Thigh Highs

by Katia Rose

“Still need me to review your stuff, Christina?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, “that would be great. I was waiting for Aaron to show up, but it looks like that’s not going to happen, so let’s just start without him.”

  The strain of keeping my tone pleasant makes me feel like my eye is about to start twitching.

  Gary takes a seat next to me. “So, what have you guys got?”

  “Well,” I say, unable to hold back the huff that escapes after the word, “not much.”

  I pull out my laptop and notebook to go over our campaign details. Our photo shoot is scheduled for tomorrow, and without the images, the only concrete things we’ve got to show for ourselves are the post-less social media accounts we’ve created, and a blog template that still needs to be filled with content. Most of my discussion with Gary is spent describing what things will look like, once they’re done.

  I turn to him once my explanation is over and wait. He taps his finger against his chin for a moment as he runs his eyes over my laptop screen again.

  “I’ll admit you guys are a bit behind the game at the moment, and you’re cutting it close with the photo shoot,” he remarks. My chest caves in at the scepticism in his voice. “But the angle is unique. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone take this exact approach with lingerie, and in the ad world, a quality original idea is getting to be hard to come by.”

  His praise perks me up like a cup of coffee. “So...you like it?” I prompt, hating how much I sound like an overeager child, but needing his encouragement to brighten the dark tunnel these past two weeks have been.

  He smiles. “I do. I’m excited to see it all come together.”

  I beam at him, knowing that between all my glowing responses to his praise and the angry outbursts he’s witnessed me inflict on Aaron, he probably thinks I’m insane.

  “By the way, how’s working with Aaron going?” he asks.

  “It’s...going. He’s smart,” I admit, forcing the compliment out. “The whole concept came from him. I didn’t need to be as worried as I was about having him as a partner. Although, as you can see, he didn’t even show up for class today.”

  “Well, as frustrating as that may be,” Gary tells me, “it’s like I said before: this is a good opportunity for you to experience the realities of the advertising world. Not everyone’s going to be as reliable as you are.”

  I just nod in response.

  “Oh, and speaking of the advertising world,” he adds, “I don’t usually let people in on this, but I know how much the showcase means to you, and I’ve just gotten a confirmation list of the attendees. Want to take a look? There’s some big names on there.”

  My eyes go wide at the offer. “Yes,” I breathe.

  We walk over to his desk and I hold my breath as he pulls up an email, feeling like I’m about to look into a crystal ball and see my entire future. Gary steps back and I lean over the screen, hungrily scanning the list of names. My excitement climbs in pitch with each one until the inside of my head is just one shrill whistle.

  Gary was wrong. These names aren’t big; they’re huge. My gaze lands on the last company on the list and I almost have to grip the desk in support.

  Epsilon Media.

  Any one of the firms on this list would be a dream to work for, but Epsilon Media has been the bar I’ve set my sights on since I decided I wanted to work in advertising. They have more famous campaigns under their belt than half this list combined, and they’re known for their innovation and creativity. Epsilon Media isn’t a bunch of old white guys sitting around in suits; their offices rival Google as far as cool factor goes, and its every young advertiser’s dream to be considered cutting edge enough to work for them.

  “Epsilon,” I gasp.

  “Yep,” Gary nods, looking almost as excited as I am. “We always send them an invitation, but they’ve never come out before.”

  “This list is louco,” I say out loud.

  Aaron better be ready to get his ass in gear, because there is no way we’re screwing this up, I add to myself.

  “Nice of you to show up this time,” I announce.

  Aaron walks up to me outside the studio where our photo shoot is about to happen. He tugs his beanie back a bit and then leans against the wall beside me.

  “Sorry about that, Peaches.” I narrow me eyes at him and he pushes off the wall, trying to look more sincere. “No really, I am. I should have been in class.”

  “Yes,” I respond, my tone clipped, “you should have. Are you even going to give me an excuse?”

  “I was doing...a thing,” he supplies.

  “A thing,” I echo, knowing full well that ‘thing’ is probably code for ‘some girl.’

  “Yeah, just...a thing,” he repeats, looking off into the distance for a moment. “But I remembered to get the key for today!”

  He pulls out the key for the studio.

  “Way to go,” I tell him, sarcasm now totally saturating my words. “You did the one simple job I gave you. Parabéns.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” he responds, “but I’m assuming you’re pretty mad at me?”

  I hold out my hand for the key and he drops it into my palm. “I’m just wondering if this project actually means as much to you as it does to me,” I say, as I turn the lock and we step into the studio.

  “I don’t think this project means as much to anyone as it does to you. You’re like an advertising Amazon. I’m surprised you don’t carry a spear.” I shoot him a look as sharp as any spear and he at least has enough sense to look wary. “But really, I’m sorry. Yesterday was the, uh, anniversary of this...thing, if that makes you any less unimpressed with me.”

  “Fine, Mister Mystery. Let’s move on,” I call, already moving away from him to check out the huge studio.

  The early evening sun shines through panelled warehouse windows, illuminating exposed brick walls that have been painted over in white. The floor is rough, unfinished concrete, and thick white columns that match the walls are dotted around the room. There are a few pieces of furniture in the same eggshell tone scattered throughout the scene, there to be used as props. I feel like I’ve stepped into some kind of rustic-inspired Anthropolgie commercial.

  One end of the space has been set up with a traditional photography backdrop, a dozen pieces of high tech looking lighting equipment surrounding the screen, but we’re going to shoot by the windows and use the raw, almost vintage aesthetic of the room. The sun’s making its way towards the golden hour, the window of time during which we’ll get the soft, bronze glow we’re aiming for.

  “I’ve never been in this studio,” I say, forgetting all about how annoyed I’m supposed to be with Aaron as my footsteps echo around us. “I kind of want to live here.”

  I glance over at him and he seems even more enthralled than I am, moving around to see the light from different angles and reverently examining the camera gear.

  “Thinking about taking up photography?” I ask, watching the way he prowls around the reflector umbrellas and tripods. He looks up at me like I’ve caught him playing with a toy he shouldn’t be.

  “Oh,” he says, his voice rushed, “no. I was just thinking about how good I’d look with all these lights on me.” He moves in front of the backdrop and starts to pose like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  “Don’t make me throw up in my mouth.”

  I walk over to the white desk in one corner and take out the props we discussed in one of our planning sessions: a mug, an oversized pair of headphones, and a blanket. I set down the bag that holds the lingerie next to them and start arranging each of the outfits.

  Aaron wanted us to take a shopping trip together to pick them out, but I knew I couldn’t stomach spending an hour with Aaron Penn in a women’s underwear store. I insisted on getting a few things myself and sending him half the bill. What I didn’t tell him was that the model turned out to be almost the exact same size as me, and that I’ll be keeping some of these pieces for my own benefit.

  I h
ave all three outfits laid out and we’re ready to go, but there’s still no sign of the photographer or model.

  “They should have been here by now,” I say, glancing at the light outside. Our window of opportunity is growing shorter and shorter.

  “Yeah,” agrees Aaron, staring down at his phone. “I’ve texted the photographer, but she hasn’t said anything.”

  I start pacing the room, checking the time so often I must look like I have a tic. The next ten minutes feel like an eternity. Aaron’s sitting on a white couch in the middle of the room and my heart starts hammering in my chest when I hear him breathe a curse.

  “What?” I call out, rushing over to him. “What is it?”

  “Bad news,” he answers, his voice flat. “They were driving over here together and got in a car crash.”

  I freeze a few steps away from him. “Are they okay?” I gasp.

  “They’re fine. No one actually got hurt, but the crash was pretty bad. The photographer says she’s going to be held up dealing with her car all night, and the model’s too shaken up to do a shoot anyways.”

  He gives me an apprehensive look, like he’s expecting me to start hurling furniture across the room in rage, but instead I drop onto the couch next to him and bury my face in my hands.

  “I’m glad they’re okay,” I sigh, staring down at my knees, “but we’re fucked, aren’t we?”

  The effects of every late night I’ve spent hunched over my laptop and every 6:00AM alarm that’s hauled me out of bed these past few weeks seem to hit me all at once. My head feels too heavy for my hands. I should be flooded with frustration right now, but any anger I try to muster over the situation just drains right out of me.

  “Kind of,” Aaron agrees, “but hey, we can still make this work. We have two days. We’ll rethink our campaign, come up with something less graphics based.”

  I can tell even he doesn’t believe those words.

  “The world is graphics based,” I respond. “We need quality visuals for a product like this.”

  I lift my head and turn to look at him. I expect him to look as defeated as I feel, but instead he’s staring at me with half a smile, the wheels of his brain turning so loudly I can almost hear them.

  “Are you good at keeping secrets?” he asks.

  I search his eyes for whatever punch line he’s hiding. “What is it?” I ask, not willing to indulge him.

  He sits up straighter on the couch, practically vibrating with anticipation. “I have an idea, but you have to promise not to tell anyone about it.”

  “I’m really not in the mood for whatever stupid game this is.”

  “Just promise me, okay?”

  I roll my eyes. “Sure, Penn, I promise. I won’t tell anyone about whatever grand plan you’ve come up with.”

  “Good,” he responds, jumping up from the couch. “I’ll be back.”

  Then, without warning, he takes off running out of the studio. I blink after him, his exit taking a minute to register.

  “Where the hell are you going?” I call, once the impact of what’s just happened hits.

  It’s too late, though. He’s already out of earshot.

  “No way,” I gasp, staring at the very large, very professional-looking camera in Aaron’s hands. “Did you just steal that?”

  He looks up after setting the camera down on the desk next to the carefully arranged lingerie.

  “Really?” he demands, cocking a brow. “Is your opinion of me actually so bad that your first assumption is to think I stole this?”

  I give him a look that suggests exactly that.

  “I didn’t steal it,” he confirms. “It’s mine. I...”

  His eyes drift to the floor and he takes a moment to heft the gear bag he has thrown over his shoulder onto the desk, turning away from me as he does.

  “I do photography sometimes,” he continues. “It’s just a hobby. I was going to come back in here after the shoot and play around a bit.”

  “That looks like more than just a hobby.” I gesture towards all his gear as he turns back to face me.

  He shrugs, avoiding my eye. “I mean, I have to look good in all my selfies.”

  “It’s like being a douchebag is just a reflex for you,” I sigh. “I almost can’t even blame you for it.”

  He starts unzipping the bag and pulls out a few lenses. As I watch, it occurs to me that even though we’ve now got a camera and someone who knows how to use it, our problems are far from solved.

  “So do you have a C cup model hiding in that bag?” I ask him. “Because if not, we’re still screwed.”

  “You must be at least a C cup,” he responds, not looking up from the lenses.

  I’m about to ask what that has to do with anything when the realization of what he’s suggesting hits.

  Oh hell no.

  I let out a mocking laugh. “Very funny, Penn. Very funny indeed. But really, what do you suggest we do about a model?”

  “As far as I can tell, we’ve only got one option. So suit up, Dominguez.”

  He picks up one of the lacy bras from the desk and tosses it at me. I catch it with one hand and stand there, still holding it up in the air with my mouth hanging open.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” I manage.

  “Yep,” he answers, popping the p. “This is the absolute last chance we have to get the photos done on time, and I don’t think a woman willing to model some underwear for us is going to come striding into the room anytime soon. If we want to qualify for the showcase, we need to get this done.”

  His tone is all business, and maybe it’s just the fact that he’s showing some concern for the showcase instead of making jokes about me stripping down for him, but I actually stop to consider it.

  “It would be too unprofessional,” I say. “How is anyone going to take me seriously as an advertiser if they’re staring at a blown up image of me in thigh highs?”

  “We can redo them for the showcase,” Aaron suggests, screwing a lens onto his camera. “We just need something to submit for our project grade.”

  He glances towards the windows and then checks the time, giving a slight frown. The light has already turned the ideal golden colour, and if we stall any longer we’ll miss it.

  I run my hands over the black fabric of the bra I’m holding. I saw it on a mannequin in the window of the lingerie store and knew that I wasn’t going to leave without it. It’s one of the pieces I was intending to keep after the shoot and I’ve been dying to try it on.

  “If I see even the suggestion of a smirk on your face,” I tell Aaron, “or hear just the hint of some kind of euphemism, you will not leave this room uninjured.”

  “I’ll be a complete professional,” he tells me, with a smile that seems anything but. “You have my word.”

  I grab the rest of the outfit off the desk and point towards the door. “Now get out of here while I change.”

  6

  Strip

  The thud of the door closing echoes through the studio. I start tugging off my clothes and pull the lingerie on as fast as I can, the cavernous room making me feel more exposed than I’d like.

  The bra for this set has a cagey back with complicated straps. The cups, if you can even call them that, consist of black bands that encircle my boobs, only half lined with delicate lace, so that the top halves of the girls are on full display. I step into the matching underwear, simple black panties with lace cut-outs on the sides, and pull on a pair of black thigh high stockings.

  There’s a mirror on one of the walls and I spin around in front of it, taking in the results of six months’ worth of kickboxing. While the ‘Cute Butt Benefit’ is an undeniable factor in why I work out, I don’t keep subjecting myself to the torture of Coach Kelsey’s drills just to be more attractive. Looking at the ridges of my abs, ridges I’ve carved out sit-up by endless sit-up, I don’t just feel sexy.

  I feel powerful.

  Kickboxing has allowed me to own my body, to take care of it and
test its limits in a way I never have before. Every time I look at them, the muscles I’ve built up remind me that if I can find that kind of strength and dedication in the gym, I can apply it to other parts of my life too.

  But all that aside, I really do owe Coach Kelsey a thank you letter for the current state of my ass. Accentuated by the cut of the underwear, it’s pushing Victoria’s Secret Angel status.

  Aaron knocks on the door before pushing it open, and I hurry back over to the desk to throw on the blouse we’re using for this part of the shoot. I tug the shirt closed and cross my arms, wishing it was long enough to cover more of my butt. While I’m confident about my body, I’m not exactly thrilled to have it on display for Aaron Penn.

  He gives me a once over and I raise an eyebrow, daring him to make some kind of comment. Instead he just hangs his camera strap around his neck and heads to the window.

  I follow, keeping the shirt wrapped tightly around me, and watch as he starts messing around with a light meter. The sun paints him in a golden glow, and I stare at the expression on his face as he adjusts the settings of his camera. There’s a focus to his features that I’ve never seen before, all his restless energy compressed and sharpened to a single point of concentration.

  “Could you step in front of the lens?” he asks, still looking back and forth from the light meter to the camera’s display.

  I do as he asks. When he looks up at me he freezes, the moment stretching out into infinity as I watch his eyes travel up and down my bare legs. I want to call him out on being a perv, but something stops me from even being able to make a sound.

  He’s not looking at me like a guy checking a girl out. He’s not even looking at me like I’m a girl at all. As his gaze works its way over my every curve, I realize what I am to him right now: potential. I’m the kind of potential he knows how to use.

  He steps forwards and starts to circle around me, craning his neck to catch glimpses of me from different angles. His footsteps fall with the precision of a predator stalking its prey, and I hug myself even tighter with my arms. When his voice rolls out low and rumbling from behind me, a shudder passes through me and I try to blame it on the fact that I have next to no clothing on right now.