Everything Old Is New Again

 

Returning to Venice Beach after working on a feature film in Vancouver for six months, I had just enough money to keep up my portion of rent in a shared apartment, make my car payment, pay my insurance, and buy groceries. I was making it, sort of, as a wannabe cinematographer in an industry where men mostly worked behind the camera.

In 2009 Hollywood, if you were "breaking in" to the industry and you were lucky, you waited tables. The tips alone were vastly more than a paycheck working in a retail shop or as a receptionist in a production office.

And if you got lucky enough to work in one of the upscale places that required a uniform consisting of a black leather mini skirt, fishnets, a push-up bra, and an unbuttoned white shirt, you could get by financially. I was doing okay, but the economy was just recovering from the great recession (bank bailouts) and everything in southern California was expensive. I wasn't getting any production work either. So, like everyone else I was looking for additional work and income. 

Having been on a sound stage for six months in Vancouver, I was as pasty white as I had ever been. It felt strange to not have any tan lines. In my black and white outfit at the restaurant, I looked like a porcelain doll with a messy, very European looking shock of unruly red hair. At least, that is what the young photographer told me as he tipped me generously and included his business card in the folded cash.

I called him. He and his wife were starting up a web site to feature amateur, first time models. Nudity was required, but there was no sex save some teasing shots with other girls. Only models without representation (an agent) would be hired and pay would be fair, but not at professional rates. We agreed on two full days of six hours each for $350 a day. That turned into three days ($1050, woot!) yielding five sets of "girl next door" photos and one glamour set.

The photographer's wife was a make-up artist with an indie production company. Her work was exceptional. Before the shoot, she talked me into going blonde. I hesitated, but she split the cost of the bleach and dye job with me. She was right. My look changed completely with a relaxed, slightly strawberry blonde color. The hairdresser, one of the gayest and sweetest guys I've ever met, tossed in a free cut and style "because I can't send you away unfinished!" This deal was working out well.

I've never been shy about being naked in front of others, so I thought the shoots were going to be a "cakewalk," not that I've ever seen a cakewalk. I figured I would just strike some poses as I had seen on softcore porn sites.

The couple explained this was exactly what they did not want. They envisioned me in various stages of undress in simple outfits -- skirt/top, shorts/tee, a swimsuit -- acting a little shy. It was supposed to be me my first time, so I should "smile and be coy." It was harder than I thought. But as time went on we kept shooting, talking, and enjoying how to have fun with the setups. The only time I was a tad uncomfortable was shooting the full-frontal shots and low angle shots that captured my pussy in loving detail. Otherwise, we spent a lot of time making up my "story," the phony bio that would accompany my photos.

The last afternoon the final shoot, the "glamour shoot," took place. I brought a black corset and some pretty lingerie and the photographer's wife provided a few gowns and such. She directed the shoot. I must share that I have never felt prettier than I did that afternoon with her directing me, making me feel glamorous, desirable. Those photos are my favorites for those three days. One or two of them I have even shared on Facebook and other places.

At the end of the last day, they paid me -- in cash. There were no contracts, no photo releases, no receipts, no social security numbers, no nothing.  We had been shooting in a model home in one of the Hollywood canyons, so the address of where we shot was only a real estate listing. They promised to send me a flash drive of the photos they would use and the URL of the site when it was online. They lived up to their promise. I liked the final results, but, at the same time, was grateful that because of the new hair color, style, and exquisite make-up, that the photos were of a super cute girl next door who, remarkably, looked a lot like me.

A year later the web site disappeared. The photographer's phone number never worked again. I found his wife at her production company and asked what was up. "Honey, forget that episode." she said, "he's moved on."

Over the years I occasionally searched to see if the photos had resurfaced. Occasionally, one or two turned up on obscure sites. I was never concerned.

But this week, I was messing around the dark web, for educational purposes only, of course, and stumbled upon a Russian search engine that could find every single photo of me. I could search by image or text description based on the "story" we had imagined for me. The engine found the photos time-after-time. As a test, I performed some searches for other things, people, that should have been buried and hidden on the web long ago. The results were scary: accurate, voluminous, with additional references and similar items.

I'm not worried about the photos getting around the net. My hair and make-up then, and, now, my increased age (yes, I have wrinkle or two) give me more than adequate deniability. And if I ever get a new pixie cut, I'll be completely unrecognizable.

What scares me is the incredible power and accuracy of that Russian search engine. It creeps me out enough that I will not be going on the dark web again anytime soon. And, I've already done a complete sweep of my system for issues. I have two firewalls and a rock-solid VPN. I hope that was enough to keep the Russian engine from cataloging my hard drives!

Be safe out there on the web.