19. Emzee

EMZEE

CHAPTER 19

E ven though my brain and body were in complete disagreement regarding what to do about my fake fiancé, I was able to push that debate aside as I headed out of my apartment the next day. It was my absolute favorite day of the month—my teaching day.

Since I had founded See Yourself, I’d discovered that my passion for photography was only rivaled by my love of teaching it. It was my greatest joy to run an organization where I could help former KZM models move forward with their lives. Offering photography classes through the nonprofit was just one way I was able to do that.

Initially, when the allegations about KZ Modeling had come out, I’d been devastated. I hadn’t wanted to believe my father could do something as fucked up as trafficking women to be sex slaves under the cover of the agency, and of course I’d been shielded from his illicit activities for my entire life. But as the evidence mounted and more women came forward, it became impossible to deny what he’d done. The gravity of his betrayal. The lives he’d ruined.

Once he was locked up in jail, and my initial shock had worn off, I realized I wanted to do something to help the women my father had hurt.

That’s how See Yourself had been born. It was my humble attempt to start making amends for my father’s crimes. My nonprofit helped former KZM models leave behind the seedy side of the industry, where modeling and prostitution had gone hand in hand, and gave them a safe, supportive place to learn about different careers and gain job skills.

See Yourself fostered recovery by offering a sense of community, providing counseling and employment agency referrals, and holding workshops and seminars to help the women discover new career paths. So far I’d hosted executives from cosmetics companies, wedding photographers, staffing specialists, even the owner of a local bakery. But my photography classes were always locked in on the schedule—they formed the core curriculum of the charity.

I liked having a chance to use my extremely expensive art school education to do good. Because the truth was, these women had essentially paid for my college education. The work they had done on their backs had funded my father’s lifestyle, and therefore mine as well. Now, my charity was a chance to pay it forward to the people who had made my privileged life possible. It felt like the very least I could do.

Days like today were spent at the charity’s space, a beautiful studio in the Loop (not too far from Danica Rose Management) that we rented to hold classes. I’d started my day by teaching a basic skills class in the morning. See Yourself provided all its students with cameras and simple equipment, as well as time in a local photo developing lab, but they still needed someone to walk them through all the basic beginner-level stuff. I loved getting to see a batch of budding new photographers learn exactly how powerful an image could be, and how it was possible to create something powerful themselves.

Not all of my students ended up being as enamored with photography as I was, but the ones who did usually “graduated” from the initial classes onto the next level, which was more of a one-on-one mentoring program with me. After that, I’d use my connections to try to find them jobs, but regular employment was a challenge for anyone pursuing a career in the arts.

“Hi, Emzee!” a voice called across the studio as I sat waiting for my mentees to arrive.

“Galina!” I replied, jumping out of my seat. “Did you bring me your latest assignment?”

Though I tried my best not to play favorites amongst my students, I’d grown particularly fond of Galina, one of the models my father had trafficked from Bulgaria. She was passionate about photography and had exhibited a true talent for it, thanks to her natural eye for light and composition. I thought she could really make a place for herself in the photography world if she just had the right training and connections.

Luckily, those were two things that I could provide.

“I am not sure how they have worked,” she said, holding an envelope close to her chest.

Holding out my hand, I smiled gently. “Let’s find out then, yeah? If you’re not happy with the images, you can always give it another go.”

Honestly, I expected her photos to be great. I was always excited to see everything she brought me. This month, all my mentees had been instructed to shoot a series of self-portraits. I had been impressed with the vision and variety I’d seen so far, but I was especially interested in Galina’s work. She always had such an interesting perspective on the assignments I gave.

“Okay,” she said, tentatively handing over the envelope.

Despite telling her multiple times how blown away I was by her work, she still seemed hesitant about taking too much pride in it. I got the sense that she didn’t necessarily trust that the work was good, when in fact—in my professional opinion—it was very, very good.

“Maybe we can talk about what you think is and isn’t working, and then we’ll figure out how you can address those things on the next assignment. Cool?”

“Cool.” Galina nodded, her teeth nibbling her bottom lip.

She was one of the more striking models my father had signed. A big part of the notoriety of KZ Modeling—besides the illegal prostitution aspect of it—had been that the agency’s models were purported to be the most beautiful in the world.

Galina was a perfect example of that.

She had a regal face with incredible cheekbones and a full, wide mouth, perfectly balancing out her broad forehead, while thick, shining black hair fell down to her shoulders. Her skin was a dusky golden hue, and her eyes were a shade of blue that contrasted sharply with her dark features. On top of that, she had the kind of long, effortlessly lean body type that looked amazing in designer clothes. It was no wonder she had been so popular with both types of KZ Modeling clients. She was absolutely stunning.

“Here we go,” I said, smiling as I started to spread her images across the long table by the window. There were eight of them, which was a good number—most students turned in about five to seven per assignment, though I allowed them to bring up to ten of whichever photos they thought were the strongest in the series.

Usually, however, I’d see a bunch of slightly different versions of essentially the same photograph—they tended to have a specific vision in mind and wanted my help choosing the image that best illustrated what they were trying to convey. This was how they built up their portfolios over the course of their mentorship.

Galina, though? She always tackled her assignments differently. That’s why I enjoyed working with her so much. Her images always told a story, not with an individual image, but via a series of them. This was why, even though all of my students were passionate and talented, she struck me as the most inclined toward a career as a professional photographer. Maybe not even in fashion, but in photojournalism. She was that talented. With a little guidance and a broader education, she could be out there in the field, shooting some truly amazing images.

That’s what I wanted for her. I wanted her life to be better because of me. To counter how it had been worse because of my father.

Once I had laid out all eight images in a neat row, I took a step back to observe them all together. They were stunning.

“Galina,” I said. “These are incredible.”

She had been looking nervous, but immediately brightened at my praise.

“They are?” she asked.

“They are,” I said, before turning my full attention back to the work she’d brought.

The series of self-portraits began with her fully clothed in her brightly lit apartment. With each photograph, the light began to fade, as more of her body was exposed. The final image was taken with only moonlight for illumination, revealing enough of her bare skin that you could tell she was nude, though most of the light fell on Galina’s face. She had purposely worn the same expression for the whole series—a strong, unflinching stare, directly into the camera.

“Gorgeous,” I murmured.

Together, the images seemed to tell a very specific story. One about sex and sensuality. About Galina’s ownership of her body and her control over how she wanted it to be seen.

Not only had the series required a tremendous amount of thought, planning, and skill for it to work as well as it did, but it was beautifully shot and extremely powerful. I felt my eyes welling up just looking at the images again, and I cleared my throat, trying to compose myself.

“Is…is it okay?” Galina asked, noticing my reaction.

“It’s magnificent,” I told her, honestly. I was completely choked up. “This is the best work I’ve seen from you.”

Her face brightened. “It is?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I’m so proud of you.”

She blushed, but seemed thrilled with the praise.

“I love the story you’re telling,” I said. “It seems to be a statement about the power you have, over your own body and your sexuality.”

“Yes. I try to show myself in the pictures. But only what I want to show, not all of me.”

We’d never really spoken about the horrors she had endured working for my father, but it seemed like we were speaking about it now. And while I didn’t tend to address the elephant in the room very often with my students, the photos were almost like an invitation.

“Sex must be complicated now,” I said gently. “After everything you’ve been through.”

To my surprise, Galina shook her head. “Actually, no. It is not so difficult at all.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she said, smiling. “When you choose it for yourself, it can be very fulfilling still.” She pointed to the pictures. “That is what I mean to say here. The lights, the way they go dim—for me, they are a symbol. Of creating the…the mystery that comes with not knowing how a new body responds to yours. And then the discoveries, of all the senses, that come with moving from the day to the night.”

“Wow. That’s…I don’t know what to say,” I murmured. “This is so good to hear.”

She reached for me, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Please do not think I am unable to experience pleasure simply because I once put men’s needs and pleasure before mine. It is all about the choice, and…being able to choose. That is pleasure.”

I nodded, taking in her words.

We discussed the images for the rest of our session, working together to find ways to improve upon something that was already practically perfect. I was so proud of the work, and eager to see what she would come up with for the next assignment, which was to photograph a place that was meaningful to her. I knew she’d do something completely unexpected.

Galina never failed to surprise me. Not just with her work, but the thoughtfulness with which she composed her shots and the metaphorical meanings they contained. She always spoke so eloquently about her intentions, and her words about sex and sensuality stuck with me all day, through the rest of my classes, and even through my ride home that afternoon.

Even when I got back to my apartment and took Munchkin for his walk around the neighborhood, I found that I was still thinking about what Galina had said. How her past experiences with sex hadn’t destroy her sexuality or desire for pleasure. How for her, it was about choice.

Her words kept turning over in my head, even after I decided against ordering take-out and poured myself a glass of wine. I couldn’t stop thinking about her photographs and her explanation behind them. Even when I curled up on my couch and tried to read the new Mapplethorpe biography, I found that my mind kept wandering back to sex. Sex and choice.

I hadn’t really thought about it in that way. And now I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop thinking about the choice that I had.

Finally, I gave up pretending that I could focus on anything but the idea that I was going to choose for myself as well.

I wanted Ford.

And despite everything that had happened between us with the fake engagement, I trusted him. I also knew that he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to give me pleasure. I knew he would make it feel good for me.

He was going to be my first.

It was my choice.

Not that he needed to know that it would be my first time. He just needed to want me back. Which I was confident that he did.

Decision firmly made, I took out my phone and texted Ford. Dinner tonight? Just the two of us. Pick someplace you love .

He responded quickly, probably seeing this as his chance to make amends for the surprise proposal fiasco.

As my lady requests , he texted. I also have some ideas about how to secure additional funding for your charity, if you’re interested .

I almost asked him to come over right on the spot. Nothing was hotter to me than Ford offering to help with my charity. Instead, I just said I would see him soon and leaned back against the couch cushions, preparing for my last several hours as a virgin.