26 newyork| september14–27, 2020
tothekitchen.I followedbehind,shoelessandinmylingerieset.
HespreadthePolaroidsoutonthetableandscratchedhishead,
inspectingthem.I peeredat thepicturesfromoverhisshoulder.
“Thesearejust kindof...boringandstiff,”hesaidwitha sigh.
“Maybetake off theredlipstick,fuckupyourhair.” He wavedhis
handatthemakeupartistandwenttothecountertoopen
anotherbottleofwine,pouringfreshglassesforhimselfandme.
Themakeupartistrubbedhernailsroughlyintomy scalp,loos-
eningmycurls.I couldfeeltheacidicburnofalcoholinmy chest
asweproceededbackupstairs.
Hewasturnedawayfrommewhenhesaid,“Let’stry naked
now.’’
I’dbeenshotnudea handfuloftimesbefore,alwaysbymen.
I’dbeentoldbyplenty ofphotographersandagentsthat my
bodywasoneofthethingsthatmademestandoutamongmy
peers.Mybodyfeltlike a superpower. I wasconfidentnaked—
unafraidandproud.Still,though,thesecondI droppedmy
clothes,a partofmedisassociated.I begantofloatoutsideof
myself, watchingasI climbedbackontothebed.I archedmy
backandpursedmylips,fixatingontheideaofhowI mightlook
throughhiscameralens.ItsflashwassobrightandI’d hadso
muchwinethatgiantblackspotswereexpandingandfloating
infrontofmyeyes.
“iCarly,” Jonathansaid,smirkingasheshot.Onlyhismouth
wasvisible,therestofhisfaceeclipsedbyhiscamera. Thatwas
thenameoftheNickelodeonshowI’d beenonfortwoepisodes
whileinhighschool.
I putmylingeriebackon,andwemadeourway backdown-
stairs,Jonathaninfrontofme,grippingthePolaroidsinhisfists
beforedroppingthemonthekitchentable.My facewashotfrom
thewine,andmycheeksglowedandthrobbed.He wasexcited
ashescrutinizedthepictures,holdingoneupclosetohisface
andthenlettingit fallagain.
“Youknow, I thoughtyouwouldbebigger.A biggirl,” hesaid,
hisbrowfurrowingashepickedupanotherPolaroidforinspec-
tion.Hetoldmethat whenheGoogledmepriortoourmeeting,
he’d seena particularshootthat left himwiththisimpression.
“Y ouknow, big-boned.Fat.”He half-smiled.
“Yeah,no,” I said,laughing.“I’mlike really, reallytiny.”
I knewwhat pictureshewasreferencing,fromearlyinmy
career.I hatedthem,andI hatedtheway I’d feltwhileshooting
them.I hatedtheway thestylisthadmadecommentsaboutmy
body,abouthowI couldneverbea fashionmodel.I alsoknew,
eventhoughI neverwouldhaveadmittedit,that I’d beenless
concernedwithmyweightat thetimeofthat shoot.Freer.
I enjoyedfoodmoreanddidn’t thinksomuchabouttheshape
ofmyass.I didn’t haveto;I wasn’t relyingonmodelingas
muchthen.
edmywi at s e ?”
warpedi ow a ampsofJona-
than’s livingroom,thevintage lingeriedrapedoverthemusty,
floral-printedarmchairs.As thenightwenton,I becamesweaty
andexhaustedandbleary-eyed.ButI wasstilldetermined.
I likedtocheckoutthefirstfewPolaroidsJonathantookwith
eachnew“look”andadjust my poseandbodyaccordingly
beforewecontinued.I couldfeelhimbristleasI exclaimed,
“Oh,I likethat one!”
“Thisone,though,” hesaid,holdingthestackofPolaroidsto
hischestandflickingonearoundsoI couldcatcha quickglance
ofit.“Thisoneis sogoodbecauseofyournipples.Yournipples
changesomuchfromhardtosoft. ButI like themwhenthey’re
gigantic,”hesaid,openinghisphonetoshowmea vintage pinup
ofa womanwithoversizenipples.“I lovewhenthey’regiant,” he
toldme.“Giantandexaggerated.”He lookedbacktohisphone,
andthecornersofhismouthturnedupslightly.I saidnothing
andnodded,confusedbutsomehowfeelingthathemeantto
insultme.I feltmystomachturn.
I hadnosenseofwhattimeit waswhenthemakeupartist
announcedshewasgoingtobed.I can’t rememberif wehad
stoppedshooting andwerejust lookingat thepictures
togetherorwhat. I’msureshewassickofmy posturingwith
Jonathan.I remembertheway shesighedassheturnedaway
fromme,vanishing.I stiffenedasherpresencedissolvedfrom
thelivingroom.I wasupsetwithherforleavingme,but
I didn’t wanttoadmittomyselfthat herpresencehadmade
a difference.I canhandlehimalone,I thought.Shewasa
buzzkillanyway.I sat up,erect. I startedtalkingfasterand
louder.I waspumpedfullofsomuchsugary winethat I felt
wideawake,albeitvery, very drunk.
ThenextthingI rememberis beinginthedark.
Theyellowlightswereswitchedoff, andI wascold,shiver-
ing,andhuddledundera blanket. JonathanandI wereonhis
couch,andtheroughtextureofhisjeansrubbedagainst my
barelegs.Hewasaskingmeaboutmy boyfriends.My mouth
waschalky, butI rememberI wasstilltalkinga lot—aboutmy
datinghistory,whichguysI reallyloved,whichoneswere
whatever.As I spoke, I absentmindedlyrubbedmy feet against
oneanotherandagainsthisforwarmth.He toldmeheliked
“thatfootthingyou’redoing,” andI rememberthismoment
moreclearlythananythingelse.I hatethat Jonathancom-
mentedonsomethingI’vedonethroughoutmy lifetocomfort
myself. I hatethat sometimes,evennow, whenI rubmy feet
togetherbecauseI’mcoldorafraidorexhausted,I thinkof
Jonathan.
Mostofwhat camenextwasa blurexceptforthefeeling.
I don’t rememberkissing,butI dorememberhisfingerssud-
denlybeinginsideofme.Harderandharderandpushingand
pushinglikenoonehadtouchedmebeforeorhastouchedme
since.I couldfeeltheshapeofmyselfandmy ridges,andit
really,reallyhurt. I broughtmy handinstinctivelytohiswrist
andpulledhisfingersoutofmewithforce.I didn’t say a word.
Hestoodupabruptlyandscurriedsilentlyintothedarkness
upthestairs.
I touchedmyforeheadwiththecoolnessofmy palmand“What book?” Confused, IThere it was: Emily Ratajko wski