I am not a body, I am somebody.

I am not a body, I am somebody.

Staring into the mirror I prepare myself for another pep talk as the overwhelminginly familiar curtain of doubt and fear of pre-judgement draws down upon me once again; “You are more than just a pair of tits”.

This might sound like a crazy ritual but being able to distance yourself as a person, from your job, is an art in which I find difficulty in mastering; Not for reasonings on my own part, I possess full self-belief in my abilities and who I am as an individual (Well if you can’t love yourself n’ all that….). But once people learn of my job as a Glamour Model, it’s difficult for them to see anything else. Unlike many jobs where you get to clock out at 5pm and go back to being “Just John” who lives at Number 12, I don’t have a job- I am my job. Or so people think.

As a naive 18 year old to the big wide world of the internet, the thought of thousands of images of my boobs being available at a click of a button was not exactly something I gave much thought too. And it’s definitely not something you give a lot of thought too when you don’t see anything wrong with your job in the first place. “What name do you want to go by?” My agent asked as I enthusiastically signed my first modelling contract. “Erm, just my own?” I answered innocently, not foreshadowing the collective of cold-shoulders which awaited me in my years to come. Fast forward eight years and the realisation that people can judge me by one google search is a terror which haunts me every time I meet someone new. “What’s your name?” Are three words which send a shiver down my spine. My heart drops into my stomach every time I’m asked to note down my social media handles at an interview. Most people with hundreds of thousands of followers (barf- subtle brag) would be eager to boast to potential clients about their following, riding the wave of influence and outreach, but for me it’s just another hump in the road. Another chance for someone to see my body and link it to the idea that I must be a terrible person and incompetent at succeeding. I jump at the chance of meeting people in the flesh, where they get to encounter the real me, rather than the image they’ve curated in their head from a posed picture online. All of this has led to me having a love – hate relationship with my bosom; Thankful for the opportunities that have risen from being #blessed, but bitter at the stereotype they’ve forced upon me. So much so, that when I started the transition to working more behind the scenes in the industry, I decided to change my name. I set up a fake email address and a new Instagram account, full of crippling dread that a client I email could see my lady lumps online and never want to work with me, or the brand, again. I began to live a lie, pretending to be someone I was not all because the fear of rejection for being who I really was. I felt like a fraud. Being ashamed of my job, of my body, was not what I stood for and yet I was feeding into it out of terror of being criticised by the World.

I’ve recently started watching The Secret Diaries Of A Call Girl (I know I’m ten years behind but stick with me here) And something resonated with me in the way that Hannah is forced to live a double life. She’s petrified her family may find out about her job, unable to share her career with her friends and feels shame and unworthiness when it comes to finding a real partner to date, and yet she feels all of this whilst loving the job she does. Now perhaps comparing myself to a prostitute is not exactly the angle I’m going for, but the stigma which surrounds females who make a living out of their body- be it glamour models, escorts or webcam girls, is outdated and does not represent the woman behind the role. What the show did so well was expose us to the other side of Belle- the motherly, caring and witty friend, daughter and mentor. She was so much more than just a call girl.

And I know what you’re thinking: “You’ve put yourself out there; You must expect people to judge you for posing for topless pictures” But expect and accept are two very different things. I’ve unfortunately come to expect the judgement, but I don’t accept the stigma given to me because of it. Where my torment lies is in the rationale that I don’t see anything god-awfully wrong with making money from shedding my clothes. I chose to become a glamour model because I find empowerment in the human form in it’s natural state- my human form. The same way many other women do; The same expression which sees many other women applauded for their ‘body positivity’. The shame in which I feel has been involuntarily placed alongside me, like a ball and chain constantly dragging me down whenever I attempt to break free and fly. But after compromising my character for long enough I decided I was done with the pretending, the fake name’s and the hiding. If I am going to make it as someone, something, I want to do so as me, and not someone everyone deems as more acceptable to be. And if I’m going to fail, then I sure as hell am not going to go down quietly. Or fully clothed for that matter.

I am not my boobs, I have boobs. I also have arms, and legs, and compassion, and ambition, and over-sensitive tear ducts when it comes to watching something mildly sad on TV (Don’t tell me you’ve never cried at an episode of Jeremy Kyle). I am not my body, I am somebody. I’m a glamour model. But I’m also a daughter, a sister, a granddaughter, a friend, a Bachelor of Science (of course I had to get that in there, it cost me £28k), a writer, a yoga enthusiast (albeit not a great one), and an extremely embarrassing drunk dancer. If you can look passed someone‘s job as an office worker, and see the glorious dishevelled, unique individual which lies behind them, then you can see passed me for “just” being a glamour model. I am so much more than a pair of tits. I am me.

Feature image copyright Anna Bressi https://annabressi.com

Advertisements

The Not So Lonely Hearts Club: Valentine’s Re-boot

It’s the evening of February the 14th, and after a day full of small gestures of self-love I’ve poured myself a large glass of Merlot and hunkered on down to put together this piece. The topic of being alone is one in which has graced my ‘blog idea’s’ notes for a while now, but there was something about today, Valentine’s Day it seems, which has magnetised me towards my keyboard and made me actually punch out some words.

A day full of “Boy done good” facebook posts and shouts of declaration, Instagram pics of throwback holiday destinations. Trending topics on twitter of how people try to snag dates, and reassuring messages from my family and mates. “There’s always next year” they lovingly share, worrying that I’m sitting home in despair. “I wonder who he’ll be, what he’ll do, what he’ll look like” I promise you mum, I’m really alright. For amongst all the glee, the roses and the clutter, I’m fine here alone, making pancakes with butter.

Image by Jessie Cave. Instagram @jessiecave

My Facebook memories flashed up with an old post reminder, of my housemate’s gallant efforts to wine and fine dine her. But the her was me, and the housemate was she and we dined in alone, the two singles of May Street. That night I was greeted by a “What you doing?” text, I should’ve said I’m busy, but we all know what comes next. Thirty minutes later and there’s knocking at the door “That’ll be for me!”, for that I was sure. In strides my blonde Valentine’s booty call, a bag of Haribos’ in hand, he’s not that bad after all. After a brief introduction and a token gesture chat, we ditch my housemate- I was fickle like that. Craving some contact, some romantic attention, we head on upstairs giving the day not much mention. For it’s really quite sad that we’re entwined in eachother, caved to the day’s pressures of needing a lover. February the 15th came and we said our goodbye’s, now don’t get me wrong- he’s a good looking guy- but did I feel any more satisfied, than if I’d of text back “I’m busy” and lied? I still had no boyfriend, no flowers, no date. Just bags under my eyes from staying up way too late. The fling was just that, a few times thing, turns out he wasn’t looking for a Queen to his King. So by the time February 14th came back around, I reassured myself I’ll be fine if he hasn’t been found.

It’s been six years now, and I’ve still got no date, but this time I’m less eager to go searching for a mate. For heartache and rejection certainly leaves a scar, but what is most damning is finding out who you are. I’m single, I live alone, I work alone too, and through my life lessons I’ve certainly grew. Through brushing off the embarrassment of standing alone at a bar, to travelling solo across countries, near and a far. To weddings and family gatherings without a plus-one, to realising I’ll be fine when my friends have all gone. And by gone, I don’t mean disappear off the earth, but follow along paths of marriage and birth. Pathways that I hope to step on one day, but I won’t let fear of being alone get in my way; Or force me down rabbit holes I’m not ready for, all because they tell me time’s ticking- and more. For being truly comfortable as single old me, can only prepare me for being a two– or a three. And when I fear most that I’m quite happy alone, I remember the thought of my house becoming a home. Love shouldn’t be forced just because I’m getting older, for fake love will only ever grow colder. I’m happy as one, I’ll be happier as three, but right now I’m content with just being me.

Sex Education: A little more conversation, A little more action please.

Sex Education: A little more conversation, A little more action please.

Sex. We’re all sort of doing it- whether it’s with ourselves, or each other (Sorry you had to find out this way Mum). But none of us are talking about it. And by talking about it I don’t mean commenting how you’d “love to have a go on that ass bby 😜😍🍑🍆💦” underneath girls’ Insta pics (seriously, please stop doing that). I mean really talking about it. The real shit. The “Am I doing this right?” or the “I’m not doing it at all” shit. Which is why when Netflix’s new teen phenomenon “Sex Education” premiered last month the entire female generation collectively let out a sigh of relief when it highlighted the groundbreaking revelation that yes, girls totally masturbate too.

Tainted by societal views for centuries (although I’m damn right sure the Tudor’s did some freaky shit in their dungeons, we’ve all seen the tv shows) the arousing stigma that sex is something we should be ashamed of has penetrated– ahem – our soul from a young age. For the day you’re gifted your first training bra from Kylie at Mackays at the tender age of 10 years old, your parents begin to drill into you that sex is bad and you mustn’t do it because yes, you guessed it- you will get pregnant, and die (thanks for that nugget of wisdom Coach Carr). You’re told sex is a grown-ups game which they only engage in for the sole purpose of creating babies and not for any other reason like because it might actually be quite… nice? Gulp. You spend your whole adolescence being force fed by your parents and teachers the idea that buttering the muffin is bad, it’s dangerous, it’s irresponsible- all the while whilst your raging teen hormones are trying to tell you otherwise and you’re being exposed to the other extreme of the spectrum in the shape of blue waffle and two-girls-one-cup at the back of the school bus (it really is a rights of passage). Your token one-off sex ed’ class involves your form teacher demonstrating once, and once only, how to stretch a condom over a banana, whilst a class sheet is passed around detailing how if you ever want to engage in sexual contact, the likelihood is you’re going to catch gonorrhoea- and die. Do you see a theme here? It all ends up being really handy info’ that you definitely remember when you get down to the nitty gritty of a drunken Saturday night/ Sunday morning fumble five years on. Of course, you’re not expecting your parents to shout it from the roof top that dancing the devil’s dance could actually be quite fun- after all, what do they know about bumping uglies, you were dropped off by a stork and we’ll leave it at that shall we? But what ‘Sex Education’ so gallantly provided was exactly that, actual sex education. Not birds and the bee’s, or wooden penises and diagrams. But confused feelings of sexuality, the desperate hunt to lose your virginity, exploring queerness and how an abortion is not the end of the World.

Illustration by Anna Hardstaff

I’m convinced that my early development into womanhood *insert soon to exist period emoji here* rumbled up some confused and curious thoughts in me as a teen. By Year 5 I was bunking off school swimming lessons because boys in my year would laugh at my boobs when I performed backstroke; Whilst in Year 6 the girls would quip that I must’ve been for a numero dos because I was taking so long in the bathroom- not knowing I had to fish around my school bag for the emergency period supply kit my mum had packed for me just incase. Fast forward through a few years of being exposed to high-school life, hormones and and an endless supply of teenage boys and I remember feeling as if me and my not-so-teen-like body were ready to tackle adulthood, when in reality I had just tackled my GCSE subject choices. At 15 I was sitting in an Art class when my phone buzzed with a text informing me that my semi-clothed pics that I had stupidly, and rather passively, sent to a boy a year older than me had been blue-toothed to everyone in the sixth-form centre, and beyond. Nothing prepares you for walking down the corridor knowing everyone in the school has seen you in your hand-bra (no nips thank you, that really was an exclusive for ZOO). Although this experience probably helped prepare me for walking down the street and knowing everyone really has seen my tit pics. That’s spiritual growth for you. But the contrast in the passiveness and somewhat feeling of empowerment and joy of which I sent them, to the shame and gut-wrenching “my parents are going to kill me” which engulfed me in their exposé were an important reflection of what I was actually feeling, to how society was teaching me how to feel. Of course I was underage, so it was bad and my parents were rightfully pissed off, I get that. But the bottom line is that sex is inevitable. We’re all probably gonna do it. And if we’re not doing it, we’re certainly exposed to it. Perhaps if it were acceptable to be more open, and we were given more chances to chat about how we really feel, and informed of what is totally normal to feel, instead of all the ghastly repercussions that could come from it- we wouldn’t be seeking answers and exploring it’s rabbit holes in quite so unsavoury ways (Fess’ Up, who else used to secretly watch Sexcetra as a teen?). Basically, we could all do with a little more Maeve and a lot more Otis in our lives. And don’t forget about Eric either.

This theory doesn’t just lend itself to school life. From University and morning-after pills, to Adulthood and One-night stands- Sex comes part and parcel of exploring this thing that we call life. As sexually charged and somewhat freaky mammals, we are forever expanding our knowledge, our kinks, our fetishes and our feelings around the big event. What is groundbreaking for me about ‘Sex Education’ is it’s representation across the board of not just sex, but the sub-topics in which that feed into it- such as religion, sexuality and childhood trauma. Having a safe space to speak out about sex without having ‘JeSs Is A sLaG” scrawled into a toilet door or being labelled as frigid is a concept that could benefit those across genders and generation’s. Because let’s be honest, getting all your tips from Fake Taxi or Babe Station isn’t the greatest way to bag you a bang (you can have that tip for free boys, you’re welcome). It’s time to flick a condom in the face of the stigma associated with Sex and show a ‘Maeve special’ middle finger to the shame and dirtiness that surrounds it. One visit to Otis’ six clinic at a time.


Series 1 of “Sex Education” is available now on Netflix- I promise you, you won’t regret it.

The Model Diaries: The Batshit Crazy.

The Model Diaries: The Batshit Crazy.

Welcome to The Model Diaries, a 3-Part feature exploring and exposing The Good, The Bad and The Bat Shit Crazy events and experiences of my life as a glamour model. Parental Warning: Expect nudity, alcohol, guns and lots of WTF moments.


The Batshit Crazy. The moments in life when you’ve just had to fucking laugh or else you’d cry. The exact moment in time when your reality meets your subconscious and the What the bloody hell am I doings start spinning through your mind. The times when you can’t quite fathom how and why your journey in life has got you to this exact place today. How you’re sat in a squalid room with your boobs out, surrounded by a group of strangers staring at you deciding if the position of your left tit fits their creative vision whilst you pull out a pair of crusty boxer shorts from under the pillow of the young teen boys’ bed you’re so desperately trying to look sexy draped upon (Yes FRONT mag, that really did happen. You have to admire their commitment to their aesthetic). But whilst you sit in another odd location, inhaling the weird fuckery that unfolds around you, you realise you’re actually actually quite….. enjoying it? *Exasperated sigh* Does that make me crazy? Probably.

You never know what (or when) your next job is going to be, so when I got a call to say I’d been booked for my first FHM gig I was pretty ecstatic to say the least. “I’ll do it” Whatever ‘it’ is. The call sheet was sent through, with all the details of the shoot included. The theme? 50 Shades Of Grey. I dragged my excited (and innocent) Welsh arse down to the Big City, not knowing quite what to expect. To paint the scene of how incredibly awkward I felt (and probably made everyone else feel), this was still quite early days in my career and I hadn’t quite broken out of that uncomfortable, socially awkward, self-doubt teen phase yet (I now appreciate how fucking cool being confident in your own skin feels). The props were all lined up on the shabby wooden floor of the typical London looking townhouse- a wooden spanking thing here, a leather crop there, Do people actually use these? I was shooting alongside another model who was well-established and oozed confidence. Effortlessly sexy and undeniably gorgeous, I couldn’t help but feel consumed with imposter syndrome as I watched her do her thing from the make-up chair. In the early years I had a funny relationship with the other models. I lived and breathed the idea of being a ‘model’ yet I was desperately awkward and sheepish around those who were living out my fantasy. I would freeze-up as I frantically rattled my brain in the dressing-area for something, anything to say to them, whilst inside, my pores were combusting with adulation for these women. It was almost as if I was too scared to draw attention to myself incase someone would call me out for because I wasn’t supposed to be there. I never really felt like I fit the mould, I never really felt like I belonged there. I still feel like this to this day, but instead of allowing it to continue to ‘dull my sparkle’ as many a’ Pinterest post has pointed it, I now see my differences as my ‘magic’ (thank you to Fearne Cotton’s podcast for that uplifting message). As the shoot got underway and the prop banana’s were pulled out of the bag, I tried mightily to embody the sexed-up character which was expected of me. Being sexy on cue is a talent I have had to learn through a lot of practice. The peak of the shoot came when I had to fake spank the other model who was draped over my knee, all whilst holding a ‘dominant’ look on my face. I shouldv’e gone to acting school hun. Once the day was wrapped, I rode the tube to Paddington station, full face of slap’ still intact, and gazed thoughtfully at all the frantic Londoner’s going about their commute around me whilst thinking ‘ If only you knew what I’d been up to today.‘ Once back at my student digs in Cardiff I filed the spanking experience under the ‘just another day in this weird and wonderful office of boobs and beautiful women’ folder which was filling out rather nicely and packed my bag for Uni the next day, as if this was now just totally normal behaviour in this new found World of mine. – Ok, that last bit might be a slight exaggeration, I was never that prepared for a lecture, but the contrast between the two lives I was flittering between was nothing short of bat-shit crazy in itself. From pasta’ n’ sauce packets and £1 jäger bomb parties one day, to eating catered meals and downing free champagne on the table next to Danny Dyer and Keith Lemon at Loaded mags’ Christmas party the next. Each day was a new experience and the crazy and unexpected times were what kept it exciting.

Glamour modelling is not a job you get into if you’re not ready and willing to make a tit of yourself (excuse the pun). Gone are your inhibitions- as well as your clothes, as you find yourself stripping off in the storage cupboard for a casting at a magazines headquarters- with the filing cabinet and office mop making sure they get a starring role in your Polaroid’s. The funny thing about the glamour modelling industry is that when it’s stripped (THE PUNS JUST KEEP ON COMING) down to it’s core, it’s ironically rather, well… unsexy. I imagine much like the way actors compare the unfathomable un-sexiness of shooting a sex-scene to a choreographed dance; Having to take your bra off at a pain-stakingly slow pace whilst having to exhume an expression so enthusiastic that it’s like you have never seen your nipples before is enough to make the horniest of individuals want to throw on their oversized hoody and get the next train home before someone can shout “PUT THIS COLD COKE CAN ON YOUR NIPPLES, THEY’RE A LITTLE BIT INVERTED”. Sorry to burst your bubble, boys.


I hope you enjoyed this mini-series “The Model Diaries”, you can read the first and second instalments by following the links, and look out for more features on my blog jabberwithjess.com coming soon!

The Model Diaries: The Bad.

The Model Diaries: The Bad.

Welcome to The Model Diaries, a 3-Part feature exploring and exposing The Good, The Bad and The Bat Shit Crazy events and experiences of my life as a glamour model. Parental Warning: Expect nudity, alcohol, guns and lots of WTF moments.


As the great Marian Wright Edelman once said, In every seed of good there is always a piece of bad. With the tremendous highs of my career came some crashing lows. The rejection, the waiting, the lies, the late payments, the never payments, the broken promises and the constant attack on your image. Of course, you go into this career knowing you are trying to get a job because of the way you look. If you grasped at the root of it’s definition and tugged on it’s weeds you would be floored by the reminder that you chose to be judged, to have your petals plucked off by a passing stranger. But no one’s trunk is that strong to not be shifted by the storm of critiques that shower upon on you in weekly downpours. By your agent, the client, the casting director, the make-up artist, the readers, the twitter followers, the YouTube commenter’s. I listened to Fearne Cotton’s podcast “Happy Place” recently where she spoke with Emma Willis about her time as a model. Emma, being the God-like woman she is shared how her self-proclaimed glass half-empty ‘this won’t last forever’ attitude helped her deal with the fact not everyone is going to like the way she looked, and that she was okay with that. This is the attitude you aspire to reach, the IDGAF vibe. Some days are easier than others, some days you go ‘Eh, oh well I wasn’t the right fit’ and you just move on. The days when it’s harder to do this is when someone highlights something that you already hate about yourself.

When you’re the face of pubes being back in fashion in Australia. (Picture Magazine)

I used to shoot Page 3 for one of the newspapers and the photographer had a reputation for ahem- ‘saying it like it is’ shall we say. You’d walk into the studio with baited breath, hoping that this time you’d get a pass and she’d fail to mention your wonky boobs. “Your eyebrows need doing; Your nails are awful; Learn how to curl your eyelashes; Are you moisturising your skin” – This was just the onslaught from the make-up chair. You nod along sweetly whilst inside your budding flower is now shrinking through shame and embarrassment. After the most recent downpour which has left you feeling like a rat drowned in your own misery, now you have to step on set for the shoot and pretend you feel real sexy about all your flaws. The blasé comments spill onto the hardwood floor as you stand around, desperate to impress whilst contemplating just how much you need the £300 to simply be insulted all afternoon. “You can’t wear this because you’re too big”, “Lift your arm up because you’re left boob is saggy”, “You can’t do that pose because you have chunky legs”, “When are you going to get your teeth done?” Oddly there was something extremely intriguing about this woman. She was hurting your feelings but you still respected her, she was kind of…. sweet. Much like a crazy aunt who slags off your outfit and flirts with your boyfriend, she’s not being that offensive, but you’re definitely not offering her your couch for the night when she argues with Uncle Bill after downing a bottle of vodka. I’ve heard she’s made many girls cry when they left her studio, but we all went back anyway; Whether through some fuckery of wanting her approval or really needing some money for your big night out in Oceana on the weekend to meet Gaz from Geordie Shore. Being told the shit things you already know about you is well, shit.

Next comes the interviews. Those shitty, demeaning, dehumanising interviews. I once went through the effort of having a test shoot done for Valentine’s Day, with the idea that the photographer and my agent would try sell the pics to one of the publications and earn us all some solid queen elizabethz£££. To start with, the whole context of the shoot was just cringe and lacked any smidge of creativity, with it’s white wall back drop and heart foiled balloon. The photographer was hating it, I was hating it, and it was ironically a big fuckery of loathness for what was supposed to be the most romantic and heartfelt day of the year. After battling on (first world problems IKR) through the shoot and getting dem’ money shot$$$ we managed to secure an image sale to the Daily Mirror. Wooooo. The glamour. A woman from the newspaper phoned me up to do the interview which was going to accompany the images. “Hi Jess, I’m just going to ask you a few questions” Sure, fab, yeah, continue. “What’s your favourite sex position?” _______________________ Flat lined. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I couldn’t comprehend a reason why the fuck I would divulge this information to you, to tell your thousands of readers, the possibility of my parents seeing, to be belittled down to nothing but a sex move and for what exactly? The Twenty Five Quid a picture you’re going to pay me? No thanks hun. “I don’t answer questions like that sorry”. “Oh, okay well next one. What’s your signature move in the bedroom?” _______________ *my eyes have come full circle by now* “I don’t answer questions like that sorry”. “Well um, they’re all like that really so do you want to have a think and get back to me in an hour?”. It took me 1.5 seconds to think. I’m not doing it. My agent continued to tell me how they won’t use the images without the interview, how they were only words, how my career was only worth the £75 they were going to pay me and the privilege of being known as Doggy Davies for the rest of my life. Okay I made that last bit up. But it’s safe to say that that one was filed under the ‘How I’ve wasted my life instead of working towards having a ‘real’ job saving other peoples lives‘ folder.

Let’s talk about the photoshoots with people who you don’t actually know. Who you’ve never met. Who aren’t a brand, a magazine, a company. I am honestly flabbergasted that there isn’t more horror stories out there of models being abused or exploited in these situations. Although being in the Harvey Weinstein era I am sure that there are unfortunately many out there, who felt and still feel like they couldn’t speak up without it affecting their career. British Glamour Model Chloe Ayling’s story of her being drugged and kidnapped by some dickhead in Milan after being lured there for a fake photoshoot was unfathomable for some people to believe, but I was just shocked that this was one of the first times it had happened (or that we’ve heard about at least- we’ve all watched Taken). You rock up as a young woman on your own, to a location which is usually isolated i.e a hotel room, an apartment, a studio etc, to meet someone- usually a man in this industry- that you have never met, and then strip off and have your pics taken. When you type it out like that it sounds fucking ludicrous. How could I be so stupid? But you put trust in your agent, in your colleagues, in the industry. That everyone is in the same boat and just trying to make a living out of it. I’ve had a couple photographer’s be a little bit handsy when moving you into positions that made me freeze up and think plz stop touching me. Would I of felt awkward if we were on a big set with ten other people around? No, probably not. But when you’re in a two ft by two ft hotel room by yourself the situation is a tad more intimidating. Read the room guys.

Talking of trusting your agent, early on in my career I was booked for a job for ‘Harley Davidson Magazine’ – Does this even exist? Did it ever exist? Who fucking knows. It definitely isn’t something I’ve found on Google. Anyway, young and full of enthusiasm I headed down to London to meet the photographer Sal* (name changed cos I don’t wanna die.) I walked into the studio which was on an industrial type-esque estate and was greeted by Sal, a big bald chap. He seemed friendly enough and I sat down to get my hair and make-up done. What unfolded was one of the strangest shoots I’ve ever experienced. First off the clothes he handed me- some random Marilyn Monroe type floaty dress. A corset. I think some leather was thrown in there. It was all just so fucking random and I remember thinking…. What the fuck does this have to do with Harley Davidson? I plodded through the shoot until we hit a stumbling block. “Have you ever experienced real sadness in your life?” ….. “I want you to cry and look really sad”….. “Think of someone close to you who has died”….. Erm. WTF. Yes, I’m sure all professional lad mag’ shoots want you to cry on camera about your deceased family member whilst wearing pleather and wishing you were the one who was dead. I think I realised quite quickly after the crying request that this was probably not a photoshoot for a magazine. Thank fuck I didn’t shoot topless at the time because things could have got really weird, really fast. The whole shoot just left me with a weird vibe and I was glad to get out of there. I told my agent that I wasn’t happy with how the shoot went and that I wouldn’t be shooting with Sal again. A few months later and without seeing any pictures from the shoot or publication of these images (there’s a surprise) my agent emails to inform me Sal wants to shoot with me again. Yeah I’m not doing that. I told her that after the last time I’d already made it pretty obvious that I didn’t have a burning desire to go and weep about my personal life with my tits half out to an old man again. Weird that. Skip to a few weeks later when I’m cruising down the coast of West Wales for the weekend when I get an angry message from my agent. “WHERE R U?” Erm just passed through that well known seaside town of Aberaeron, why? “UR SUPPOSED TO BE SHOOTING WITH SAL TODAY! I CONFIRMED IT” Oh my bad, because what part of “He makes me uncomfortable I’m not shooting with him again” did I not make clear? “Don’t put anything on twitter and I’m going to have to say you broke down on your way there” Or maybe just tell him I don’t want to shoot with him again cos he wanted me to shed tears. This news did not go down well with Sal. Sal was not happy. Sal tweeted about unprofessional models “breaking down” on the way to the shoot (Fair play Sal, I wouldn’t of believed it either). Sal then proceeded to tweet me asking when I was going to fix my teeth. Sal mad. Be less like Sal.

Trusting your agent. Ahhh this could be a theme. Perhaps the ultimate horror story of my life as a glamor model falls under this umbrella. A betrayal of trust I’ve never really discussed, or ever really confronted. But we’ll leave that one for the book, shall we?


Keep an eye out for the 3rd and final feature of The Model Diaries, aka The Crazy, coming to Jabber With Jess soon! In the mean time be sure to spend your lunch breaks trawling through the rest of my blog posts and let me know what you think!

The Model Diaries: The Good.

Welcome to The Model Diaries, a 3-Part feature exploring and exposing The Good, The Bad and The Bat Shit Crazy events and experiences of my life as a glamour model. Parental Warning: Expect nudity, alcohol, guns and lots of WTF moments.


I wanted to kick this series off with the good, because boy there sure was a lot of good. Being in the World of modelling and I guess on a wider scale, you could say the entertainment industry, was as electrifying and intoxicating as you could imagine. There was a sort of provactive appeal to the uncertainty of the career path ahead, which enticed you in with it’s “what if’s” and the “could be’s”. An appeal in which I imagine only the most fucked up optimistic of individuals would decide to enthral themselves within instead of arming themselves with the security of knowing you had a job to wake-up to in the morning. Nevertheless, the potential in which lay ahead was far too alluring for a vibrant young soul with a creative mind and a lust for life (yep that’s me). I left for University at 18 with no desire to become a sociologist, but a loose plan of crawling my way through my course with as little enthusiasm as possible whilst being closer to London- which equalled closer to my modelling dream. I never actually wanted to live in London mind, you can take the girl out to Wales n’ all that.

Nuts Mag Shoot, 2014 ish?

I could start reeling off good memories from day one of my first ever photoshoot, right up to the present days of weird-posing my way through a May Contain Girl (MCG) set with a slightly podgier belly and a-lot less flexible legs. I know my sullen-and-yet possibly over the top previous declaration that my modelling career is over whilst continuing to post new pics’ from shoots on social media has confused a few of you (no need to be so desperate for me to retire god damnit) but the truth is modelling is no longer a career for me, I.E: I don’t shoot enough to make a living off it, I.E.I.E: A bitch needs too eat. But I still shoot with MCG because I adore it. The team which is behind this website have been a part of so many of my most cherished and memorable moments throughout my career. I shot with these photographers on my second Nuts Magazine Shoot, one which brought about a kind of “I could really do this” realisation moment in my life. One which also brought about a certain Ms Fisher into my life. That’s right, Joey bloody Fisher. We met on set of said Nuts shoot, “Lucy Vixen’s Busty New Babes” one believes, and instantly hit it off. The moment of meeting in which many of you have asked about and are probably hoping was a lot more exciting than the reality really is went a little something like: “You’re from Wales? I’m from Wales!”, “Ahhh, you’re from Wales? I’m from Wales!” “Oh class”. And the rest, as they say, is history. Six-ish plus years on myself and the Fish are two-peas in a pod, floating around a pan of boiling hot water screaming “EVERYTHING IS FIIIIINE”. The Good in which I owe to my modelling career is most definitely a plethora of friendships.

Another “good” in which derives from these awesome photographers was my first shoot for FRONT mag’. Shot in the kitchen of what I can only describe as someone’s Nan’s 500-year old townhouse with possibly the filthiest oven I’ve ever seen, blossomed a coming-of-age shoot for myself, a creative style I had never been a part of before. Whilst still being relatively new to the industry, all my previous photo shoots had been of the typical glamour type. Big tits, Big Hair, Red Lips, Sexy lingerie. You get the picture. But this one was different. This one was fucking cool. The concept was me baking, which was ironic considering no one had probably used this kitchen in a fucking century. My props? Some fake cake mix, a mixing bowl, a spoon and some trays. My outfits? A pair of tiny denim shorts, a beanie hat and some knee-length socks. My make up? MINIMAL. Cue me asking the director if he was sure he didn’t want me to wear any more eyeliner. The typical glamour poses went out the window as I broke my back rolling around on the cracked tiled floor and smothered myself in cold flour mix. This was the my first taste of fake cake batter, my first real taste of the diversity and possibility which aroused in the layers of this industry, and where I first fell in love with the idea of creative direction as a job. This was also where I declared Piers Morgan as my most hated individual in the post-shoot interview (that’s right, I was in the I hate Piers Fan Club before it was cool) – which still stands to this day BTW.

FRONT Mag. Cake tits. Nips removed.

I couldn’t talk about good memories, friendships and diversity in this industry without mentioning the Hot Shots Calendar. I still vividly remember looking at the “pin-up girls” 2013 calendar images online and thinking I want to be one of those girls. The entire concept and production looked so sleek, never mind the rest of the package that came with it; They travelled to America, they got to shoot a load of guns, drink loads of beer and most importantly it was all to raise funds for an amazing cause, Help For Heroes. I don’t know if any of you believe in the Law Of Attraction but I truly believe I thought this opportunity into reality for myself. No one could tell me otherwise, my sights were set and I wanted to be a Hot Shots Girl. Whilst not knowing how the fuck I was going to make this happen, I had utter faith that it was going too. Cue their first ever open casting call for the 2015 Calendar. I had never had a successful casting before. I’d come close, had a couple call backs, but I knew I had to nail this one. I remember the day in London in a small plain white studio, there must have been at least another 30 girls there and it was safe to say I was shitting myself. Which is why when someone cracked open a crate of Corona I was more than happy to take up their offer and get some Dutch (or Mexican) courage in me. Well one beer turned to two, and two beers turned to three, and by the time my turn came around on said casting couch – ahem – with Daisy, Kelly and Rosie I can’t really remember what the fuck I was saying. We were given a crash course on how to hold a gun (unloaded of course) and soon after I slithered into a bikini to have a few pics taken, trying desperately hard for my beer goggles not to show. After the casting had finished a load of us carried on the erm, work? Elsewhere and had a few drinks at a pub. I think maybe a shisha bar was involved. But my alcohol riddled memory bemuses me. As you can tell, this casting went really well.

Not long after the casting my manager phoned to let me know I’d made the cut to the last few girls. This in between stage of waiting is kind of a blur to me but I remember the excitement and gut-wrenching nervous feeling of ‘What If I don’t get it’ rising in my stomach, but I tried to never lose faith, this was my gig. And on my 21st Birthday I got that call that I had been waiting for since I’d first seen those 1940’s inspired images sprawled across my computer screen; I’d made it, I was a Hot Shots Girl.

This adventure led to me travelling outside of Europe for the first time and visiting America; Salt Lake City of all places where the Mormons didn’t exactly welcome our British drinking culture and where they had some god damn awful rule that the server would not take your order for another drink until you’d finished the one in your hand. Little did they know this just encouraged us to get even more fucked up by downing the drinks we had as fast as they were given to us- Cut to us riding a Tuk-Tuk around the city flashing to the poor innocent passers-by #BritsAbroad. The photoshoot took place on an Army base, which caused quite the commotion over the pond when the News got wind that there were “babes in bikini’s” driving tanks on government property. *Insert footage of us waving from the top of a tank on CBS and ABC news*. Although the trip of a life time, it wasn’t all smooth sailing for me as the new girl. Honestly, I was way out of my depth. These girls were veterans when it came to the industry, I was merely trying to keep a-float. I wasn’t confident with what to do with any of the props and equipment. I was out of shape but refused to admit it. I wasn’t really that confident or comfortable in myself. I was supposed to be featured in two months of the calendar that year but got dropped out of the second shot, and the modelling aspect of the trip was basically done for me by Day 1, meaning I had to watch everyone else smash their scenes all week whilst experiencing the overwhelming yearning of wanting to be just like them. Although not all woe is me of course; My spirit soon picked up when I got the chance to shoot some guns for the first time (All supervised and at targets I must add- shooting at people and animals is not cool kids) including a machine gun…whilst wearing a bikini, health and safety this was not. After having a Fat Amy “I’VE JUST BEEN SHOT!” Moment when a scorching hot bullet casing flung behind me and landed down- yes down- the back of my bikini bottoms leaving a small burn scar which is still there to this day (tells a pretty badass story if I do say so myself), we ended our trip sitting round a huge campfire in the middle of nowhere, eating the juiciest beef brisket I’ve ever experienced, drinking case after case of Corona, toasting marshmallows on the open fire and basically winning at life.

Shooting the 2016 Hot Shots Calendar

I could write forever and a day about my experiences with Hot Shots. Going to Vegas for the first time and realising that- fuck Disney land– this is the most magical place on Earth. Visiting Tedworth House Recovery Centre and meeting veterans and the volunteer’s who do amazing work for Help For Heroes. Getting my first lap dance in a strip club whilst battling with the feminist in me whether this was okay or not. Puking up baked beans in my mouth on the take-off to Vegas after another heavy night of drinking, and being handed a can of beer to swallow it back down again. Dancing on tables in fancy restaurants. Running off on the 10-mile trek to the nearest toilets of the Venetian Hotel to be sick mid-calendar signing (can you see there’s a theme here?). The list is endless. Turning my vision into reality and going from dreaming of being in the calendar, to sorting my shit out and being on the front cover two years later, is the proudest achievement of my career and the time I spent as a Hot Shots Girl are memories in which I will cherish forever.

Images by Harris Nukem.

Another huge “good” career moment for me was working with the independents; the photographers you collaborate with just because you both admire and appreciate each other’s work and want to create something amazing. These images would always be shot as TFP (time-for-prints) or with the vision of selling them on afterwards. The best thing about these shoots is that there was never any pressure to follow a certain storyboard. You wouldn’t have to wear shit you didn’t want to wear, do poses you didn’t want to do, in a location you don’t want to be at. You were both here because you wanted to be, exploring vision’s you both want to deliver and with total freedom when it came to the creative direction and styling. Basically, its foundations pave the way for some pretty awesome fucking pictures. In fact, my most treasured images of myself from my 7-year stint as a model have come from collaborating with these immensely talented photographers, who’s work I still hugely admire and am a fan of to this day. Memorably Jordan Green, Matt Comer, Haris Nukem, Adam Flowers and more recently Sam Jordan-Richardson (who shot my 2019 calendar which you can purchase here BTW- you are welcome) I’m honestly so humbled that I’ve had the chance to collaborate with individuals who are such masters in their field. Seriously, take the time to check out their work, it’s incredible.

Image by Matt Comer

I could continue spawning tales of nipples and tipples for as long as it would take for me to muster up the courage to go to my spin class (FYI it takes a long ass time), but I must refrain from revealing too much all at once, or else you might never come back for part two. Plus, I really need to get my ass to this spin class (the Christmas diet has not been kind).


Keep an eye out for the 2nd Part Feature of The Model Diaries, aka The Bad coming to Jabber With Jess soon! Whilst you wait (on tenter hooks I’m sure), indulge yourself in some of my previous blog posts and let me know your thoughts!

The Model Diaries: Introduction (The Good, The Bad and the Batshit Crazy)

The Model Diaries: Introduction (The Good, The Bad and the Batshit Crazy)

Hello there! If you’re still here and reading this blog in the New Year then you must be bored thank you! As I delved into in my previous blog post (shameless plug but give it a read here) then you’ll know that 2018 was a heavy 12-months of many emotions for me, but finally starting this blog was a task I managed to cross off my shopping-list of life and provided me with an outlet to jabber (always on brand) on about the many things in which occupy my mind. And thank the LAWD above for not leaving my high and dry, over 18,000 of you have held my hand and joined this journey with me over the last four months since it’s launch date. You are awesome! With your generosity and support in mind, I wanted to give a little back to my #dayonefans who have stuck by me since my days as the new, slightly bewildered ZOO girl, to my current “weird phase” of being “pretty nuts” (still the best review of the blog out there); Here’s introducing my new 3-Part Feature “The Model Diaries”, where I’ll be exposing some of The Good, The Bad and The Batshit Crazy events and experiences I’ve encountered throughout my career as a Glamour model.

Not to say you’re all perverts or anything- ahem– but my most popular blog entry to date is on my Life As A Glamour Model, and after receiving a few requests on Instagram (feel free to let me know of any topics you think I should be chatting about on here!) for similar content I thought 2019 was high time I gave the people what they want: Stories about tits. I will be sharing some of my most memorable memories and mishaps as a model in the hope of providing you, and especially any specific glamour mag’ fans, an exclusive behind the scenes insight to the industry and lives of it’s stars.

Parental Warning: Expect nudity, alcohol, guns and a lot of WTF moments.

Keep an eye out for the First Part Feature, coming soon! ❤