head and I think—no, no I shan’t be calling Gustav any time soon.

  And that’s okay. We can’t, after all, be best friends with everyone we meet, right? The truth is, Gustav isn’t a bad guy—we just had different visions. He thought I would look great with my female junk squeezed to resemble overripe fruit in a leather G-string. I did not. C’est la guerre. Nine times out of ten these shoots go amazingly well and super smooth. Every once in a while, though, the stars are not aligned (unaligned?). At times like those, it’s important to remain a pro, to get the job done, pass the ball, shoot the fish, dunk the goalkeeper, and carry the torch without starting some wild-ass conflagration. You know? At times like those, just refrain from kneeing anyone in the nuts. Because then everyone wins! And instead of using ice on everyone’s nuts we can put it into a blender and make a smoothie or a rum daiquiri!

  When I was twenty years old, I came out to Los Angeles for a meeting and an audition. I came alone because it was just for a few days and I didn’t think I needed anyone with me. I wasn’t old enough to rent a car, so I had to take a taxi to the hotel in Santa Monica. Once I got to the hotel, I realized I had nowhere to go. Without a car, I was stuck. And then it hit me—the biggest ball of anxiety I’d ever felt. I started to think about my situation. I came all the way out to California by myself for an audition. What if I bombed? What if no one liked me? It was horrible. I was all alone and crying in this very sad Santa Monica hotel, worlds away from any comfort.

  I picked up my cell and called my sister. She told me to just get out of the hotel. Get in a cab and go to a mall. At least there would be other people around and I could distract myself from my worries and anxiety with shopping. When I got to the Third Street Promenade mall, I just started walking around. And she was right—I instantly felt better. As my tears dried up, I walked past a Foot Locker and a tall black man exited the store. I continued walking until I heard behind me: “What’s your name?”

  I turned around and said, “Olivia.” The very tall guy I just passed put his hand out to say hello and told me his name: “Hi, I’m Evander Holyfield.”

  “Yeah…” I responded. “I know.”

  He asked where I was going and I told him I was on my way to grab lunch at this Italian restaurant. He asked if he and his assistant could join me.

  A few minutes later we were sitting in this empty Italian restaurant, Evander Holyfield on my left, his assistant to my right. Just an hour ago, I was sitting in my dark hotel room crying, feeling sad and lonely, and now I’m here with the former heavyweight champion of the world.

  The waitress took my order: meat lasagna and a house salad. Evander looked at me and said, “Is your mom fat?”

  “What?” I responded.

  “Is your mom fat? Does she have a big ass, big thighs?” he asked.

  “No. She’s not fat,” I answered.

  “Good. Then you can eat the lasagna. If your mom’s not fat, you’re not gonna be fat. But if you’re mom’s fat—you can’t eat that lasagna,” Evander explained.

  Lunch was pretty quiet. He asked me where I was from and other simple questions. And then toward the end of my fatty fatterson lasagna, he asked me one last, simple question:

  “Good. Then you can eat the lasagna. If your mom’s not fat, you’re not gonna be fat.”

  “I got eight babies, by eight different women. You wanna have my ninth?”

  I sat stunned, not so much by the question itself but at how easily and matter-of-factly he had asked it. “No thank you,” I said.

  Before we finished lunch, I remembered to look. The ear! How could I be this close to the man and not look at the infamous ear that Mike Tyson had once nibbled upon as if it were meat lasagna and he had a fat mother? So I did. And for those of you who ever wanted to know: yes. Yes, there is a scar on his ear and yes, it looks like someone took a big-ass bite out of it. Now that I think about it, I’m glad I didn’t look at the ear before ordering lunch.

  Dating—apart from trying to figure out why the hell some starlet’s boobs hang so low, is there a bigger mystery in the universe? I say no, but I also say there are a few easy ways to take a little bit of the mystery out of it. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. And take it from me, I should know: I’ve had, like, five whole boyfriends in my life and only one of them had Tourette’s and another one was the maybe-gay son of a famous general…Anyway, read on to learn how you, too, can conquer the confusion of courting.

  1. Pack up that Pickup Line

  Girls know if they like a guy from pretty much the first moment they see him. Ipso facto (Latin, bitches!): No pickup line will work. Even if you come up with the wittiest, funniest, most brilliant I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that-please-allow-me-to-rip-off-all-my-clothes-right-now line, it won’t matter if she’s not physically attracted to you. “Hello, I’m Jeff” is the best pickup line you can have. Especially if your name is Jeff. Ditch all others.

  2. Slow Down, Speed Racer

  Okay, you’ve negotiated the dangerous, shark-infested pickup waters and met a girl who’s awesome and you decide she might be the one—or at least the one for that night and she could possibly even get you to change your Facebook status. What to do then? Buy her something sparkly that you totally can’t afford from Tiffany’s, right? Because nothing says I love you like going into massive debt! Wrong. Wait at least six months before splurging for that extravagant gift. You want her to feel special, of course, but buying her pricey items right away might make her feel like you are upping the seriousness factor too soon. Relax. Play it cool for a while. Have her over to your place for a Guitar Hero night or to watch The Dark Knight—and make sure to fast forward to all the Joker scenes; they’re really the best. Practice your Dirty Sanchez or Donkey Punch or Strawberry Lemonade (Urban Dictionary, please). Because if the whole thing goes up in flames after two months, I guarantee that you won’t get the diamond tennis bracelet back.

  3. You Don’t Have to Pay to Play, um, Player

  It’s sooooo annoying when girls think that guys should have to pay for everything. That mentality is ridiculous and ancient. Any female who’s worth having around, will offer to pay her portion—and maybe even the whole bill. I always offer to pay for my share, and often the entire tab. Part of the reason I want to pay is to tear down the idea a lot of people have about women expecting men to pay. I wouldn’t call myself a feminist, but still. That’s backward and bullshit and I think any self-respecting chick will say the same thing. So even if you fully intend to pay for the meal, make sure she at least makes a move for her purse. If your special lady friend doesn’t even attempt the time-tested Fake Purse Reach (FPR), drop her. She’s not worth it. Who wants to be with someone who thinks you should pay for everything? And if she’s having you fork out for fish ’n’ chips, just imagine what she will expect you to pay for down the road. Now, all this being said, it’s still nice when the guy refuses to let you pay. So another tip here: as the meal is winding down, slip away to the bathroom and hand off your credit card to the waitress. When the bill comes, it’ll be taken care of and you’ll look like a P-I-M-P. That spells Pimp for all you illiterate or blind people out there. Hey, if you are blind or illiterate, how are you even reading this?! Sneaky robot eyes you must have!! Speak like Yoda, I sometimes do!

  4. Signature Moves are for Suckers, John Hancock

  You might want to get comfortable—this one takes some ’splaining. Once you have a live, naked girl in your bed, don’t fall back on boudoir tactics you’ve had success with in the past. I honestly don’t know why more people don’t complain about this phenomenon. Sure, sure, I get the appeal: If it’s not broken, don’t fix it, right? Fine, but pretty sure that idea doesn’t apply to sex. Vaginas are, after all, like snowflakes, only warmer and softer, and bleed like a gaping wound monthly…wait, what was I saying? Oh, right, vaginas are like snowflakes in that each one is different. So that fancy two-finger swirl trick that worked wonders on your last girlfrie
nd? Yeah, no guarantee it’ll work the same way on the new one.

  Once you have a live, naked girl in your bed, don’t fall back on boudoir tactics you’ve had success with in the past.

  Another risk: if your signature move is too specific, it could backfire. How? She’ll know instantly it’s your “move,” dude, and that you are very likely thinking about the last girl you pulled your “move” on and how “enflamed with passion” it made her. And you never want to put the ex back into sex—you dig?

  The first time I realized all guys have signature moves was when I on my very first date. I was fourteen years old and his name was David and his last name started with an “R.” So naturaly he insisted that everyone call him “D.R.” or simply “the Doctor”! I’d like to give you a description of what he looked like—so you can see exactly what’s burned into my memory forever. (We can suffer together!) The Doctor was Filipino, only a couple of inches taller than me, with tall spiky Asian-styled hair (read: created out of borderline illegal amounts of L.A. Looks gel). He favored oversized jeans, carefully penned-upon blue Converse sneakers, and a really large No Fear T-shirt that announced to the world: A TRUE WARRIOR NEVER FIGHTS WITHOUT A PURPOSE THAT IS GREATER THAN ONESELF. Okay, buddy, whatever. We decided to go to the movies, but we lived on an air base in Japan, so we didn’t have the choice of what to see. The theater always played hits that had been released years earlier in the U.S. Now, I’m not sure how this happened, but I had gotten it into my head that when you go to the movies on a date, you have to kiss the entire time. Ironically, I must have learned that at the movies: I mean, in every freakin’ flick, the couples are making out. How could I know any differently? Ask my mom? Uh, no. Here’s that scene: