My Body(35)

Toward the end of the game, the men at the back stood up and Evan reported that we were headed to an afterparty. I was surprised and disappointed; I’d been looking forward to the end of this uncomfortable day. I asked Evan when he thought it would be okay for me to leave. He checked the time. “Probably a few more hours, let’s feel it out.” I’d been reminded: I was not free to come and go as I liked. I was on the clock.

The music was loud and the lights were low at the party space, a two-story lounge dripping with red velvet. Before heading upstairs to the small bar, I was careful to put the borrowed jacket behind a chair where no one could spill alcohol on it. After an hour or so, Evan finally indicated that I’d stayed long enough. I peered around. Who had released me? I placed my watered-down tequila on a table and went back downstairs to grab my coat.

As I walked toward the exit, I passed a group of people dancing. I saw that Jho Low’s face had grown red and sweaty. He was drunk. A tray of shots of golden liquor appeared in front of him, and he grabbed two, handing one to the Victoria’s Secret model. She had ignored me and the other guests, her attention focused on Jho Low. Now she kept her eyes locked on him as he took his shot, throwing her head back dramatically as he did, only to quickly toss the alcohol over her shoulder. When he faced her again, her eyes sparkled and the famous dimples appeared on her cheeks. Damn, I thought, what a maneuver. Laughing, she turned her back to him and bent her knees to grind her ass against his crotch. Jho Low’s face lit up in delight.

When I stepped out the door into the freezing night, it dawned on me how differently she and I viewed the day. To her, it was an opportunity. As for me, I’d completely ignored the unspoken task I’d been hired to perform: to entertain the men who had paid me to be there.

I liked to think that I was different from women like her and Kim. But over time, it became harder to hold on to that distinction or even believe in its virtue. I watched models and actresses guarantee themselves financial success and careers by dating or marrying rich and famous men. The Victoria’s Secret model eventually married a billionaire tech giant; other models I’d started out with saw their careers improve dramatically once they wed a pop star or became involved with a successful actor. The Vogue cover they thought they’d never have? After a wedding and a big diamond ring, there it was on newsstands, the model softly wrapped in her high-flying partner’s arms. The world celebrates and rewards women who are chosen by powerful men.

I couldn’t help but wonder whether those women were actually the smart ones, playing the game correctly. It was undeniable that there was no way to avoid the game completely: we all had to make money one way or another. So they were the hustlers, and I was—what, exactly? I posted paid Instagram ads for skincare and clothing brands owned by rich men. And I was no stranger to commodifying my physical presence, posing next to CEOs in their suits at their store openings and parties. Wasn’t I hustling just like they were? Wasn’t I on the same spectrum of compromise?

A few years after the Super Bowl I learned, along with the rest of the world, that Jho Low didn’t come from a superrich family after all. With the help of the Malaysian prime minister (Riza’s stepfather), Jho Low had stolen billions of dollars by funneling money from the Malaysian government into a fund that he managed.

He’s now an international fugitive, wanted by the Malaysian, Singapore, and US authorities. Federal prosecutors seized almost a billion dollars in assets that were purchased with his stolen money: properties, yachts, artworks, and entertainment ($150 million was put into The Wolf of Wall Street). Leonardo DiCaprio himself had been given a Picasso and Basquiat, both of which were returned to the feds.

A week after the Super Bowl, Jho Low threw the Victoria’s Secret model a lavish birthday party and gave her a heart-shaped diamond necklace engraved with her initials. It had cost $1.3 million and, like everything else bought by Jho Low, was financed with money washed through Jho Low’s fund. Eventually, she had to return an estimated $8 million worth of jewelry. One of his gifts, a translucent baby grand piano, was not seized. It was so big that there was simply no way to take it out of her house.





Buying Myself Back





MY MOTHER’S EX-HUSBAND, Jim (who, until I turned eight, I’d thought was my uncle), had Google alerts set for me. Every time my name appeared in the news—if you can call gossip websites “news”—he was notified immediately via email. Jim was well-meaning but an alarmist; he wished to maintain a relationship with me, and these alerts provided him with perfect opportunities to reach out.

I was walking through Tompkins Square Park with a friend and her dog and sipping a coffee when Jim’s name lit up my phone. “See you’re getting sued. My advice…,” he began. Jim was a lawyer, familiar with people calling him up to ask for legal advice and therefore used to doling out his opinion even when it wasn’t solicited. “I guess this comes with the territory of being a public persona,” he wrote in a follow-up text.

I guess, I thought.

I sat down on a bench and googled my name, discovering that I was in fact being sued, this time for posting a photo of myself on Instagram that had been taken by a paparazzo. I learned the next day from my own lawyer that despite being the unwilling subject of the photograph, I could not control what happened to it. She explained that the attorney behind the suit had been serially filing cases like this, so many that the court had labeled him a “copyright troll.” “They want $150,000 in damages for your ‘use’ of the image,” she told me, sighing heavily.