My Body(42)

I felt dizzy as I wondered the same thing. What does true empowerment even feel like? Is it feeling wanted? Is it commanding someone’s attention? “We had a lot of discussions about music, art, the industry, and the creative process,” Jonathan said in the interview. “She was very pleasant to speak with, and very intelligent and well-spoken, and cultured. That, more than anything, in my opinion, set her apart from so many other models.” I felt myself on the carpet of Jonathan’s living room, the texture of it rubbing into my skin as I posed and talked about art-making, and felt a deep twinge of shame. I promised myself that I wouldn’t look him up anymore.

At the end of 2020, Jonathan published yet another book of the photos, this one hardbound. I’ve often stood in my kitchen and stared at myself in the large Richard Prince piece, contemplating whether I should sell it and use the money to sue. I could try to force him to cease production of his books; I could tangle him up in a legal fight that drains us both, but I’m not convinced that spending any more of my resources on Jonathan would be money well spent. Eventually, Jonathan will run out of “unseen” crusty Polaroids, but I will remain as the real Emily; the Emily who owns the high-art Emily, and the one who wrote this essay, too. She will continue to carve out control where she can find it.





Pamela





S WAS LATE, as usual.

In our first month of dating, S had announced that he was going to make sure I always knew where he was. He’d held his iPhone in his palm, screen facing outward so I could see it. He pressed on my contact and, with an intentional and animated tap of his finger, hit “Share location.”

“See,” he’d said. “No secrets.”

From then on, whenever I opened the map on my phone, S’s picture would appear in a small icon on the screen.

This gesture had surprised me. Of all the things I wanted to know about S, his exact location at any given moment was fairly low on the list. Still, I’d taken it as an offering, a sign of his willingness to share in a more general sense: his life, his emotions, his experiences.

Nearly three years later, I’d often find myself using his shared location to figure out when he’d actually arrive to meet me, since his own estimates were usually off.

S was born and raised in New York and inexperienced at navigating the freeways and traffic patterns of LA.

“Just don’t bother trying to go anywhere anytime between three thirty p.m. and eight p.m., okay?” I’d explained.

“Okay,” he’d said, putting on his sunglasses and giving me a quick kiss. “I’ll text you when I’m finishing up my day.” S always seemed spread too thin when we were in LA. There were too many meetings, too many phone calls, too much traffic.

It was silly, really, that he was coming back home to the Eastside of Los Angeles from the Westside, since the party was on the Westside and we were already late. I checked S’s location. He was going to be at least another hour, and after texting him, “you’re going to be super fucking late,” I resolved to take my time getting ready. I poured a large glass of red wine, showered, and wrapped my hair in a towel. I added big fat wings of eyeliner to the corners of my eyes, lined my mouth with a deep mauve, applied extra-gooey lip gloss to my lips, and slipped on a black strapless tube dress that clung to my ass with purpose.

I wanted to wear a boot or something casual as a shoe, since this party was hosted by S’s agency, not mine. I didn’t like the idea of appearing too dressed up or too sexy in a crowd of people who, I knew, would treat me like arm candy no matter what I wore. But I couldn’t find a shoe that looked right with the hemline of the tube dress, so I gave up and put on heels with straps that crisscrossed up my ankles and calves. They hurt, but these, I decided after texting pictures to a few friends, were my best option.

Once I finished inspecting myself in the mirror, I took the heels off and lay down on our bed. I knew the outfit was sexier than I’d planned on, but it felt like some kind of insurance at this film-industry party. Dressing up and performing the role that everyone expected from me was comfortable. Beautiful girl should show up looking beautiful, right? I thought. Worse than arm candy is being invisible, right? Right? Nicki Minaj blasted from my phone. “Got a bow on my panties because my ass is a present,” she sang.

Now that I’m ready, might as well take a couple of selfies. I tilted my chin down, held up my phone, and checked myself on the screen as I clicked away. A text from S appeared at the top of my reflection: “15 minutes baby! Traffic was insane.”

I ignored him with a swipe of my finger. I selected one of the selfies, posting it on Instagram. “All dressed up, no place to go,” I typed, and threw my phone down next to me. I stared at the ceiling while Nicki continued to rap.

S arrived a few minutes later, all crinkled laugh lines and warmth. I eyed him, annoyed, as he climbed onto the bed next to me. “You’re an hour and a half late, asshole. It’s rude.” We’d had this conversation countless times before, and I was worn down by it. Who cares, anyway? I had a nice time getting ready, I thought. Besides, here he was, better late than never, smelling like the best kind of sweat and smiling at me, ready to love me up. What was the point of making a big deal of this right before a party where we’d be surrounded by hundreds of people? I wanted us to feel connected and maybe even have some fun, for fuck’s sake. Let it go, I told myself.