Once when I was 18, my dad called me. “So,” he said, worlds away. I was sitting on a stairwell, drawing on a wall that wasn’t mine with Sharpie. He didnt know that.
“So,” he said, “Can you do me a favor and not date photographers?”
My dad was a photographer.
“Can you just avoid those guys? They’ll want to take your picture. Everywhere. Naked. Don’t do it.”
By then I was scribbling on the floor. I drew flowers. I laughed at my dad and hung up.
***
Once before my brother ran away, he crashed a Chelsea art loft for a few days. Then my mom got a package from the gallery, with his name on it. Inside was his naked portrait. She started to laugh. “That’ll teach me to open someone else’s mail,” she cracked.
***
Two nights ago I grabbed a dinner dress from a borrowed bureau. “Hey wait,” said a voice from the bed. It had an accent. It was pretty hot. “Stay.” He came out with his camera.
“Oh no,” I grinned. “You’re not taking that picture. I know how this ends.”
“Do you?”
He kissed my cheek and grabbed his flash, and I realized no, I actually don’t.
[SOPHIE TOWILL - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
umm….sounds like somebody had a good time in london!! (i am waaaay jealous!)
so now you have naked photos … you tease