My Body(10)

After the success of the video, I moved to New York and signed with the same agency that had rejected me only a year before. I shot Sports Illustrated. I was happy to discover that fame had granted me access to two new sources of income: appearances, where I could show up to an event or speak with a media outlet about a product, and sponsored posts on my Instagram, both of which paid more than what I had made in a week as a working model prior to the video.

Mainly, though, I was disoriented. I grew tired of talking about the music video and sharing my thoughts on it, feeling a distinct twinge of dislike whenever Robin Thicke’s name was mentioned or placed next to mine. I was grateful for my career, but I resented that every profile began with a mention of “Blurred Lines,” a music video I’d only agreed to do in order to make some money. I didn’t know how to marry the identity and ego that I’d kept as separate as possible from my work with the one that the world was now labeling a sex symbol. Since I’d been in high school, modeling had just been a job, and now suddenly it seemed to be who I was. I flailed. Continuing to relate to my work passively, I signed up to be in movies that I didn’t have any interest in and modeled for brands I thought were lame.

I floated through the next couple of years. In between frequent shoots and travel, I spent too much time on the internet and in bed and out drinking with people I didn’t particularly like. I knew that by most standards I should be happy—I’d achieved the thing that all aspiring actresses and models are thought to want: to be known for their beauty and desirability. “You’ve made it!” the friend who had commented on my navy jacket years before wrote to me on Facebook, reminding me of how the world viewed my “success.”

But I wasn’t just famous; I was famously sexy, which, in many ways, felt gratifying. It had seemed obvious to me that the most desirable, attractive woman was always the most powerful in any given room, just like the Victoria’s Secret models who marched toward me on that giant screen. And in many ways, my life did change. Strangers greeted me with enthusiasm. Famous men I’d had crushes on as a child hit on me. Beautiful women talked to me as if I were one of them. I was on the covers of magazines, got invited to glamorous parties I’d never dreamed of attending. Forget Thai food and chain-store quilts—now I was being sent endless boxes of free designer clothes. I could show up at popular restaurants in New York or Los Angeles and be seated whenever I liked. And I had more money than I’d ever imagined making: I put a down payment on a loft only a few blocks from my place in the Arts District, this time a place with a giant window and plenty of light and a pool on the roof. I was even able to give my parents some cash.

Yet I felt like I was spinning and out of control. I hadn’t chosen this life, and I was unsure of how I’d ended up living it and what it meant about who I would become. I hated going to auditions, especially for TV and film, where I almost always read in front of several men who I was convinced thought very little of me. They already think I suck, I’d tell myself. I’m nothing more than an LA piece of ass to them. I’m not talented. I’m not even that pretty. I’d barely rehearse for these auditions, reading the pages once or twice before going in, paralyzed by self-loathing. Did I even want to be an actress? I couldn’t remember when or how this had become the thing I was supposed to pursue and excel in. I’d always imagined myself as someone who had ideas and made decisions. I’d get in my car after one of these readings, feeling worthless, and think about how I’d rather be in the position of the men in these rooms, choosing whom to hire for my projects.

It was years later, when I was scrolling through Instagram half distracted, my thumb moving busily over the screen, that a photo of Robin Thicke and his much younger girlfriend appeared in my feed. I recognized her face and long, lean body, realizing that I’d met her years before in LA when we were both working models, shooting swim and lingerie e-commerce in shitty warehouses in Alhambra and Vernon. She’d just had a baby, E! News announced. I looked through her photos, studying the wideness of her smile next to the bloated softness of her partner’s jawline. “I love you baby daddy!” one caption read.

I clicked on Thicke’s handle, surprised to see my screen fill with white. “User Not Found” and “No Posts Yet” were placed next to his name. I’d been blocked. I racked my brain to figure out why. Had I said something in the press that might have offended him? Then I remembered something that had happened on the “Blurred Lines” set that I’d never told anyone about, something I hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge until that moment, half a decade later: He did something he wasn’t supposed to do.

It was later that day, when Thicke returned to the set, a little drunk, to shoot just with me. I could tell that his mood from earlier had shifted—he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself in the same way. He didn’t like the lack of attention he was getting from the people hired to make his music video.

Now it was just him and me, alone on the tundra soundstage. He was dressed in a black suit and I was in nothing but white sneakers and a flesh-colored thong. The same three notes; same Diane yelling through her megaphone; same sweat dripping; same “Everybody get up!”

Again I danced as ridiculously as possible. Diane yelled excitedly, “You’re fucking funny! Make that face again!” Robin put his sunglasses on as he sang along, his vague annoyance palpable.