The juicy details of my personal life or thoughts. (As juicy as it gets around here anyway.)
I am nothing if not stubborn.
The next week I picked up the new issues of The Met and The Observer. I found an ad that I liked. It was plain printing with no pictures, offering professional models for lingerie shows, bubble baths and modeling. I called the number and was able to come in for an interview the week after.
I would pick up The Met (now defunct) every week. Every now and then I would pick up The Observer and look in the back pages. There were ladies who offered massage or domination and there were mysterious “escorts.” I was intrigued by the idea of offering phone sex, but with the problems the college phone system always suffered, I knew it wouldn’t work.
One time, (with the aforementioned boyfriend), I had gone to visit a photographer who advertised a need for nude models and paid $300-$500 per shoot. He was a professional and had a great studio. His portfolio was full of Playboy-style photos of womanly women. I think I looked too young for his taste, although he was complimentary. I know I didn’t look sophisticated enough. We talked for at least half an hour and when I left, he told me I could come back and pose if I wanted. But, of course, the boyfriend vetoed that. I was a little steamed since the pictures and the photographer seemed harmless and very nice (but it wasn’t “art,” in my opinion). The boyfriend had already put a stop to my (free) nude modeling for art/photo students. He really cramped my style.
As the relationship with my boyfriend was winding down, I struck up a friendship that summer with a non-traditional student who lived on campus. Her name was Anna. One day I showed her an Observer ad for the much-envied Dallas Fetish Ball (I finally attended it years later and it really wasn’t wild, or maybe I’m jaded). That sparked quite a conversation. I showed her some of the other ads that I found intriguing. I explained my need of money. I was hoping for support and not recriminations. What I got was a surprising history and lots of advice, which I sorely needed.
A couple weeks later, I get the urge again. I want to try dancing on a night when the plant paid its workers. I consult a calendar and plan my return. Once again, the boyfriend sits and glowers in the back. I don’t think they like him there, but he doesn’t cause trouble. I had done the math and if I couldn’t pull in $100 this night, it would not be worth it. It was a long round-trip.
That next summer, I found out about a club in a small town about an hour away. The club was called Charlie’s (now it’s a Baby Dolls, part of the chain I worked for in Dallas). Thursday through Saturday nights they featured “Charlie’s Angels.” I didn’t like the drive, but since it was a bikini bar, I persuaded the boyfriend to let me check it out. If we both liked the place, I could try it.
It was a private-membership club to skirt the local liquor laws. Although I wasn’t yet 21, they let me in when I explained I wanted to work there. The DJ and a manager took turns explaining things to me. There wasn’t much to know. It was a bikini bar, but I could just wear lingerie, as long as it wasn’t sheer. There wasn’t much to see. Seemed harmless enough for a naive college kid and podunk enough for my total lack of dancing skills.
During a random Internet check last night, my lover found a breaking news bit about Steve Irwin being killed in a diving accident. Since it was very fresh news and only CNN seemed to have anything to report, I thought perhaps they were wrong. I hoped they were wrong.
We both waited and kept checking. By the time we went to sleep, it was obvious that the news was real. Stevo had died.