Hello everybody (if in fact anyone is reading this lmao). I thought it would be fun to create my own character for once, so I hope you like him xo

Also writing in first person which isn't something I usually do so we'll see how that goes. As usual, I love it when you spam me with comments so do that (if you want to ofc). Votes always much appreciated Enjoy xx

TW: Topics of weight/body imagine/eating disorders/depression throughout (dw I'm not going to glamorise it, I have an ed myself so I want to show it for what it is)

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The problem with being a model is that you're never fucking good enough. For the flaw-magnifying, objectifying cameras or the flaw-magnifying, objectifying eyes. 

Yesterday, perched in a sheer tee shirt on a black stool, staring at the usual scene of umbrella lights and clicking lenses, the photographer said, straight-faced and totally serious, "I'm wondering if we should do this next week, when you've lost six pounds." 

I stared at him and blinked.

I had heard things like it far too many times to laugh. From him and others. At this point, it was barely a surprise as much as it was stab between the eyes. A sting that reminded me I could always be better. It didn't matter how good I felt about myself if they didn't agree.

I wish I had laughed. Or at the very least shook my head, said, are you serious? Are you serious right now? Maybe he'd have realised how insane it sounded if I'd have done that.

But instead, I replied, "Six pounds?" 

"You've a great body, Andy," he told me, and I thought, ha, yeah, but if only I lose some weight, huh? And he said, "But six pounds off you would really emphasise your bone structure. You have a lovely narrow waist; it seems a shame to keep it from being more prominent."

Again, I stared. I blinked. "Are you saying you can't use any of the photos you've already taken because of my waist?"

Yes, that was precisely what he was saying. 

"I'm saying that these photos would look more striking minus six pounds." Still said with a straight fucking face. How many people have told me what's wrong with my body while keeping a straight face?

I should start keeping a tally on my bedroom wall the way prisoners do to count the days in their cells. No doubt I'd get to double figures by the new year. 

"So you're not going to use any of these?" I asked. I don't know why. The answer was already obvious. 

Clicking buttons on the camera and turning his attention towards its screen, he shook his head. "No. Let's reschedule for next week. When are you available?" 

I sighed.

I should also keep a tally of how many times I sigh. 

I said, "Every afternoon except for Tuesday. From two." 

"Great. So - " Taking out his phone, stepping away from the camera. " - Thursday at three, and providing you're down six pounds, we'll get this shoot done in no time. I know it's been in the works for a long time. Believe me, I'm just as fed up with it as you are." 

Now, wasn't that the fucking truth? The shoot had been dragging for more than a month because I had to dye my hair; I had to do more sit-ups; I had to find a foundation that covered up the Bengals tattoo on my hand because it didn't suit the style; I had to lift more weights; I had to lose five pounds; I had to lose three more. And now another six. So altogether, that's fourteen pounds, an entire stone, for one set of god-forsaken fucking photographs.

If they don't make me rich and famous and eternally young, I'm going to sue. 

I definitely deserve more money.

"Alright," I said. "Thursday at three. Got it." 

Then he made a frame with his hands like an insufferably quirky character in a movie and squinted at me through the gap. "Yes, six pounds gone and it'll be perfect." Said the word like it was a physical object between his teeth, drawing out the syllables so that by the end, I could taste something metallic in my mouth: P e r - f e c t. 

Great, I thought. Great. Let's see whether you still feel that way come Thursday.

Fucking cunt. 

In the changing room, I collected my coat from the locker and caught my reflection in the wall-length mirror beside the door. I had been pleased with it that morning. My body. I had looked at it and thought, yeah. This is good. 

Six pounds would accentuate my waist. He had a point. 

I'm pretty good at losing weight. I suppose to be a model in this day and age, it's more-or-less in the contract: must have the ability to stop everything and lose copious amounts of weight at the demand of photographers who know nothing about your current state of health. 

Ha. I'm hardly one to complain when I do after all comply. Every single fucking time. Money-hungry whore, that's what I am. My words.