Jessica Robinson was sitting at the lighted vanity, staring at her erect nipples. A blush was spreading around them. It matched the blush which she couldn't get off her face, no matter how hard she tried.
Her hands trembled as she tried to apply makeup to her face in a way which matched what the visage artist had shown them. He'd be going around later, inspecting each model and correcting their mistakes. She didn't want him to linger on her. She was already on the verge of jumping up and running out. All models were expected to do their own makeup as the visage artist shows them, as it saves on time and cost. She had never before had any trouble with that. Her hands slipped and the eyeliner pencil traced a squiggly line extending from her eyelashes. "Damn it," she muttered and reached for the makeup remover.
"Nervous," asked the model seated at the vanity next to hers.
The patronizing tone of the woman's voice forced all other concerns out of Jessica's mind. "Excuse me?"
"You look like this is your first time on a catwalk," the model said and turned her attention back to her own mirror to continue applying her mascara.
"I've been modeling since I was fifteen, thank you very much," she said heatedly and immediately regretted her tone of voice. She certainly didn't feel like she could use more attention on herself. Not with her titties out in the open like this.
"And how old are you now, sixteen?"
"Eighteen! Almost nineteen."
"Easy, girly," the model continued in a gratingly condescending tone of voice. "This show is the biggest chance a fresh face can get in this business. If you nail this show-"
"I've walked the runway at New York Fashion Week. This is nothing new to me."
"Alright then," the model said and turned her full attention to her own mirror.
Jessica's fists tightened and then relaxed. She needed this job. There had been jobs aplenty when she had been the new thing, the fresh face. Lately, she was considered
experienced
, which was fashion speak for old news. She was doing more catalog shoots than runways, which was the undeniable sign of a modeling career coming to an end.
Her eyes fell down to her bare titties again. They'd be bouncing as she walked the runway. The choreographer had insisted. "Energy, energy, energy! I want you
striding
down that runway!" Bouncing unrestrained and uncovered for all the world to see.
As nervous as she was at the mere thought of that, she couldn't deny that there were also pins and needles running up the insides of her arms. The kinds she got right before the first time she had been kissed. Or three months ago, when she finally did it for the first time with her boyfriend. She drew a deep breath and ignored those memories. There was makeup to apply.
As she was applying her mascara, her eye was drawn to the curtained off areas in the corners of the prep room. Those had always been her allies, her best friends. She'd go into them in her own underwear and come out in the outfit she was modeling. No one was allowed to see her naked. An assistant could only enter if she specifically called for her, which she had never done.
Whether Jessica had been going to a casting call, doing a photo shoot, or walking the runway, no one had ever seen her completely naked. Always, she had been wearing underwear of her own choice, or the piece she was modeling. The line between herself and nudity had been thick and impassable in her own mind.
She looked down at her feet. Her purse was sitting half-open, her clothes visible. Jessica reached down and touched her black bra. It had been her lucky charm which had clinched castings for her. It had been her work uniform and her armor against any moralizing. No one could call her nude as long as she had him with her. But now he was in the purse and she was bare. Another shudder ran down her sides. It wasn't completely unpleasant.
The visage artist was coming closer on his rounds and she forced herself to finish her makeup. She told herself she wouldn't feel terribly embarrassed on the catwalk as the audience was always in darkness, all the lights would be on her.
Yeah, illuminating my titties for all the world to see
, she thought glumly.
A thought came to her. With such illumination, her tits were certain to look good. She was nearly stunned by it. Could she actually find something positive in being exposed before hundreds of eyes? In having her naked body photographed for countless thousand to see in print? In having her nudity eternally available to anyone with an internet connection?
The visage artist quickly corrected a few details on her face and then she realized the wait was over. They were called to line up for the first outing. The choreographer was there, reminding the girls to, "Crackle and pop, ladies! I wanna see you bounce with energy!"
Jessica wanted to sock him in the mouth. When her eyes settled on the stairs to the catwalk, her breath escaped her. She struggled to draw another one. She could feel beads of sweat running down her bare skin. She wanted to throw up. Longingly, she glanced at the changing areas.
The designer was suddenly right in front of her, doing his final inspection. God, she wanted to spit in his eye. This was all his fault. His fancy-schmancy artsy-fartsy high concept of having the models walk topless.
Avant-garde, my ass! How the hell does he expect anyone to even
see
his creations when all eyes will be on bouncing tits?
She half wanted to run back to her purse and call her boyfriend to come and explain to the designer how straight guys think.
Of course, naked models draw publicity and that was the whole point. The target customers were also women, so men's views are irrelevant. The designer tugged on her skirt a few times and gave it his nod of approval. In less than two seconds he was on to the next model in line. Jessica shook her head. The depths she was sinking to and the man didn't even spare the time to thank her, or look her in the eye. If she didn't need this job, she'd turn on her heels and leave right this instant. The music came on, a slow, sensual track, and the lights dimmed outside. The time has come. Her heart pounded in her ears. She struggled to draw a deep breath. She could feel her nipples tightening until she could feel the air against them, despite the lack of any breeze. The first model ascended the stairs and vanished from Jessica's view to walk the runway.
Jessica wiped her sweaty palms against her skirt. A gasp in her ear made her jump. An assistant was right next to her, glaring. "Don't wipe your greasy palms on the outfit," she hissed and bent closer to inspect the sides of the skirt. Finding no visible smudges, she straightened up and shook a warning finger at Jessica. Jessica gulped and nodded.
The line moved forward, bringing Jessica closer to the stairs with each passing moment. The wait was the worst. There were six models between her and the stage stairs and their exit was being staggered by ten seconds or so. Half of her wished it would be over already, half of her wished the moment would never come. Pins and needles ran up and down her sides.
Her breath caught in her throat again when the first model came off the stage. Jessica's eyes were peeled to the girl, searching for any sign of...she wasn't sure what. Rotten fruit? Embarrassment? Delight?
Jessica frowned. Where did delight come from? Why would the girl feel delight after walking half-naked in front of hundreds of strangers? The model was rushed to a changing area, accompanied by the hushed praises of the designer. The first models would walk three outfits. Jessica was only slated for two. Another sign she definitely needed a gig like this.
The line inched forward, bringing Jessica closer to the catwalk. She blew on her sweaty palms, even though she felt like she was short of breath. A random thought made her feel like her insides were falling out. What if she fainted on stage? Certainly, that would bring a lot of publicity to her, but in the fashion business, there was such a thing as bad publicity. If a designer felt like they would look incompetent for hiring fainting models, then they would never hire a model that fainted once. Snorting coke made you edgy, cool. Fainting made you weak, pitiable. Unable to sell anything to anyone.
She wanted to pray for strength, but she couldn't remember how the prayers went. Art-Father, help, or something?
The model in front of her ascended the stairs to to catwalk and struck a pose. Jessica stared at her like a drowning person would stare at a flotation device. The choreographer and designer were there, speaking instructions into Jessica's ear, but she couldn't hear anything over the whooshing in her ears. Then the model strode off down the runway and out of Jessica's sight. Jessica felt suddenly abandoned. Her eyes darted to the men beside her. They were looking expectantly at her and she nodded.
The choreographer put his hand to the small of her back and her whole body tensed. The touch seemed to send waves of heat radiating across her bare skin. He gently guided her a little to the side to let a model come down from the catwalk. Jessica's roving eyes searched the woman's face for any sign of terror.
"You're up," whispered the choreographer and gently pushed Jessica up the stairs.
