I Could've Been Your Helen, Brad

So forget that I only have three readers for this blog. And forget that two of these three said readers already know this story. In fact, forget completely that one of these two of these three said readers actually experienced what took place in this story WITH me, I nevertheless need to explain to ya'll how I once became Helen of Troy. Because this story is so freaky and so bizarre that it nevertheless warrants being told over and over. In fact, this tale practically DEMANDS to be published on the world wide web so that, you know, you special three can read it and experience it with me yet again.

So. Let's track back to last summer. I was living la vie da loca (you know what? I have no freaking clue how to spell that. And I'm feeling über lazy so I'm not even going to check. But I think I just combined some French with some Spanish with a dash of English, so really it's all good. I seem cultured now) in good ol' Cranberry Corners, barely working at my paper job, and more or less enjoying the hot weather with my boytoy Adders and my BFF Charkins (by more or less I mean I was having a fantastic summer whenever I wasn't having tear-stricken pregnancy-fear ridden meltdowns or screaming matches at Elizabeth Lake). My sweet life consisted of lots of summer lovin', gallons of McD's drive thru Diet Coke, many Screeeeeeeeeamers out at Koocanusa, avoiding my mother like the plague and various trips to the beach. Life was good.

And then one day at work I received a phone call. A phone call that would change my life, catapulting me from the realm of mere human being to that of supreme sex goddess. A local photographer who I had done some work with the previous summer (namely I used his wildlife photography for our hunting issue of the paper) wanted to meet me for "lunch." I declined the lunch offer but told him he could stop by my office to discuss "this thing of much importance." So sure enough, a few days later, a Mr. Weasel stopped by to see me.

Now before we go any farther, I need to describe to you this Weasel dude. Ok, imagine the ickiest, perviest uncle-figure you can think of. Now combine that with your image of a porno director (and no, I'm not talking sexy Adam from "Family Business" which by the way is a FANTASTIC show and I don't even mind watching it with my Adders because it's so bizarre and twisted and yet funny. Although it does show a ton of bare breasts which usually I don't like because then Adders stares at the TV screen with his tongue hanging out, feeling deprived by my lack of, well, endowment. But again, Adam is so kinda pervy hot on the show that I'm still willing to watch it whenever it's on, except for that sick, sick episode where he threw a bachelor party for his ancient uncle and hired strippers to actually have threesomes for the crowd to watch. I did NOT like that. Nor did I like the way that my Adders' eyes bulged out of his head or how he kept saying, "Oh, God" in that way Adders does when he's simultaneously shocked, disgusted and turned on. But I digress...). Now multiply that by 100 and throw in the fact that he's an amateur photographer living in Kimberley (and ya'll know what that means), and you see what I was dealing with: a freak show of the top-notch variety. I mean, he was the Kwok-man without the religious extremism or enormous head.

And yet, when he told me that he would like to photograph me for an art exhibit, I was tempted. Not because I thought the pictures would turn out exceptionally well (they didn't) or because I had ever thought that modeling might be fun (I hadn't and it isn't). But because my ego had definitely been stroked. I mean, c'mon now - he wanted me to pose as Helen of Troy. Now I know what you're thinking, namely that no one else would make a more perfect Helen than me which is EXACTLY what I thought! I mean, he was practically confirming what I've known all along, that I am the most beautiful woman in the world. And that my beauty is so great, it really is worth starting WWIII over. So how could I ever resist a man who saw me as "she who launched a thousand ships"?

It didn't matter that Weasel repulsed me. Or that he was one of those types of men who cannot EVER take no for an answer. Or that when I told my boss who was photographing me he just raised his eyebrows as if to say, "Hoo boy. Can't wait to see how her parents react when the naked pictures are plastered all over the internet, and all of the boys at McDonald's snicker whenever her dad walks by." All that mattered is that someone had finally confirmed my gorgeousnessness (it demands to "nesses") and that he wanted to catapult me into immortality.

Along with agreeing to pose as Helen of Troy, I also told Weasel that maybe I'd let him get a few shots of me water-skiing sometime, since he had a place at the same lake as Adders'. This was mistake number 2 (number 1 being when I agreed to meet him for the meeting in the first place). For the rest of the summer, he stalked me every single weekend, phoning my cell phone repeatedly or searching for us out at Koocanusa, desperate to find me to take my picture on skis, preferably wearing nothing but a life preserver. It was terrible and I was stressed out and already regretting that I had agreed to pose for anything. It didn't help matters that both Adders and Charkins were completely unsympathetic and basically just told me to tell him to go shove it. But I'm not good at that; I'm much better at being passive-aggressive like having our newspaper's receptionist tell him that I wasn't in, even though my car was parked outside and I was huddled under a desk in the corner or by just not answering my cell phone EVER.

And yet, finally the pressure got to be too much. Now maybe it was because I was feeling insecure (my departure to Vancouver was looming ever closer. Oh, and noticed how I used the word insecure coupled with the word "was" like it was something that happened in the past, which would therefore mean that now, here in the present, I am no longer insecure so there is no need to hit me over the head with it, even in a jokey ha ha ha email kind of way. Because I am sooooo not insecure anymore. Now why don't you love me, dammit?). Or maybe it was because I was depressed that Adders would dare abandon me on August long weekend (How dare you abandon me?! Who abandons their girlfriend on the best weekend of the entire summer? Who? Who does that? Do you promise you'll never do that again, never in the entire history of the world? Do you? And do you still feel guilty for doing it? Not that I even really cared. Nope, I didn't miss you one iota. Because I was too busy having fun cat-napping on the raft and getting drunk at a bar in Invermere where I even got recognized by one of my adoring fans, thank you very much, and that was before I was even featured practically naked in an art show as Helen of Troy up in Kimberley. You can only imagine what my fans will be like THIS summer. And no, this rant does nothing to confirm the fact that maybe I'm a TOUCH insecure). At any rate, I agreed to let Weasel photograph me. At dusk. In the woods.

Have I mentioned that I have a hard time saying no? And that I can be really dumb at times? Luckily, trusted Charkins was like, "Rrrrowooowowwerhghhsdfjlksjdhweorijwoireoiwrrrrrg" which translates into, "I don't think it's smart for you to go by yourself. I'll go with you, you dumb fucking bitch."

So on the day that Adders FUCKING ABANDONED ME FOR HASSAN AND THE 'PEG, Charkins and I headed off to our death, I mean, Kimberley. We arrived at his home and luckily Weasel's wife seemed somewhat normal and was very gracious (although was it just me, or could you see the cry for help in her eyes?). Anyhow, Weasel suggested I go change into my Helen costume. Which was when I realized that my Helen costume was a sheet. Of gauze. A gauzy sheet, if you will. And it was the colour of my skin. Hmmmm. Now Charkins had her "Bad Feeling" antenna up as high as it would go, but still, she helped me "dress" and we all hopped into his truck and drove out to this little lake in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere.

And at first things went smashing. It was a flawless summer evening, very warm with a gentle wind and no mosquitoes. And while Weasel built a fire (you know, so Helen could have, like, an altar to worship at. Duh), Charkins helped me primp and secure my headgear. Then we started shooting and even the first trillion shots went well. The two of them laughed at my self-consciousness, and Charkins kept screaming out suggestions like she was the freakin' white-blonde Puerto Rican gay dude on America's Next Top Model ("Bad angle, Courtney. CHIN UP, GODDAMIT, I SAID CHIN UP!"). Meanwhile, Weasel placed me in various positions (Adders, head out of the gutter!), such as having me kneel in front of the fire, address my public, gaze adoringly at my reflection in the water, and praise the Lord with my arms raised in ecstasy.

And then things took a disastrous turn for the worst. A few times, Weasel had asked me to show more leg to which I complied, after first getting Charkins' approval that it didn't look too tawdry. But all of the sudden, Weasel decided he wanted more. He wanted me to disrobe. He wanted to photograph my bare ass and my bee-stung breasts. Because apparently this would make the whole Helen thing that much more authentic. Yeah, not so much. Yet he quickly dismissed every single protestation I made. And that was when Charkins LOST IT.

She told him in no uncertain terms would I be undressing. No, I would not even just let him photograph my back naked. No, it doesn't matter that these pictures would be kept private. No, it doesn't matter if my boyfriend would probably love to see naked pictures of me and that Weasel would give him a set. No, a non-disclosure agreement would not help in this situation. And yes, it does matter what parents think. Yes, there is a difference between pornography and art, you fucking sick-o. And that's when I realized that maybe their argument had less to do with Charkins protecting my virtue and more with her wanting to show off that she too knows something about art, motherfucker!

And so they fought, and I just stood there smiling weakly, wishing the whole thing was over. He complained bitterly and gave me jabs for being too religious. Charkins retaliated and said that the matter was closed and he was being unprofessional by not respecting my position. And so, when we FINALLY got back to his place and he invited us in to see the pictures on the computer via his digital camera, and I agreed, I literally thought Charkins might beat me with a stick. But at least we got to see the pictures. And some of them were freaky (What? Can't even the most beautiful woman in the world have some bad angles?), but many were actually quite stunning. And I was pleased overall with the result.

And then we left. And Charkins once again FREAKED OUT, this time on me. She screamed about skanky Weasel, she yelled at me for being so weak. And then she told me the creepiest part, how she had seen a photograph of me in their house which looked like it had been taken on the street while I was out doing errands or something. Like he was taking pictures of me downtown Crannie without my knowledge. Like I'm a bloody celebrity and he's the paparazzi. I told you people that Crannie has its very own paparazzi and that I'm its main target, and yet you never believed me! But I joke not! Charkins has proof!

Anyhow, time progressed and one day, after I had screened many of his phone calls and had almost convinced Adders to phone him up and tell him to fuck off, Weasel showed up at my office one last time, bringing with him a home-made pita sandwich for me (uhhhh, okay? Yeah, thanks) and a CD of all my pictures. He thanked me, told me how beautiful I had been to photograph. And then said to keep him in mind as my wedding photographer. And that was the end of that. Adders saw the pictures, Charkins saw the pictures. And I never even told my parents the story.

And then I received this email today, almost 8 months after the incident:

Miss Courty, Sorry to be so long in sending you the exhibition photos. I made sure no thong was showing and of course you look marvelous. You were by far the most naturally beautiful model I have ever had the pleasure of working with. I hope we can have that opportunity again someday. Maybe to record your wedding? All the best, Weasel

He also sent me the photographs that he used at the art exhibit. And of course he chose the three ugliest ones possible. The most beautiful woman in the world, MY ASS! Fuck you, Helen of Troy. I never even wanted to be you anyway, you stupid warmonger.

P.S. Yes, I could write amusing, sarcastic little captions for each photograph. But doesn't the horror (and the whore) speak for itself?