I Didn't Come Here to Make Friends: Confessions of a Reality Show Villain

by Courtney Robertson

  A week later, during my high school’s spring break week, I was on a red-eye flight alone to the British Virgin Islands. I went despite the objections of Jono, who was furious I was leaving and worried I’d be naked 24/7 with hot male models. “I can’t believe you’d take your clothes off for money,” he ranted manipulatively. As I looked down at the passport necklace my dad bought me, I realized I’d never been away from my family for a week. I’d never been out of the country. I hoped I wasn’t about to be sold into sex slavery or have my organs stolen.

  “It’s time to toughen up,” I told myself.

  Then I turned on my Discman and played Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles” over and over until I drifted off to sleep.

  2

  CATWALKING & STARFUCKING

  Oh my Lord, this isn’t going to work.”

  The makeup artist on my very first professional A&F shoot was deeply concerned about the pubic line of my white bikini, which had unruly and unseemly brown hairs poking out. After giving me a razor and sending me off to the bathroom with instructions about how to properly shave my nether region, she also mercifully gave me a professional eyebrow waxing.

  After she finished, I looked in the mirror. For the first time in my life, I felt good about myself. I wasn’t Unibrow or Pepperoni Face or Stupid.

  I was pretty.

  My newfound confidence helped me get through what I can only describe as an extremely awkward week of learning how to be a model by trial and error. I fidgeted way too much and had no idea how to pose, but the crew was patient and supportive of me and I earned the nickname Mini, because they thought I looked like a mini May Anderson. I was a “favorite” of the photographer and he used me a lot in the different setups, which included a beautiful sailboat, pristine beaches, and lots of fake, closed-mouth kisses with the male models. I was still such a good girl (thanks, Mom) that when my fellow mannequins went out to party every night in BVI, I stayed in the five-star hotel by myself, though I did chain-smoke cigarettes. I didn’t care. I was living the life on someone else’s dime. I thought, I could die tomorrow and be happy.

  Jono had made me paranoid and petrified that I’d have to be naked the whole time, but it wasn’t until the last day that I was first asked to strip down.

  “Do you mind?” the photographer asked.

  I took off my top and all my insecurities about being Brick Wall evaporated. I felt liberated about my body as I stood in the Caribbean Sea and whipped my wet hair back and forth. Naturally, when these in-store promotional photos came out, they’d only used the shots of us naked on the last day.

  Jono dumped me.

  But I wasn’t that heartbroken because I was rich! The first thing I splurged on was three pugs—Emma, Bubba, and Phoebe—one for me, one for my sister Rachel, and one for my BFF, Sara. I blew seven hundred bucks on puppies without batting an eye.

  My inaugural shoot in BVI went so well that two weeks later I was asked to fly to Philadelphia to model A&F’s fall back-to-school catalog with legendary photographer Bruce Weber, who also shot famous campaigns for Ralph Lauren, Vogue, and Revlon. I immediately believed I was headed for supermodel stardom.

  When I arrived in Philly, it was 180 degrees different from my super chill tropical paradise shoot. Bruce, known for his provocative, controversial style, had flown in forty of the hottest young models from New York, Miami, and L.A. The girls were super cliquey and peppered me with condescending questions about my modeling experience, or lack thereof.

  “Wait, you work in the store?” one asked snottily. “What do you do there?”

  “I ring up people on the cash register?” I answered meekly.

  I was intimidated and kept to myself, which wasn’t a problem because nobody was interested in talking to me anyway. Bruce would come by and watch the models mingling with one another, looking for chemistry. He noticed that I was a pariah in the group and didn’t use me much.

  I was booked for five days for an astounding $2,000 per day, but on the third day I made a crucial mistake. A photo assistant asked if I would get naked, even though it was freezing outside and it was a back-to-school clothing catalog for teenagers.

  This time I decided to take a stand. It suddenly hit me that the principal of my school could see these photographs. “No, I’m not comfortable with that,” I said, proud of myself.

  The next day, I got back to my hotel room and found a cold, formal note on my pillow, informing me that I was no longer needed on the shoot. Confused and wondering what I’d done wrong, I eventually realized that if you say no to nakedness, especially with Bruce Weber, you’re pretty much dunzo in the modeling business. None of the shots I’d done the few days before made it into the catalog.

  It didn’t matter. I had a newfound confidence and sense of purpose. I was also kind of a mini celebrity at my school and even got a little ink in the local paper. Even though I almost wasn’t allowed to walk at graduation because I had so many absences, the student council asked me to give a speech during commencement.

  “Abercrombie!” my fellow students yelled as I spoke.

  I had arrived.

  AFTER I GRADUATED from high school, I quit my job at A&F after signing with the Ford modeling agency, which was conveniently located just down the street from my house. I rented an apartment with my friends Sara and Emily, studied graphic design at Scottsdale Community College, but ended up dropping out. My modeling career was taking off and I was working like a fiend, booking local catalogs and magazine editorial for clients who did their shoots in the desert.

  Chris popped up in my life again—something that would happen over and over for the next decade. He was being really supportive of my modeling career so we started dating. And we finally had sex and it was miiiind-blooooowing (say it like Oprah). Our first time was in a shower. Apparently, for some reason, I have a thing about doin’ it in the water. There must be a Masters and Johnson study somewhere that says you try to re-create the time you lost your virginity.

  A year after winning the A&F contest, I’d done all the modeling work I could do in Scottsdale. The town just wasn’t big enough for my budding career anymore, so I decided it was time to make a big move. I packed up what little crap I had, and drove to L.A. with another girlfriend and model friend named Michelle. Chris was supposed to help me move but totally flaked. I was definitely sad to leave him, yet one of my mom’s incessant mottos kept playing in my head on a loop: “Never let a man screw up your life.” Chris had given up a deal to play basketball overseas because he didn’t want to leave me. But I couldn’t stay in Arizona just for him.

  In L.A., Michelle and I got a starter apartment on Sierra Bonita, right off Sunset Boulevard, and booked go-sees together for every modeling agency in Hollywood. Within two days I had five offers for representation, but not from the L.A. branch of Ford. They said I was too short after measuring me under 5’9”. Clueless about how to pick a new agency, I signed with Nous Model Management because they were on Robertson Boulevard. I thought it was a good omen because of my last name and because the office was on the same street as the Ivy, a famous restaurant where the paparazzi snapped stars eating chopped salads.

  Good omens aside, we got off to a rocky start. Despite my initial refusal to disrobe for living legend Bruce Weber, the Picasso of photography, my old agency Ford in Scottsdale got me another chance to be in his next A&F catalog. Nous was unhappy that my former agency was still booking me, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. This time the shoot was in Rome and I was getting paid $2,000 per day for thirteen days for a total of $26,000!

  I guess I finally learned my times table.

  Before I left, I made a vow to myself to say yes to any request, no matter how crazy or R-rated. My new philosophy paid off. As soon as I was asked, I immediately answered, “Yes, I’ll get naked.” About forty male and female models were flown to Rome and slowly, one by one, I saw every naïve soul who dared to say no get sent home.

  Now, I’m not sure if Bruce Weber was ins
pired by Roman orgies or what, but I spent eleven of the thirteen days totally naked, out in the open, in the busy streets of Rome. I don’t even know if it was legal or if we had permits, but nobody stopped our massive mobile production, which included five photo assistants, a dozen hair and makeup artists, stylists, and, of course, the Boom Box Guy, whose sole job was to carry a radio on his shoulder in order to play classical ambient music as loud as possible.

  I was paired up the entire time with a blond, blue-eyed German boy named Sasha, who had a gigantic boner the whole shoot. Even though we didn’t originally have any chemistry, eleven days of his rock-hard penis in my pelvis, butt, and face as we frolicked nude in a bathtub, a waterfall, next to a statue, and in a castle, brought us closer together. At this point, I was basically single because Chris and I were having trouble doing the long-distance thing between Scottsdale and L.A. So one night, I invited Sasha to my room for a massage. Before I kneaded his beautiful back, I asked him if he had a girlfriend. When he said yes, I kicked him out. It was at that moment that I decided I’d never bang another woman’s boyfriend. Believe it or not, I’m a big believer in karma.

  The shoot in Rome was a game changer for my career, even though every photograph was “burned” or destroyed because conservative and religious groups threatened to boycott A&F over Bruce’s sexually explicit pictures, which they believed were obscene and child pornography.

  With Bruce Weber on my résumé, I started working immediately when I got back, though I didn’t get the best assignments and the castings were few and far between. After months of mediocre jobs, I defected to L.A. Models, where I remained for the next eight years, mentored by my agent and mother stand-in Mamie Indig.

  My career blew up at L.A. Models. I started booking gigs and traveling all over the world for big name brands like Izod, Nautica, Mervyns, Diet Coke, Rip Curl, and Target, and I shot my first commercial for Old Navy. I did a runway show with Cindy Crawford and an ad for Jessica Simpson’s hair extensions right after she and first husband, Nick Lachey, split. Jessica was very sweet but very sad. She spent most of the day holed up in her candle-lit dressing room, drinking carrot juice, and blasting Sinéad O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares 2 U.” I was working with the best photographers, including a Roxy campaign with Peggy Sirota at Pismo Beach. But I didn’t know how to surf so I got sent home early. They wanted to focus on the surfer girls they sponsored. The awesome part about my job? When they send you packing, they still have to pay up. So I still got my fee: $3,000 per day for three days = $9,000.

  As exciting as my new life was, it was a huge adjustment. I was so lonely when I first moved to L.A. that I’d wander around the Grove mall by myself and bump up against strangers just to have human contact. I also had a hell of a lot to learn, like how to deal with constant rejection and stressed-out photographers who had no patience for my inexperience. On one Nordstrom shoot in Seattle, I wasn’t moving the right way and was totally bawled out. “You’re just a squirrel trying to get a nut!” a mean photographer screamed.

  I also was a terrible runway walker, and during a Swarovski event I ruined the entire show when I walked too fast and threw the timing off with the music. I also had a wardrobe malfunction where my nipple was entirely exposed. I looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

  Some clients, like online shopping sites or big department stores, are basically sweatshops for models. They have you model their entire collections in one day, basically a hundred outfits nonstop for six hours. It’s exhausting. I’d even get rashes from taking the cheap fabrics on and off so quickly. And just when you thought you were done, they’d wheel in another rack of clothes to shoot. When you’re young and just starting out, they know you won’t say no.

  I also couldn’t say no when my agency shipped me off to New Zealand and Australia for two months and then to New York City to meet with clients. I had to live in a cramped, mouse-infested “model apartment,” that was really just two small rooms with bunk beds. My roommates were several models, who washed their undies in the sink and were so promiscuous they brought home guys in the middle of the day and banged them in the bathroom, while I sat in the living room two feet away watching All My Children.

  My roommates weren’t the only crazy models I worked with. I definitely witnessed my fair share of pukers, and heard stories of girls who wanted to stay skinny so badly they swallowed cotton balls. I hated throwing up so I never was in danger of having an eating disorder. I did try Victoria “Posh” Beckham’s 1,200-calorie diet once. But I had no energy afterward so I ditched it. Of course, it was intimidating being surrounded by the most gorgeous women in the world. Sometimes I felt like I was playing a part. I’d see how a successful model dressed and go to H&M and try to re-create her look. There were a few catty girls out there, but I held my own and made really great friendships that last to this day. Yes, modeling can be competitive but there’s also a huge sense of camaraderie among us.

  * * *

  KEEPING IT REAL

  My Modeling Tips

  FOR THE NEWBIES

  1.Keep a nude thong, nude strapless bikini, and heels in your car at all times in case of a last-minute casting.

  2.Never leave your portfolio in your car. It could melt or be stolen. It’s your livelihood!

  3.Always be early for castings.

  4.Always hang up the clothes you modeled. Clients hate when models leave samples on the floor.

  5.Always eat lunch with the clients. They may hire you again if you’re a nice person!

  6.Stay off your phone. You’re paid to be focused.

  7.Save all receipts. Your clothes, makeup, haircuts, gas are all write-offs.

  8.After you book your first job, treat yourself to something nice, then save, save, save the rest! It’s feast or famine in this industry. You never know when your next job will be.

  9.Be nice to everyone. It’s a small biz and you will work with the same stylists and photographers over and over again.

  10.Don’t brag. You may be a model today, but who knows about tomorrow.

  FOR THE WANNABES

  1.The gym is your office and part of your job. Get healthy.

  2.Stop drinking soda. It bloats you.

  3.Take care of your skin. Get lots of sleep and get regular facials.

  4.You need test shots, as many as you can. Find an up-and-coming photographer on Facebook. But never sign anything until a lawyer or a new agent looks it over.

  5.Study fashion magazines not only for style and beauty trends, but also to see which companies are using models as opposed to celebrities.

  6.Take constructive criticism. If someone wants you to change your hair color, be less buff, lose weight, do it.

  7.Don’t post unflattering or partying photos on social media. You’re only as good as your last photo.

  8.Practice your looks in the mirror.

  9.Take an on-camera commercial workshop.

  10.Tyra is right. Learn to smize (smile with your eyes)!

  * * *

  So here I was, in my early twenties, living on my own and making up to $25,000 per week. Nobody had ever talked to me about managing my money so I started splurging on shoes and $500 Louis Vuitton Speedy bags. Who had time for a savings account? Desperate to make friends, I spent my nights out at Hollywood’s hottest clubs, like the Concorde, Cabana Club, and LAX. I had no problem getting in, even when I was underage. The promoters wanted young models to dance on their tables, drink their booze for free, and flirt with their boldface clientele, like Justin Timberlake and Brody Jenner. Bob Saget, David Spade, Spencer Pratt, and Matthew Perry were also club fixtures at the time, and, though I steered clear, I was amazed at how many women threw themselves at them.

  One of my new best friends was Matthew, a rich-kid model whose claim to fame was making out with Britney Spears in her Toxic video and dating C-list actresses like Minnie Driver and Selma Blair. Matt knew everybody in the nightlife scene and I spent countless hours at the Chateau Marmont with him and his connected
friends doing the cliché Hollywood thing.

  Through all of this partying, I will say this: I never did drugs and I never had a one-night stand. Matt was always trying to pimp me out to his friends in the rare moments I was single, but it was just never my style. I did have sex one time with a male model friend, who shall remain nameless, but his penis was so insanely small (like the size of a baby carrot stick) that it turned me off from casual hookups pretty much forever.

  At this point in my life, I’d done some growing up when it came to men and relationships. No more golf course BJs, thank you very much. I took pride in not being a ho and truly wanted to save some things for the person I’d marry. In all of my years being a prude, and then getting close to my guy friends, I’d pick their brains about what they wanted in a wife. They all said the same thing: if a girl sleeps with me on the first night, she’s not the one. They also didn’t want to throw their hotdog down a hallway, if you know what I mean.

  At that time, I thought Chris’s hotdog would be in my hallway for the rest of my life. I really did think we’d eventually get married one day. Even though we were five hundred miles away from each other, and officially “keeping our options open,” we texted constantly and I’d always call him when I got home at night, no matter what time, because my neighborhood was so sketchy. Bums would sleep in the bushes right outside my ground-floor window, and on hot summer nights I could hear them snoring and rolling over.

  Naturally, the more time we spent away from each other, the more we drifted apart. Chris didn’t drink, he was a straight arrow, and he didn’t like the whole fake Hollywood lifestyle. He was a small-town boy at heart. Once, when he visited me in L.A., I wanted to take him to a club, but he was so nervous he threw up in the cab on the way there. Even though I was quite lonely my first few years in L.A., I wasn’t a small-town girl anymore. In fact, my life was changing so fast it was impossible for Chris to keep up.