Ex-Nymphet

An interesting article via The Rumpus. "...I’m 18, I’m standing under a spotlight with no clothes on, and the photographer is pointing at my thighs. This is what I mean, he says in a Czech accent. I must airbrush this now! You must start jogging more..."

Right, I say, and I tilt my head down so that he won’t see the spot on my chin, inexpertly concealed with powder. He takes a few more shots, asking me to straddle a chair then look dreamily into the rafters then smile as if I’ve just heard a good joke.

The studio is the size of a school classroom and smells of dust. Even the floor reminds me of school – scuffed beige lino, the same as the gym room.

Later, I have to lie flat on my back while the photographer uses the macro lens on my pubic hair, nipples, jaw-line, and eyes. I pass the time by revising words for my English exam. Acquiesce, I think. Viscera. Obsequious.

Afterwards I step out into another rainy Glasgow night, the spotlights burning my eyes. That was the last, I think. (continue)