The Reluctant Model

The story I'm about to relate, happened to me, and it all began in September 1961, when I was twenty two years old. It was now a month since my husband and I had been on holiday with our new son; who'd been born in January that year. We'd had a week in a hired caravan at Skegness, a British holiday resort on the north east coast. The summer of 1961, was like the two years previous had been, exceptionally sunny, and ideal for a UK holiday. So along with most other young women in Skegness, I'd spent a lot of my time on the beach in a bikini; which was at that time, the height of fashion for beach wear.

So, I guess you could say everything in my life up until this point was quite normal. As I've said it was now about a month after that holiday, and a few days ago, my husband Gerry had collected our photos from the chemist shop. These were the typical mixture of holiday snaps, but being as we'd got our new baby son with us, most of them were of him. But inevitably, in some of the photos, I was the person holding him. And one of the photos Gerry had taken, was of me lying with the baby sleeping alongside me. And in just about every photo I was in, I was wearing my new bikini.

Now unbeknown to me, my Gerry had taken these photos into work, to show his work mates. Well when he arrived home, and I was busy dishing out his meal, he said, "How would you like a part time job?"

"When would I get time to do a job? You're not gonna go on again about me working evenings as a barmaid? I've told you before, by the time of done all the housework and been looking after our Henry all day, I'm not up to standing serving behind a bar all night."

"No, it's nothing like that. It's modelling."

"Modelling? What d'you mean, modelling?"

"You know what modelling is, trying on clothes and having your picture taken."

"Yes I know what that kind of modelling is, but whatever gave you the idea that I could do anything like that. I haven't got the figure for it."

"That's not what Ken says. He says they're always looking to find girls like you."

"Which Ken? And what d'you mean by girls like me?"

"Ken, dad's mate, lives across the road at number thirty."

"Your dad's gardening friend?"

"Yes."

"Well what would he know about modelling jobs. And you didn't explain what he meant by girls like me?"

"It isn't just gardening he's interested in, he's an amateur photographer. And he's in a photography club. And when he saw the photos of you in that bikini, he said with a body like yours, you could be making good money doing part time modelling."

"You'd better be kidding me." And then seeing his face colour up, and the guilt, "Oh no, you haven't been showing those photos around to your mates at work?"

"Of course I have. Why shouldn't I?"

"I'm almost naked in them pictures!"

"Well it didn't worry you on the beach with other blokes walking past and getting an eyeful."

"That's different; it's what you do on the beach."

"So that's all anyone at work has seen, you sunbathing on the beach."

"You just don't get it, do you?"

"No, I don't. And I can't remember any easy money offers coming your way up in Skeggy. But showing your picture to Ken has given you a chance to pick-up some easy cash. We could certainly do with some since you packed up your job to have your baby."

"My baby? I thought he was our baby."

"Yours, ours, it doesn't matter. All I'm saying is money doesn't grow on trees, and with just my one pay packet coming in, I can't see us affording a holiday away next year."

"So you want me to flaunt my body for some dirty old men to take mucky photos?"

"What d'you mean, flaunt your body? You'd be wearing swimwear and stuff. And don't say that about Ken, he's been my dad's mate for years. And another thing, it was Ken who put a good word in for me and got me my job, so we owe him a favour."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Why not. Ken says they pay their models as much as ten quid for a two hour session, that's ten times more than I get an hour; and I'm a skilled machinist."

"So it's the money that's got you convinced?"

"Isn't everything about money? That's why I go to work. But the thing about this is, you don't have to work to get it, and it pays really well."

"And are you okay about these men taking photos of me in a bikini, or stuff? But I don't suppose Ken enlightened you as to what this other stuff was?"

"Well stuff was just my expression. Ken said you'd look sensational in lingerie; that's fancy knickers, bras, stockings and all that sexy stuff."

"I know what lingerie is. But that kind of thing is even more revealing than wearing a bikini. Are you saying it wouldn't worry you if I was being photographed in skimpy knickers?"

"Well for your information, I challenged Ken on that very point. I said I wouldn't like the idea of you showing your fanny; even if it was partly hidden by some lacy knickers. And he then turned the whole thing upside down. He said just about every man fancies Marilyn Monroe, or any of the other movie stars. And they'd jump through hoops to get a chance to marry one. And then he pointed out some of the things they've worn in films and been photographed in for men's magazines, and he says that's probably just the tip of the iceberg. He says that so long as the woman is doing it to earn money, and not just flashing herself to attract a man as a lover, then the husband has nothing to worry about. And when you look at it like that, it makes sense."

"Well I'm not convinced, so you can tell him I'm not interested."

"But the man who runs the club will be coming around to see you at half past seven."

"No? Don't tell me you've arranged it without asking me first?"

"I thought you'd be keen. I'm sorry, but I asked Ken to go around straight from work to see him. It'll all be sorted by now."

"But this man, whoever he is, hasn't even seen what I look like?"

"Ken's taken your photo to show him."

I picked up my now empty plate, stormed into the kitchen, and threw it into the sink, where I heard the plate shatter. And then ignoring the consequences of my juvenile tantrum, I stormed up to the bedroom, sat on the bed, and cried my eyes out. I think I'd expected him to realise how wrong he'd been in not only showing those photos of me around, but then compounding his insensitivity, by letting someone take them to a total stranger that neither of us knew. But no, after half an hour of crying, with him not even calling up the stairs to ask if I was alright, I made my way to the bathroom and ran myself a nice hot bath.

I guess I'd been soaking in the hot soapy water for maybe ten to fifteen minutes, when I heard Henry starting to cry. And unlike his ignoring of my crying, within a minute of Henry starting, Gerry was calling up from the bottom of the stairs, "SHEILLA, CAN'T YOU HEAR HENRY CRYING?"

So from my reclining position in the bath, I called back, "I'M IN THE BATH, YOU'LL HAVE TO SEE TO HIM."

I then heard some indistinguishable mumbled comments as Gerry stomped his way up the stairs. And then maybe a minute or so later, came, "OH MY FUCKING GOD. HE'S FILLED HIS NAPPY. YOU'LL HAVE TO COME AND DEAL WITH IT."

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE INTENDING TO LOOK AFTER HIM ALL EVENING, WHILE I EARNED MONEY FLAUNTING MY BODY."

"COME ON, YOU'RE NOT BEING FAIR. I'VE NEVER DONE HIS NAPPY BEFORE."

"SO IT'S TIME YOU LEARNT HOW."

There was a lot more of the indistinguishable mumbling, where I could only make out the swear words, but I guess he'd at last got my message (loud and clear). But I did however get out of the bath at this point, and by the time I'd arrived in Henry's bedroom, Gerry had made a clumsy attempt at fitting Henry with a clean nappy. Gerry promptly passed Henry over to me, and without a word, stomped off back down the stairs. Once I'd re-fitted Henry's nappy, I cuddled him back off to sleep, and then went to my own bedroom to get dressed.

And even now, I can't explain why I then began to get dressed-up, as if I was going to a party; but that is what I did. Short'ish flared skirt. I say short'ish, because at the time it was considered short, only just concealing my stocking tops (remember, this was just prior to the advent of the mini-skirts popularity). And under it, I wore my prettiest sheer panties. For the top half, I wore a low-cut blouse, with half cup bra. I then spent what time I had left, fixing my hair and lastly, my makeup.

It was whilst I was putting the finishing touches to my make-up, that I heard the knocker on the front door; I glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It said fourteen minutes past seven, it was early; obviously this man was keen. I gave myself one final look, and said quietly, "Oh well, it'll just have to be good enough."

But when I walked out onto the landing, my legs turned to jelly, and my tummy went into a turmoil; as I heard Gerry at the foot of the stairs saying, "Ah, you must be Mr Walker, come in."

As they were shaking hands, and he was replying, I had to hold onto the handrail on the landing, as I was suddenly overcome by a feeling, that at the time I'd not have known how to describe. I now know that what I was experiencing, was the preliminary rush of an arousal.

But from downstairs I heard Mr Walker replying, "Never mind that Mr Walker formality, Bob is what my friends call me."

"Well okay, come in Bob, but I hope I haven't got you out here on a wild goose-chase."

They were now walking into the sitting-room, but I still heard Bob ask, "In what way lad?"

By now my rush was slowly easing off, so I slowly and as silently as I could started to make my way down the stairs as Gerry said, "The wife hasn't taken too kindly to the idea. I'm not even sure if she'll come down to see you. If you sit there I'll go and test the temperature of the water."

"No lad, you sit down. She'll have heard me at the door, and if she's definitely against the idea, there's nothing I can say that'll persuade her. We'll give her fifteen minutes, and if she doesn't show, we'll know what her answer is."

By now I was in the hallway, and as I said about my decision to get myself tarted-up; I have no idea why I didn't just go back upstairs and wait the fifteen minutes.

But I didn't.

As I walked into the room, Bob shot to his feet, and dashing towards me with his hand held out for me to shake, he said, "Oh my dear Sheila, you're more stunning than I'd imagined. I could tell those snapshots weren't doing you justice. But I never imagined you'd be so vibrant." He was shaking my hand with his, and clasping both of our hands together with his other hand as he turned and said to Gerry, "I thought you said she wasn't keen on the idea?"

Gerry was almost stuttering as he replied, "Well I, I mean, I didn't think she was."

Before either of them said anymore, I said, "I'm not. I only came down out of politeness."

It was Bob who spoke first, "Well no matter why you came down, all I can say is, I'm really glad you did. I suppose you do know how ravishing you look?"

I eased my hand from his, and as I gave him an old-fashioned look, I said, "There really is no point, I can tell flattery when I hear it."

"I'm sure you can my dear. But there is a world of difference between fatuous flatteries dished out to impress. And a genuine compliment given to show appreciation for the effort you've obviously gone to on my behalf."

"Who said I'd gone to any special efforts for you?"

"Nobody my dear, but surely you're not trying to imply that you dress-up like this just for an evening in watching TV?"

"No, I told you. I was brought up to receive guests to our house in a civil manner."

"Well, in a roundabout manner, that does mean you went to all that trouble just for me. So it was only polite that I should pay you the compliment that you deserve."

"Okay maybe I did put a bit of makeup on, but as I said at the start, I'm not interested in modelling at your club."

"Can I ask why?"

"I don't want to be rude, but other than getting some kinky kick, why else would a group of grown men want to take photos of a girl in her underwear?"

"Why wouldn't we? We sometimes take days out in the countryside and photograph animals. Sometimes landscapes. We even go to car rallies to photograph cars, and railway stations to photograph trains. So why not girls in swimwear?"

"And underwear."

"Yes, and underwear. Sometimes we even hire professional models for classical nude work; but they're very expensive, so that doesn't happen very often."

"Okay, so you're saying this is all respectable, and it's the photography itself that you're interested in. So if I was to consider modelling, where is your club, and what kind of facilities has it got?"

"My dear, the fact that you've asked me about the facilities, shows that you are considering it; and a sensible girl you are for doing so. And as for where, we hold normal club sessions, we meet in the St Georges Church hall, that's in Banks Road in Coundon. And yes the facilities there are somewhat limited, but it has got a toilet, and a small kitchen. Some ladies prefer to use the kitchen as a changing room. But not all, I mean when you're modelling lingerie, getting changed from one skimpy to another hardly warrants hiding yourself away. But having told you where we normally hold our sessions, I have to say that our events are already planned and booked-up for the next six weeks. And being as you're a novice at this and a hesitant one at that. I'd not book you in for a full session until we've assessed your willingness."

"So what does that mean assessing my willingness?"

"I'd have thought that was pretty obvious, it would be silly to book the church hall, and have all the club members there, only to find that when it comes to it, you're not prepared to wear some item, or pose in some position. No, if you want a try out, there'll only be me and Ken taking photos, and two other models."

"Two other models, so there'll be three of us being assessed at the same time?"

"No no. The other two are men, we always use these two lads, they're about your age, and they've got bodies like Greek agonises. They help to put first timers at their ease, and assist with posing them; they're very good."

Hearing talk of other men modelling with me, Gerry asked, "These blokes, they will be fully dressed, won't they?"

"Of course not. If they're in the frame of any shot, they'll be dressed according to what your wife is wearing."

"Do you mean modelling with her? Touching her?"

"Touching, holding, embracing or whatever the shot requires. Don't tell me it's you who is getting cold-feet now?"

"No, I was just asking."

"Look if you're not interested, just say so now?"

"Yes, I am interested." And then he looked towards me, saying, "But I don't know about Sheila."

I said, "I might be, but you still haven't said where this assessment will take place?"

"At my house. I live on my own, and I've got one of my bedrooms laid out as a kind of studio. No changing room I'm afraid, just a curtain wire stretched across one corner shielding off the alcove; it's enough for a modicum of privacy. But like I said, if we get on to the skimpy stuff, privacy is a bit pointless."

"And money? If this isn't a proper modelling session, how much will I get paid?"

"Payment by results. So if you're sticking to everyday swimwear, and you pose properly, you could come home with four quid. But if we find you're a natural at it, and you let go of your inhibitions, then a tenner is possible."

"I think Gerry and me will have to talk about it, and then Gerry can let Ken know.

So with very little more said, Bob had gone and we were alone. We talked it through all evening, and by the time we'd gone to bed, I'd agreed to go along to Bob's assessment session.

It seemed that the only thing that my Gerry was concerned about, was how much access these two male models were going to have to my 'fanny', as he used to call it. I'm not sure whether he was in any way concerned about them seeing me naked, but from our talk, he didn't appear to be.

When at one point, I brought up the possibility of me being raped; he instantly dismissed this as silliness on my part. And when I said I'd read something in a magazine, that stated that if a man, or men get full access to a woman's intimate areas, it is possible for them to arouse her to the point where her sub-conscious carnal desires will override her moral will-power.

And his reaction to that was, "That's just a woman's justification to excuse herself when she's been caught-out fucking with someone she shouldn't have been fucking with."

So no matter what concerns I could come up with, Gerry found one way or another to dismiss them. And so as I've already said by the time we'd gone to bed, I'd agreed to go along to Bob's assessment session; meaning that Gerry would need to talk to Ken the next day, and arrange it.

So when Gerry arrived home from work, my first question to him was, "Well, has it been arranged?"

"Not yet, Kens going around to see him straight from work, and he says he'll let me know what Bob says tomorrow."

Now I can't explain why, but on hearing I was going to have to wait another day before knowing what was going to happen, I kind of felt disappointed. Maybe that's not really the right word, but it definitely took the wind out of my sails.

So feeling somewhat in the doldrums, I dished out our meal, and we sat down to eat. After tea, we sat in front of the TV, and we sat there in silence; and although I can't speak for Gerry, I have absolutely no idea what I'd been watching. I was miles away, running and re-running in my head, differing versions of what I imagined might happen at this assessment.

Well at around nine o'clock, there was a knock at the front door. And as Gerry's shocked reaction was similar to mine, that's to say, almost jumping out of his skin. It's a fair assumption that he'd been in as deeper trance as me.

But it was him who answered the door, and then brought Ken through to the back room, saying, "Its Ken, he's brought a form for us to sign."

I'd turned the TV off when Gerry had gone to the door, so we both sat alongside each other at the table and began to read this printed form.

And unlike today, when just about every household has access to facilities to print out documents of this sort, back then, a printed form of this sort always looked very official. And once we started reading, it soon became obvious by the highfaluting gibberish, that it was a legal document. That's to say, something you might get from a solicitor, and no matter how many times you read it, you still have no idea what the hell it means.

I looked at Gerry and asked, "D'you understand it?"

"Not really. I think that by signing it, we're agreeing to something. But with all those why so evers, what so evers, whom so evers, and not withstandings, I can't make out what we're actually agreeing to."

Ken said, "To be honest, there is only one consent form, no matter what type of modelling you're doing. So effectively, if you sign, it covers any and all members of the club, and any other models involved against any kind of claim for sexual assault. It's a standard form used by all photography clubs, ever since a woman accused some chap up in a club in Nottingham of forcing himself on her."

Gerry said, "So if we sign it, it means any of you could just force Sheila to have sex with you, and if she then went to the police, they'd say, 'You agreed to it'?"

"Well yes, technically. But that never happens. It's just club rules."

"And if we don't sign?"

"Well like I said, its club rules. If you don't sign, there's no way she can model."

Gerry looked at me, "What d'you think?"

I looked at Ken, "D'you mind if Gerry and I go out into the hall and discuss this?"