This article is part of San Francisco Confesses, a feature series dedicated to anonymous stories from locals they’d never share with their names attached.
If they’re brave enough to ask, and if I’ve been brave enough to disclose it, the first question people ask when I tell them I had a stint as a nude model back in college is some version of “really?” followed by a “why?” or “what was it like?”
I’m always tempted to say “why not?” because our society as a whole has some pretty warped opinions on nudity, sexuality and women leveraging what they got to get ahead in life. But I know that I wasn’t doing it to make a feminist statement or diverge down a new career path from my degree.
But I’m navigating the outside world again, and seeing all the hotties come out of the woodwork, it’s got me thinking.
The reality is I did it because it paid well enough to support all the weed I, an international student without a work visa, needed to get through sophomore year. I was also so miserable at the time that I wanted a thrill, and few things sounded more thrilling to my then-19-year-old self than a man tying me up with ropes and taking pictures of it.
The money is long gone and I haven’t gone to a party during which I could wink and share it in over a year. But what has endured, six years later, is that my body, my vessel, is glorious, regardless if it’s entwined in a sailor’s knot or lying supine on the couch.
A note: if you’re a teen growing up in San Francisco, odds are you’re working. I had worked since I was 14 in some capacity, whether it was shelving books at the library or scoring soccer games or assisting with dance classes at my local studio. Working helped me feel grounded, got me out of the house, distracted from my anxiety, and I made money so I could go out with friends and treat myself without relying on my parents, given I had three other siblings waiting with palms open.
So to arrive at college in a neighboring country in a rather expensive city, possibilities became very finite. My freshman year, I siphoned many a meal dollar from my amazing friends to make my meager meal plan through the term, so I knew I had to future something out to last another year.
I’d felt my body being watched since I was 12 years old, my classmates, neighbors, plenty of men old enough to be my father. I started feeling alright in it by 16 and pretty good by 18. I hadn’t been a virgin in years by the time I was 19, but I’d yet to experience the true intimacy and mutual love of a healthy relationship.
While I’d had a tryst or two back in the dorms, no one could call my encounters impressive or scandalous. Still, I knew that my curvy body was, for lack of a better term, coming into fashion. The waif era was ebbing, and I was seeing more people who looked like me as beacons of talent, desire, and respect.
Mind you this was 2014, so I resorted to what unimaginative adults do when they need to make a quick buck: Craigslist.
The Craigslist gig section is always a wild ride, no matter the city. I wanted to be a writer, but all the writing gigs involved experience I didn’t have. So I looked through building furniture (no thanks), delivering (can’t drive), and tutoring (uhh) before it caught my eye. A photographer needed models for his portfolio and wasn’t for any public-facing site. $100, an hour tops. The photos were meant to be a successive disrobing, taking articles off a shot by shot. If it worked out, there might be more opportunities.
I verified I wasn’t a robot and sent him an email. He gave me an address and time, told me to bring my ID. My stomach was in my ass the whole bus ride there, so I listened to Nicki Minaj and thought about how to pose my face.
While Mr. Down Under tied me up, he expressed with a fondness for rope play, just as it was time to loop it up to my genitals.
The studio was a loft, in a rather nondescript building in a neighborhood a ways from my apartment. Just as I was wondering if I would be murdered, a girl came out the front door, looking a bit bereaved but not in any distress. So I went in.
Turns out, the photographer was a decent-looking bloke from Australia and came north for a fresh start or something. Who really knows. The money was on the counter, the lights ready. He confirmed I was of age, and directed me onto the set.
I’ve never actually looked at the photos of myself he took, though he would email me some from the session to do as I pleased with. Even years later, I never looked at them. The email with that first set of photos came with an offer for more, with a more demanding theme and a higher rate.
So a couple of weeks later I went back. I had mentioned I did yoga, so he asked me to bring a mat and think of some poses to do, naked. Downward dog is already intense if your hamstrings are tight, so naked, on camera, was an experience. The camera shutter went off all over me, in places I’d never angled at, even in my Tumblr days.
What had not passed was the desire to be seen.
He liked my sun salutation, apparently, because the next email came. This one would be a bit more intense; he wanted to tie me up. I’d had a guy blindfold me before and used some restraints, but this? This sounded fun.
By now, the bus ride was a liminal space of preparation, and I could find the bathroom in the studio with ease. While Mr. Down Under tied me up, he expressed with a fondness for rope play, just as it was time to loop it up to my genitals. Hmm.
But it was once he had essentially hogtied me and told me to squat that I realized, actually, this was hard. This was work. I had to focus, resin present, and try not to sweat too much. I know I fell over a couple of times, but I got up every time. By the end, I was sore, a little raw, and very much wanting to roll up a blunt, but I felt good. I was challenging myself again, something I hadn’t done since I arrived at school abroad. It was fun, it was a bit silly, even, and it made me realize something: if I was having more fun hanging out bent over with a stranger than anything I’d done all year, I needed to get the fuck out of Dodge.
I never went back after the ropes. I would have if only to wear the ball gag he had mentioned, but the semester was ending, and I wasn’t coming back. I was ready to come home to San Francisco. When I got home and settled, I got a different job and tried to get back into writing. I perused the local Craigslist a time or two for kicks, but never hit send; the feeling had passed.
What had not passed was the desire to be seen. So I started sending different kinds of electronic messages on different apps and enjoyed myself immensely. Some guys out there may even have amateur shots, but nothing I’d add to my portfolio. I could have the thrill simply for fun, and I knew, from a professional standpoint, that I would always look good doing it. Because I believed I was worth it, and still am.
Now I’m trying to make money off what you’re reading right now, in addition to many other articles, blog posts, essays, reviews, and words arranged a certain way. I’ve fallen in and out of love since my last, ah, headshot was taken, and had a few more flings. It’s been a hard year in the pandemic, and I’ve been feeling a lot of the same things I felt back then: lonely, stuck, aimless, and dull.
I’m doing the same things I was: seeing out thrills and means of income, just with a lot less attention paid to my asshole. Seeing my byline go live with a new story has kept me thrilled all year.
But I’m navigating the outside world again, and seeing all the hotties come out of the woodwork, it’s got me thinking. I’d like to be naked again, no payment necessary.
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