There have been no servings of “Texas Toast” since Southern Fried Skinny Chicks. Funny how a divorce, court dates, a new job, a new enterprise, packing, and an impending move can consume one’s writing time. So, hop aboard and travel back with me in time to 1978.
One afternoon I received an urgent call from my modeling agency, telling me to hustle over to a wildly sought-after Italian photographer’s studio. My heart did a little mambo on the way over, as I’d never managed to snag an appointment with Sergio Gilberti before (remember children, all names are changed to protect the perpetually guilty or the terminally stupid).
Wilhelmina herself had called me, which was almost unheard of. “Don’t blow this one child. This is potentially really big. Not only is Sergio doing the shoot, it’s for a pictorial for Playboy to illustrate an article by Truman Capote called “The Mystique of Redheads”. Playboy has already chosen a few of their Playmates and they are looking for a fashion model to round out their girls. GET THIS BOOKING; this could push your career to a whole new level!”
Within moments of walking into the studio I knew I had the job. Sergio explained that initially his wife Starla had been booked but they were experiencing a ‘rough patch’ in their marriage, and she had gone home to Mama in Montana. Lucky for me Starla could have been my twin and I had Sergio at hello, something I would soon regret.
Turns out we were to shoot on St. Barts for one week in April, but there was one unusual twist the client had requested. “Oh God,” I moaned inwardly, “here it comes. I get the gig but I have to be photographed having underwater sex with three dwarf Polish albinos.” Why was there always a ‘by the way’ attached to my most glamorous bookings?
I braced myself as Sergio explained that Playboy insisted that I present to the shoot with an all-body tan, since I was so fair. They didn’t want pesky tan lines marring whatever swimsuits or sarongs they dressed me in.
“They have agreed to pay all your expenses for two to three weeks on any nearby island that has a nude beach. You can certainly bring along a boyfriend, if there is one.” Jack and I had just been planning our next trip to St. Martin and along comes a magazine willing to subsidize it. In addition to paying all my expenses and some of Jack’s, they agreed to pay me $10K for the week’s work on St. Barts. Talk about a good day at work! And what a coincidence; St. Martin just happened to have Orient Beach, where clothing was optional.
The very first morning on St. Martin Jack rented a motorcycle for us to tour the island. I wasn’t on the back of that thing five minutes before he skidded on a curve on a wet roadway, and sent the bike crashing on top of my right leg. I sported a green and purple leg, with a hematoma the size of a grapefruit for two months, but fortunately, it didn’t impinge on our lovely holiday. While at urgent care having my mangled leg attended to, we met a couple from London. Patsy was a redheaded model as well, and was having sea urchin spines removed from her foot. She was on holiday with one of her two boyfriends, a successful record producer at Virgin Records. She was trying to decide if she should marry this man for a secure future and comfortable life, or marry the struggling photographer she had left back in England. Patsy and I promptly struck up one of those instant friendships that women can fall into so easily, and we remained buddies for twenty-five years. The four of us were inseparable for the next two weeks, but were mindful of spending the allotted amount of time on Orient Beach.
Every afternoon we were there, an extremely lanky naked black youth would stand just behind the dune line and study us intently. We couldn’t fathom what he found so fascinating until he began to get bolder and crept ever closer. Patsy shrieked, “My God, he’s playing with his wanker!” and sure enough he was. We were astonished at his brazenness, as he edged closer to our group every day. Jack and I loved creating silly songs as a soundtrack to our lives, and I recently came across a cocktail napkin where the four of us had penned this little ditty.
There was a wild wanking wog on Orient Beach.
He had a long dong,
But he had a short reach.
But when he got it up
His aim was true.
His skin was black,
But his balls were blue.
Stay tuned for the trip to St. Barts, where things were about to get interesting indeed.
to be continued…
Feature photo courtesy of red77320847701.jpeg