2. Lola #2
He points to a door halfway down the hall.
I walk towards it; the door opens into a small room that looks like it used to be a storage closet.
There’s a mirror nailed to the wall. A metal chair.
A hook with a black robe hanging from it.
On the chair is a clear plastic bag. My throat tightens when I see what’s inside.
Not lingerie. Not exactly. It’s lace and straps.
the kind of thing that makes a man think he’s allowed to decide what you are.
I stare at it until my eyes go numb, then I change fast. I keep the robe on over it and tie it tight.
My fingers shake once when the knot slips.
I redo it, harder, until it bites into my waist. When I step back into the hall, the first man is waiting.
He doesn’t speak, just gestures for me to follow.
We pass two closed doors; one has a red light above it, the other has a keypad. A muffled laugh slips through a wall somewhere. A woman’s voice, too loud and too forced. A man answering in a dark tone.
I keep walking.
We reach the studio space. It isn’t white and clean like a real photography studio, it’s darker.
Grungier. The backdrop is set up, but the floor is stained.
The lights are harsh and hot. There’s a couch in the middle that looks expensive and dirty at the same time, and a camera is already mounted on a tripod.
A man stands behind it, adjusting a lens. He looks up when I enter and his eyes flick over me with the same casual entitlement I’ve seen a thousand times.
“You Lola?” he asks.
“Yes. Pleasure to meet you.”
He nods. “Good. We’re gonna keep it simple. Robe off when I tell you.”
I don’t move yet. I wait. That’s what I’ve learned. Don’t do extra. Don’t guess. Don’t give them a reason to punish you for doing it wrong.
Two men sit off to the side, half in shadow. They aren’t crew; they don’t touch the equipment. One of them is on his phone, the other watches me without blinking.
The photographer, Dean, checks something on a clipboard. “Alright, he says. “Stand on the mark.”
I step onto the taped X on the floor. The lights click brighter.
Dean lifts the camera. “Look at the lens. Don’t smile. Keep your face blank.”
I do.
“Good,” he says. “Robe off.”
My fingers go to the knot. I untie it and let the robe slide down my arms. The material drops and pools at my feet. I hear the sound before I feel the draft on my skin. It’s cold in here, but the lights burn like fever, pinning me down.
I stand there on the X in nothing but lace and elastic, straps digging in, ridges biting into my hips and shoulders. I keep my eyes flat, face blank. Just a body. Just a product.
Good girl, Lola. Show them what you are.
My father’s voice in the shadows of my mind, always controlling me.
Dean grunts his approval. The camera clicks. “Chin up.”
I do it. I know exactly how to tilt. I stare into the lens with dead eyes. He likes that. Men always do.
“Hand on your hip.” I move as told. “Arch your back. More.”
I arch until my ribs strain against the fabric and the air is thin. My body remembers what comes next even when my head wants to float away. The camera fires, rapid and hungry. I know what they see. Curves. Skin made for bruising. A glare that invites and promises nothing.
The men on the couch watch silently, all tension in their hands and thighs. They don’t blink; I know that stare too. It wants to peel me apart, layer by layer.
Another pose. Another order. “Turn around. Look over your shoulder.”
My hair falls. I let it. He likes the mess of it. My ass in full view. A click, then another.
Dean lowers the camera and clears his throat. “Alright, the next set is with the client.”
He gestures with his jaw and one of the men on the couch shifts forward.
He’s older, I think, but it doesn’t matter.
None of it matters. I am all nerve endings, all hot blood and chill.
My feet move without asking, my work mode activated with a flip of a switch.
I become the thing they all want. The thing I have to be.
He sits, legs spread, and pats his thigh. I force a smile that is not a smile, and cross the floor, my hips swinging, and my stomach turning.
Don’t be a prude, Lola. Never let them touch unless I say so.
Marcus knows the job, so this is ok. This won’t be punishable.
I straddle him, facing forwards towards Dean. His hands hover at my waist, not touching. I can feel the want radiating, a pulse that soaks the air.
Dean barks from behind the camera, “Move. Be sexy. Sell it.”
I sway my hips. I rub up against him because the job is the job.
I can feel his breath, his heartbeat. Every time I grind, the lace threatens to snap, and my whole body shudders with disgust I bury deep in my gut.
I dissociate. Drift. I’m not me, I’m some other bitch pasted on magazine paper, pixels, and color correction. I shut down. No thinking.
The man underneath grunts. I look through him. Lights flash, Dean shouts orders I barely hear. Faster. I go faster.
My chest burns. I grind my hips. He wants a show, so I give one.