Post by Shakespeare on Jan 20, 2007 22:04:58 GMT -5
Name: Giselle Cassaverdes
Age: 21
Height: 5'8"
Hair color: Dark brown naturally, though it changes depending on shoots
Eye color: Celery green
Social class: Upper class
Occupation: Model
Hometown: Westerleigh
Introduction:
"Gorgeous, darling! Absolutely gorgeous! Stay just like that!"
Her back was starting to hurt. She smiled painfully at her partner for that shoot, a nearly painfully handsome blonde man she'd nicknamed Mr. Gorgeous who she knew for a fact was gay. Why did the best ones always have to be gay? In her business, there was no such thing as a straight man.
Even the French man hopping around the camera and appealing her to keep her spray-tanned leg in the air was gay.
Giselle had never exactly understood why no straight guys ever became photographers or male models. The photographers got to take pictures of naked women, and the models got to grope said women in the pictrues the photographers were taking.
One of the unsolved mysteries of the world, perhaps. Mr. Gorgeous smiled back at her, just as the photographer shouted "Last photo!", as if the two of them weren't sitting right there.
The last photo was a cue to improvise. It was the last photo of the day before the models and the photographers went home, and everyone was tired, so it either came out well, or it didn't. It was probably her favorite part of shoots.
She jumped slightly at the feeling of hands on her hips, then (after realizing it was Mr. Gorgeous), wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling the impossibly tight material of the dress she was wearing scrape against her skin. Her head tilted slightly to the left, lips opened in a pout. She heard the click of the camera, the cry of 'Gorgeous!', and dropped the pose, just wanting to go home.
The civilian woman would sigh over the picture when it appeared in some magazine, imagining that the two were deeply in love, when Giselle had caught him groping another man right before the shoot. How innocent was the civilian woman? Too much so.
She was pried out of the dress, the overly dramatic make-up wiped off of her face by practiced hands. She changed into civilian clothes; jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers. One side affect of being a model was not dressing up at all unless you really had to.
So after bidding goodbye to Mr. Gorgeous and his equally gorgeous boyfriend, she stepped into the warm summer air, closing her eyes into the breeze. When was the last time she'd seen her family? She didn't even know. Hugh was probably feeling all lonely... not. He probably rejoiced every day that she wasn't there. Her mom missed her, she knew; she got a message or a call every day.
It was lonely being beautiful, sometimes. Her sneakers slapped against the pavement, dark brown strands of hair blowing across her face, masking surprisingly green eyes and an olive complexion. She was famously beautiful; coming from a powerful family had propelled her into the fashion world, and they had loved her. Giselle Cassaverdes, as she had read in a big-name magazine the other day, was the name on everyone's lips.
Which was always nice.
The streetlights shone down on her as she walked lazily towards her apartment, away from the steel and chrome of the modeling agency. She was going to go home, take a hot shower, read a racy romance novel, and go to sleep. Good plan. She yawned.
Age: 21
Height: 5'8"
Hair color: Dark brown naturally, though it changes depending on shoots
Eye color: Celery green
Social class: Upper class
Occupation: Model
Hometown: Westerleigh
Introduction:
"Gorgeous, darling! Absolutely gorgeous! Stay just like that!"
Her back was starting to hurt. She smiled painfully at her partner for that shoot, a nearly painfully handsome blonde man she'd nicknamed Mr. Gorgeous who she knew for a fact was gay. Why did the best ones always have to be gay? In her business, there was no such thing as a straight man.
Even the French man hopping around the camera and appealing her to keep her spray-tanned leg in the air was gay.
Giselle had never exactly understood why no straight guys ever became photographers or male models. The photographers got to take pictures of naked women, and the models got to grope said women in the pictrues the photographers were taking.
One of the unsolved mysteries of the world, perhaps. Mr. Gorgeous smiled back at her, just as the photographer shouted "Last photo!", as if the two of them weren't sitting right there.
The last photo was a cue to improvise. It was the last photo of the day before the models and the photographers went home, and everyone was tired, so it either came out well, or it didn't. It was probably her favorite part of shoots.
She jumped slightly at the feeling of hands on her hips, then (after realizing it was Mr. Gorgeous), wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling the impossibly tight material of the dress she was wearing scrape against her skin. Her head tilted slightly to the left, lips opened in a pout. She heard the click of the camera, the cry of 'Gorgeous!', and dropped the pose, just wanting to go home.
The civilian woman would sigh over the picture when it appeared in some magazine, imagining that the two were deeply in love, when Giselle had caught him groping another man right before the shoot. How innocent was the civilian woman? Too much so.
She was pried out of the dress, the overly dramatic make-up wiped off of her face by practiced hands. She changed into civilian clothes; jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers. One side affect of being a model was not dressing up at all unless you really had to.
So after bidding goodbye to Mr. Gorgeous and his equally gorgeous boyfriend, she stepped into the warm summer air, closing her eyes into the breeze. When was the last time she'd seen her family? She didn't even know. Hugh was probably feeling all lonely... not. He probably rejoiced every day that she wasn't there. Her mom missed her, she knew; she got a message or a call every day.
It was lonely being beautiful, sometimes. Her sneakers slapped against the pavement, dark brown strands of hair blowing across her face, masking surprisingly green eyes and an olive complexion. She was famously beautiful; coming from a powerful family had propelled her into the fashion world, and they had loved her. Giselle Cassaverdes, as she had read in a big-name magazine the other day, was the name on everyone's lips.
Which was always nice.
The streetlights shone down on her as she walked lazily towards her apartment, away from the steel and chrome of the modeling agency. She was going to go home, take a hot shower, read a racy romance novel, and go to sleep. Good plan. She yawned.