That's a new thing. Usually I'm Mr. Sleepy but some stuff happened today that's got me all wound up. I thought about taking an ambien but I'm really weary about how many pills I put in my body.
Yesterday, Anthony told me about this job that came in for me... it's a one-day shoot but it's as much as I've ever made in a month. This guy runs a website "Girls at Home" or something, where he gets girls to hang around their houses in lingerie, doing sexy poses and talking about themselves. It sounds like an easy paycheck except for the part where it's basically stripping.
I've been Clara for six or seven months. I've done a lot of her modeling jobs, but mostly they're ad campaigns or catalogs. She's got a good frame, so it's ideal to put clothes on to show how good they look. All I have to do is stand around with my hand on my hip and my head slightly tilted. I'm like Zoolander. But with tits.
But this... this is big. Like I say, it pays a shitload, just to look hot and give the guy some blurbs for his readers. And it gets the name out there. If I was really Clara... really doing this modelling job for myself... it would be a no-brainer.
But I can't do it. I got up this morning, put on a fresh pair of panties, and just stood there looking at my tits in the mirror. Guys would love to see em but I'm sick of looking at them. I'm sick of feeling them hanging down, sick of feeling the underwire of a bra on my ribs and the straps on my shoulders. Sick of accidentally rolling onto them in my sleep. When I was a guy I loved tits so much, but... I can't do anything knowing a guy;s gonna be pulling his pork to it. That's not me.
The problem is, I don't have any money. Like, at all. I told Anthony I'd take this modeling thing seriously so I could pay for Clara's meds, but I nearly had a freak out when I was told about this.
Even worse would be the idea of talking about myself. What the fuck would I say? "I'm actually a guy in a woman's body, and I got my period for the first time three months ago and it grossed me out so much I nearly threw up. I bled all over myself and had to work the rest of the day like that."
Then I had a date with Wes tonight. I wasn't calling them dates, but that's what they really are. A way of getting out and eating for free and pretending like I really like the guy. Except I do like the guy, and I feel bad he's putting up with me because he thinks I'll put out. But here's what happened, what's really got me freaked out.
I asked him why. I reminded him that I wasn't his girlfriend and he could have any girl he wanted. He said that wasn't true (the part about him getting any girl) but I told him that if even I thought he was handsome, he was clearly a good-looking dude.
So he admitted... wealth and good looks are pretty much the easiest ways to a woman's pants. But I guess all those women throwing themselves at him gets boring because he said he never met a woman who just wanted to sit and talk. Someone who was real, which is really rare out here.
Until me. Which is fucking hilarious. Apparently he likes me because I'm not playing games and not pretending... I told him I wasn't interested in his money or his cock and that made him pay attention. He wanted to know more about me, but I seem to have something inside I'm holding back (yeah, no shit.) How I ask him questions about his life like I'm really interested. I never realized, I thought I was just being polite.
He says to me it doesn't make sense to him why I model. How I seem so humble and self-conscious about my looks and so desperate for people not to pay attention to me. He says when he looks in my eyes, he sees something buried deep down, something sad I haven't talked about, and that must be the source of my "realness." But also how he catches glimpses... I dunno when, but he told me... glimpses of desire. That every so often I look at him like I want to jump all over him.
I was startled. Except for wanting to jump him, it sounded pretty spot-on. I told him I kinda fell into modeling by accident and it was the last thing I ever wanted to do, but I did because the offers kept coming in and the money was good. I told him I had certain needs. Bills to pay.
"You kill me," he said, laughing a bit. "You come out with me every Saturday night for a month. We talk, we drink, we have fun. You barely tell me anything about yourself and when you do, it's this money business. And you forget... I'm rich. You are looking at... eating dinner with... playing footsie with a very wealthy guy."
I wasn't playing footsie. My leg was twitching from nerves.
He says "I could do so much for you, Clara. It wouldn't be a hand-out, it wouldn't be charity, because I give money freely to people I care about. But I need to know... do you care about me?"
I couldn't say no. Maybe it was the wine but all I could mutter was "You're my... friend."
"Friend?" He said back. Then he stood up, straightened out his jacket, and walked over to my side of the table. He bent over, got right in my face, nose to nose... and kissed me.
I was gonna push him away, but I just let him do it because I wanted to see where it was going. It was a close-mouthed kiss, lips to lips, no tongue. Maybe three seconds.
When he pulled away from me, he put his hands on mine, then reached into his breast pocket for his checkbook. "This is $500. No strings attached, but if you want more, we're going to have to work out why you keep coming to see me. I understand you're a complicated person, but it doesn't have to be hard. I like you a lot, Clara. Shall I take you home?"
"...yes..." I could only say.
On the ride home I was silent. I had a check for $500 in my purse. That was my share of the rent and then some. I thought about modeling and Anthony banging Blake and me playing with myself, and how I didn't want to throw up just because a guy kissed me.
I kept a lid on things until I got home. Then I walked slowly to my room, threw myself on my bed, and started to cry. Just because I'm on the meds doesn't mean things like this can't freak me out beyond words.
Now here I am. I really don't know what to do. I wish I could just sleep until summer.