The Shoot
The nature of being a server is that people like to flirt with you. Maybe it's a part of human nature that, when someone's nice to you, you develop some sort of attraction to them. I don't know. I'm not an expert on it. It's flattering at first, really. We all like attention, right? And I definitely got my share.
Most of the time, it was men. Were they gay? Or did they simply thing I was a girl? Did they even care one way or the other? Again, I don't know. I never let it get too far. And the women who flirted with me weren't what I'd call...attractive. It's weird, you know. The same qualities one might find attractive in a man, when a woman displays them, it's a turn off. It doesn't make sense. Good-looking is good-looking, right? You'd think so, but it just isn't the case. I just don't like effeminate men or masculine women. It's just how I'm built, I guess.
I know what you're thinking. I've made no secret of the fact that I'm no pinnacle of masculinity. I'm small. I'm weak. I'm pretty. I like pretty things. So how do I reconcile my own femininity with my preferences? Quite simply, I don't. Yeah, I'm a hypocrite. I'm well aware of that fact. I'd change if I could. But I can't.
That does bring up another thought, though. Have I ever really considered myself a man? I want to say yes. I really do. But I'm compelled to say no. How could I? Sure, I had a pseud-puberty back in high school, but I never really developed. I just got a little taller. That's it. So I guess I never really passed from boy to man.
Was I still a boy, then? I was twenty-two, so I guess the answer is no. If I wasn't a man, and I wasn't a boy, what was I?
I couldn't admit it to myself back then, but I was far closer to being a woman than a man, despite what dangled between my legs. Even so, I was somewhere in between, lost in some gray area.
That brings me to the point of this entry. Like I said, as a waiter, flirting was a daily part of my life. So when a customer asked me, "Have you ever thought about modeling?" I thought it was just him flirting with me.
His name was Greg, and he wasn't just flirting. "You have the look, you know," he said. I said something noncomittal, and he replied, "If you want to talk about it, give me a call," he handed me a card. "You should think about it."
It was a strange feeling. All of a sudden, it was real. Did he really think I could be a model? I'm not sure how I could through the rest of the day. I felt like bursting.
To my credit, I waited a whole day before calling him. We talked for a few minutes, and he offered to put me on his roster of clients. Oh, he was an agent representing models. I guess I should have said that.
I took it, of course. How could I refuse? He seemed excited about it all, and set up a small photoshoot for the next day. Apparently, that was the next step: getting a portfolio together for potential clients.
When I arrived at the studio, they sat me down, and started putting makeup on my face. I didn't know what to do. Didn't they know I was a boy? Or did all male models wear makeup?
And then came the wardrobe. It was...strange. I knew the clothes were female, but they knew I was male. What sort of modeling did they want me to do?
I actually almost walked out. What did they think I was? I held up a pair of lacy panties. How could I wear them? More importantly, how could I be photographed in them?
Again, I know what you're thinking. I wear girl's clothes all the time. What difference did it make? Well, it's a big difference between wearing a pair of cotton women's briefs and wearing a lacy thong. One, I wear because it just happens to be more comfortable for me than men's underwear. The other is a blatant display of femininity. It shouts to the world: I want to feel feminine. I want to feel sexy.
So there I was, thinking of leaving when I had a bit of a realization. Who cares? I mean, really. Who in my life would care what I wore at a modeling shoot? My mother? Unlikely. She had long since abandoned the notion of having a masculine son. I think she thought I was gay anyway. I had few friends, and none of them close. No one would care. I knew it.
But did I want to do it? I thought about how it had made me feel, being singled out by Greg, being noticed by men...Yes. I wanted it.
I slipped the panties up my smooth legs. I looked in the mirror; my tiny package barely made a bulge. The makeup on my face wasn't heavy, but you could tell it was there. It accentuated my eyes, and brought out the shape of my lips. Before, I was beautiful. With the makeup, I felt...whatever comes after beautiful.
After putting on the panties, it was easy. I just went with it. I don't know what it was; maybe some sort of wall in my mind had been destroyed. Or maybe I just got caught up in the excitement. Who knows?
But the photo shoot went very, very well. I posed in all sorts of positions, in all sorts of clothes. It was clear in all of them that I was a boy; we didn't try to pretend I had breasts or anything. There were even a few of me just in my panties.
It was such a rush, knowing that I was the center of attention, that every eye -- from the photographer to the makeup girl to the lighting guy -- was on me. I didn't come down until late that night, hours after the photo shoot was finished.
But even then, when the excitement had faded slightly, I knew that I wanted more.
Most of the time, it was men. Were they gay? Or did they simply thing I was a girl? Did they even care one way or the other? Again, I don't know. I never let it get too far. And the women who flirted with me weren't what I'd call...attractive. It's weird, you know. The same qualities one might find attractive in a man, when a woman displays them, it's a turn off. It doesn't make sense. Good-looking is good-looking, right? You'd think so, but it just isn't the case. I just don't like effeminate men or masculine women. It's just how I'm built, I guess.
I know what you're thinking. I've made no secret of the fact that I'm no pinnacle of masculinity. I'm small. I'm weak. I'm pretty. I like pretty things. So how do I reconcile my own femininity with my preferences? Quite simply, I don't. Yeah, I'm a hypocrite. I'm well aware of that fact. I'd change if I could. But I can't.
That does bring up another thought, though. Have I ever really considered myself a man? I want to say yes. I really do. But I'm compelled to say no. How could I? Sure, I had a pseud-puberty back in high school, but I never really developed. I just got a little taller. That's it. So I guess I never really passed from boy to man.
Was I still a boy, then? I was twenty-two, so I guess the answer is no. If I wasn't a man, and I wasn't a boy, what was I?
I couldn't admit it to myself back then, but I was far closer to being a woman than a man, despite what dangled between my legs. Even so, I was somewhere in between, lost in some gray area.
That brings me to the point of this entry. Like I said, as a waiter, flirting was a daily part of my life. So when a customer asked me, "Have you ever thought about modeling?" I thought it was just him flirting with me.
His name was Greg, and he wasn't just flirting. "You have the look, you know," he said. I said something noncomittal, and he replied, "If you want to talk about it, give me a call," he handed me a card. "You should think about it."
It was a strange feeling. All of a sudden, it was real. Did he really think I could be a model? I'm not sure how I could through the rest of the day. I felt like bursting.
To my credit, I waited a whole day before calling him. We talked for a few minutes, and he offered to put me on his roster of clients. Oh, he was an agent representing models. I guess I should have said that.
I took it, of course. How could I refuse? He seemed excited about it all, and set up a small photoshoot for the next day. Apparently, that was the next step: getting a portfolio together for potential clients.
When I arrived at the studio, they sat me down, and started putting makeup on my face. I didn't know what to do. Didn't they know I was a boy? Or did all male models wear makeup?
And then came the wardrobe. It was...strange. I knew the clothes were female, but they knew I was male. What sort of modeling did they want me to do?
I actually almost walked out. What did they think I was? I held up a pair of lacy panties. How could I wear them? More importantly, how could I be photographed in them?
Again, I know what you're thinking. I wear girl's clothes all the time. What difference did it make? Well, it's a big difference between wearing a pair of cotton women's briefs and wearing a lacy thong. One, I wear because it just happens to be more comfortable for me than men's underwear. The other is a blatant display of femininity. It shouts to the world: I want to feel feminine. I want to feel sexy.
So there I was, thinking of leaving when I had a bit of a realization. Who cares? I mean, really. Who in my life would care what I wore at a modeling shoot? My mother? Unlikely. She had long since abandoned the notion of having a masculine son. I think she thought I was gay anyway. I had few friends, and none of them close. No one would care. I knew it.
But did I want to do it? I thought about how it had made me feel, being singled out by Greg, being noticed by men...Yes. I wanted it.
I slipped the panties up my smooth legs. I looked in the mirror; my tiny package barely made a bulge. The makeup on my face wasn't heavy, but you could tell it was there. It accentuated my eyes, and brought out the shape of my lips. Before, I was beautiful. With the makeup, I felt...whatever comes after beautiful.
After putting on the panties, it was easy. I just went with it. I don't know what it was; maybe some sort of wall in my mind had been destroyed. Or maybe I just got caught up in the excitement. Who knows?
But the photo shoot went very, very well. I posed in all sorts of positions, in all sorts of clothes. It was clear in all of them that I was a boy; we didn't try to pretend I had breasts or anything. There were even a few of me just in my panties.
It was such a rush, knowing that I was the center of attention, that every eye -- from the photographer to the makeup girl to the lighting guy -- was on me. I didn't come down until late that night, hours after the photo shoot was finished.
But even then, when the excitement had faded slightly, I knew that I wanted more.
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