His voice drones in a hollow tunnel, resounding in the back of my mind somewhere… something about just a few more I think. Or maybe it only seems like he said that because I’ve heard it so many frikkin times before. He never means it anyway. Guy uses “just a few more” the way some people sprinkle a speech with “um”.
I just want to go home. Robots are marching, clicking and whirring to the command of his voice. I wish this was a real bath and I know by the time I get home I’ll be sick of the thought. The little servos are so frikkin annoying.
Guy’s been such a little bitch today, I just want to cry. It’s good for the pictures I guess. I thought he was going to squirt when I hugged myself to stop a cry. “Gabrielle babe! Your fab!” snap-zzzz “That’s perfect and…” snap-zzzz “Hold it..” snap-zzzz, snap-zzzz, snap-zzzz Just a few more, I’m sure. I just want to go home.
The first time Guy asked me to do a nude shoot, I came this close to slapping him. I’m sure he’s a pervert, but that’s not why. He couldn’t be any more of a flamer. Somehow being gay makes it worse. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve sat there for three hours totally naked in front of a guy who couldn’t care less. And unless you’re me. I never felt so unattractive. The perfect way to feel in front of a camera I guess. But that wasn’t it either.
It was that tone in his voice that told me I didn’t have a choice. Damn him! “Sweetie. This isn’t working. We need to put some skin in this. Do you know how to take your clothes off?” What the hell kind of question is that? And then, “…um, all the way off?”
Good Lord, who’s he kidding? His real name isn’t even Guy! It’s Brad. Like sounding French makes him somebody. But his condescending tone was right. I have beautiful skin and really not much else except that not-so-classic every-girl look that made him give me his card in the first place. Why do I have to frikkin need money?
This stool is killing my ass. I just want to scream at him. “A wooden one? A cushion? Shit I’m taking a bath here, Guy! Shouldn’t I be a little bit comfortable? A little soap? Some bubbles? A drop of water or two in the cloth, for Christ’s sake?” I love baths. I’m supposed to anyway. I used to.
In the depths of my imagination, Guy hands me some soap. The washcloth is suddenly full of warm water. It feels so good I want to touch myself. I ignore his squeals of excitement and the clicking and whirring of his little army of robots. They’re killing my mood.
Just a few more shots. Right, Guy?
© 2012 Anne Schilde