Glamour Model

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 doing‘s 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

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! ❤

Life as a Glamour Model: Accepting your career is over.

Accepting your career is over is something you never want to have to face, not this early on in life anyway. All the long lusted ideals of what your life will be like, the high hopes that you’ve hung your dreams upon and the promised land in which you never got to travel disappear from your eyesight. It’s over. I am no longer a model.

It’s a tough pill to swallow. Especially when you are still so in love with your craft. Of course, everyone knows that there is a time limit to this career path, no one stays young forever they say. But the problem is, I still am. Whilst a lot of things in my life felt uncertain, my career was not one of them. I knew exactly what job I wanted, and I was as determined as anyone could be for success. I fell in love with modelling, fuck I fell hard. I loved every single moment of it. From the 5am Megabus’ to London and the castings in office cupboards, to the dodgy locations (yes FRONT mag) and even dodgier styling. The good always outweighed the bad when it came to this profession, always. I knew I was never the prettiest, the tallest, the skinniest, but I was adamant that I could make up for this through my boldness and fortitude in my love affair for this role. I faced off time and time again with rejection, yet each battle played a collective part in my story, building up a beautifully tragic puzzle of euphoric dreams and delusion.

Being booked for a photoshoot was my Apollo 11. I was being paid to live out my childhood fantasy. I could never quite believe my luck. Each job was a journey, navigating at different stops. The first station would be hair and make-up, boy I loved this one. I would carefully soak in the craftsmanship, absorbing as much detail as I could on how to create the perfect smokey-eye. Each time without fail my eyes would water, their glazing blue-ness too sensitive for all the poking and prodding. I would sit there apologising, all red-eyed and irritated, clenching my fists praying that the tears wouldn’t fall and ruin the masterpiece which had adorned my face. The next stop was wardrobe, which usually consisted of various items of clothing spread out on the floor. “I hope I get that one” I’d think, waiting patiently for my look to be pieced together. I very rarely got “that one”, but I didn’t mind. I observed the stylist’s moves, their precision and eye for detail. Pinning and tucking, clipping and steaming. They minded every tag and seam with such an air of responsibility. The last stop put me in front of the camera. The holy grail. This is what it all came down too, this is what it was all for. Stepping on set always set off a wave of imbalance within me, a convulsion of hysteria and a dreaded feeling of don’t fuck it up. It was always in the back of my mind that this one shoot, this one job, could get me noticed and lead to my big break. That was both utterly terrifying and wholly spine-tingling. The photographer embeds their knowledge within you; chin up, back curved, towards the light, mouth a tad open. Their ability to execute an image in their mind to a living, breathing artwork in front of them is a demonstration of pure excellence. Anyone can pick up a camera, but only these select few are artists. Stepping off-set I would feel excited and drained. What if the pictures aren’t good enough. But as always, the good outweighed the bad, and I would leave the shoot feeling as if my dopamine levels had burst out of my brain. I want to feel this happy at work forever. I wish I hadn’t taken those days for granted.

Your life begins to build up around this path you’ve chosen. Your best friends become girls that you model with. Your travelling buddies become the make-up artists and stylists. Your agent becomes your second mother. Your drinking companions become the photographers. You meet up outside of work just because you want too. These people know all your secrets and your stories, your desires and your ambitions. You’ve shared life-changing experiences and travelled the World alongside them. You’ve created this whole family dynamic around you, and then one day, it’s just sort of, gone.

No one really warns you when your World is about to come crashing down. It doesn’t all happen at once. Much like a cliff repeatedly battered by the ocean, it silently erodes away piece by piece until one day you look up and nothing is there. This final stage of rejection is not one that I can accept so freely. I never fell out of love with modelling, but it fell out of love with me. The glamour industry evaporated and the other sector’s turned their back. You don’t fit the bill anymore, your job does not exist. I wish I had done more. I wish I had put myself out there more instead of spending so long feeling shy and uncertain of who I was. I wish I had spoken up and shared with my colleagues how much I really loved this job, this role as their fellow companion. The one thing left behind from my modelling days are my social media followers. But unfortunately this means I have to face trolling and negative comments about my looks, whilst no longer reaping any of the benefits that come with the job. I imagine it to be much like the career of a sportsman, through injury or old age (if you can call it that!) their time abruptly stops and they’re thrown back into the deep-end to try and forge a new path. Except when you’re a model, your passage has become blocked. Companies and brands don’t want to work with ex-glamour girls, and you’re once again running against the wind, trying to catch a break.

I’ve built up a plethora of knowledge through my experiences in this industry. I can, and have executed entire projects for brands from on-set shoot management, sourcing and casting, to client liaison, styling and production (you can check out some of my work here btw). But gaging respect from others as an ex-model is still something I struggle to find. The support network does not exist whilst the judgement unfortunately does. Life sometimes feels like an uphill battle and facing that your career is over as a 25 year-old, whilst feeling like you have so much left to give, is a hard wound to heal. I wrote this blog whilst tearing up, this really was my world. To many this may seem a bit silly, but starting from the bottom when you were so close to the top is a scary thing to face. I hope that I can be the exception and break away from the mould that us ex-models are forced into and forge a career behind the camera. But until then, I’ll continue to blog about my experiences through a new series I’ll be featuring called ‘THE MODEL DIARIES.’ Keep an eye out!

WE’VE GOT TO STOP CALLING EACH OTHER SLUTS AND WHORES. Or do we?

Feminist Icon Amber Rose popped off on Instagram last month, calling out the double-standard that she faces from brands who seem to endorse and take influence from her “slutwalk” movement, whilst refusing to acknowledge or book her due to her past life as a stripper. Amber also called out her ex Kanye West and rapper Lil Peep for their recent song “I love it”. Quoting the lyrics, Amber said on Instagram “Two men made a song that said ‘you’re such a fucking hoe I love it’ but if I refer to myself as a hoe, take back any derogatory label and turn it into a positive or be confident in my sexuality in anyway mufuckas need 30 showers“. The “30 showers” comment is a direct reference from when Ye’, whilst trying – and failing – to big his current wife Kim Kardashian up in an interview, shared that “It’s very hard for a woman to want to be with someone that’s with Amber Rose… I had to take 30 showers before I got with Kim”. As if 30 showers could solve all of Kanye’s problems. Ambers insta “rant” (is it really a rant if you’re pointing out the obvious?) isn’t just reflective of her own personal experiences, but of the double standard women face in the media and society everyday. As Ye’ and Lil Peep’s song about getting their junk’ seen too hit the Top 3 of the UK charts, this contradictory standard which exists between men and women as sexual beings, or more importantly as the owner of their sexuality, had me thinking back to my uni’ dissertation where I explored a similar topic of gender inequality and if it is ever possible for women to objectify themselves, and take back control of their sexuality.

A protester at the Amber Rose “Slut Walk”

“I love it” isn’t ground breaking in its lyrics (soz Kanye). Rappers have been singing about fuckin’ “ho’s” since before Lil bo Peep was born. But why do we, as women, lap up this plain disrespect? Females being referred to as sluts and whores by men in the music industry has become such blasé practice that by-day we post Instagram quotes about being strong-willed independent women and, as the clock strikes 9pm we’re twerking to lyrics about giving Flo-Rida’s whistle a seeing to and 60 year-old Snoop dogg wanting to fuck us. Every other rap or hip-hop song mentions bonking and bitches’, but it’s the outfits and dance moves of female rappers’ that are being called out for indecency and being ‘trashy’. When women, such as Nicki Minaj and Cardi B sing so brazenly about enjoying sex just like their Male counterparts, they’re labelled as “slutty” and bad role models for young girls. Yet no one is out here throwing down derogatory sexual terms about male entertainers, we all just accept it as the norm. That and their five baby mamma’s. So Why do women get slut-shamed?

This hypocrisy amongst genders and sexuality isn’t limited to the music industry. The term “slag” is one of which I became a victim of very early on in my life. I distinctly remember being 11-years old and in Secondary school, yet to have my first kiss, but being harassed on msn and followed around the corridors by older girls calling me a slag. This word continued to follow me around my whole school life. It was commented below pictures of me on Bebo and I was harassed at school. You’re a slag because my boyfriend of two days nudged you on msn. Alright Hun. Why aren’t you calling your boyfriend a slag too? My sex life, or lack of it, became such an interest of topic to total strangers at such an early age that these phrases of “slag, slut and whore” lost all value to me by the time I was 16. This is probably one of the reasons why people’s judgement of me as a topless model meant so little to me. I know that they hold no value to me as a person. We’re all aware of the typical view, where men are praised for their bedpost accomplishments whilst promiscuous women are frowned upon. If my friends patted me on the back and gave me a hi-five in the pub for being a top shagger, every man within a 50mile radius would instantly strike me down as “not wifey material”. But why does a women’s sex life affect how she’s judged as a person, more than a guys does? And I don’t want to hear the ‘loose’ excuse boys. A vagina does not lose shape any more after 100 penises, than it would after the same penis, 100 times. *EYEROLL TO THE LACK OF BASIC HUMAN BIOLOGY*

It’s not just our fellow peers who are not-so-silently judging our sex lives. Did you know that female ejaculation is banned from porn in the UK? Yep that’s right. Women getting it off has been banned by the British Board Of Film Classification under the “extreme” acts category. Other female strong-hold acts to be banned for being too hardcore and offensive include many typical dominatrix scenes including face-sitting and spanking, along with anything involving menstrual blood. Are you uncomfortable yet? Imagine being a fly on the wall when a group of old dudes came together to decide that seeing a woman orgasm is offensive. Something you haven’t seen before boys? Of course, the main uproar in all of this is that Male ejaculation is still perfectly legal and acceptable. OF COURSE IT FUCKING IS. Tracy Clark-Flory at Salon described the significance of visible male ejaculation and the possible reasons for its god-like status as standard viewing in porn: basically, it is an expression of male dominance. Anything other than your Male cum shot is a fetish, abnormal so to speak, and that includes the female orgasm.

Throw in the double-standard of Lads Mags being banned for their sexual nature whilst Women’s Lifestyle mags include a “Torso Of The Week” feature and I think you get where I’m going with this. For centuries women have been viewed as nothing more than sexual objects, existing thru the male gaze for a man’s pleasure with the aim to reproduce. But somewhere along the line some bad-ass women decided that hey, women are sexy and we enjoy sex too. So what if we are all sluts? Is that really such a bad thing? It doesn’t seem to be for guys. Tina Fey aka Ms Norbury once stated “…you all have got to stop calling each other sluts and whores. It just makes it ok for guys to call you sluts and whores.“ And she’s right, sorta. Except we as women have no responsibility for how men behave. It’s not our fault that guys call us these names. But what we do need to do is say au revoir to the shaming segment of “slut-shaming”. We need to banish the negative value we give to such phrases when we put those labels on each other and instead claim them as our own as proud sexual beings so that men, and women, can’t use them to hurt and de-value us. Amber Rose’s slut-walk movement holds a lot more power than she is being given credit for. It’s representing women re-claiming their sexuality from a typical patriarchal society and encouraging females to enjoy sex again, without any shame. More Pussy Power to it, I say.

Tits up: The Rise (and Fall) of How I became a Glamour model.

Surprisingly, I hadn’t always wanted to be a Glamour model. For a good chunk of my childhood I wanted to be a pop star. God I loved singing. Problem was, I’m bloody awful. I could do a whole blog post on the embarrassing mishaps my cursed voice has brought upon me. Getting laughed off stage at my 10th birthday party when I attempted an Sclub 7 classic on the Karaoke. Being ordered to mime in the school choir. And my personal favourite, being told by my teacher at 9 years old that “If I was a good friend”, I would let my best mate (who could actually sing) duet with someone else at the Eisteddfod. HEARTBREAKING. Anyway, it soon became apparent after constantly (honestly, could people not just lie to protect my feelings?) being told that I couldn’t sing, that I needed to find another way to “make it”.

Then it came to me. I was going to be a model. God bless my teenage confidence, I don’t know where it came from, I didn’t exactly look like Cindy Crawford at 13 years old. But I was pretty damn certain I could do it. I was scouted” at the Clothes Show in Birmingham for one of those Teen Queen competitions when I was about 14. I was seriously excited at the time, but it soon turned out to be one of those happenings where you pay £500 for the photos (chrz Dad) to then be told “you didn’t get through this time”. But nonetheless, having my first real photoshoot only stimulated my desire to be a model even more. THIS WAS MY PATH. There was only three things standing in my way. My height (obvious). And these two huge things that had grown on my chest (even more obvious).

One of the self-timer images I sent off to agencies

I applied to agency after agency, and even took part in some beauty pageants (come through Miss Wales Finalist 2010), but I kept getting the same response:

“You should try Glamour modelling”.

They all enthusiastically pushed my eager, just-turned 18years old self towards the world of Glamour. And I wasn’t mad about it. I loved Jordan in her Peter Andre, braided hair days. Maybe they were right, maybe this was my calling. I sent a few amateur pictures off that I’d taken on self-timer to a Glamour model agency in London, and after getting a call back I dragged my friend down on the train and I met who was soon to become my agent. The wheels were finally rolling.

Serving up beauty queen realness at a Teen Pageant

My first real breakthrough in Glamour modelling came a few weeks later when I was on the train from Cardiff to London for a casting with Nuts magazine. I hadn’t even reached London yet when my agent called “Nuts want to shoot you today!” What! I couldn’t believe it. “They’re not going to bother casting you, they want to shoot you right now for their Next Top Model feature. There’s going to be a car waiting for you at the station to take you to the location. Have fun!”. Fuck. This was it. It’s happening! I’d never had a driver pick me up before. I don’t even think they have those kind of services in West Wales. I was so excited. I had a boyfriend at the time. He was less excited. In fact, he was fuming. He thought I’d lied and that I knew I had a shoot all along. I hadn’t of course, but I didn’t even care, I’d wanted to be a model for so long and it was finally coming true.

I spotted the driver in Paddington station holding up a sign with my name on it- (SO cool) – and he drove me to a huge townhouse in London. “We’re here, Miss!”. Erm, yeah thank you. Did I have to pay this guy? I couldn’t afford too. I just shuffled off quickly and hoped he didn’t follow. I remember what seemed to be a hidden garage doorway opening, and being greeted by a few guys who worked for Nuts. “Come in! We’re just having pizza.” I will never forget the site that I was met with that day when I walked in- all bushy tailed and bright-eyed. There in the kitchen were three, maybe four, beautiful models eating pizza in just a thong. This was every teen boys fantasy. I COULD SEE NIPPLES. I don’t think I’d ever seen another woman’s nipples. I didn’t know where to look. Am I supposed to make eye contact? God, keep cool Jess. It was like being the new kid at school, but luckily everyone was so friendly and welcoming. I barely said a word. I think there was a mutter of how I’d come all the way from Wales. Welsh girls very rarely leave the valleys you see. I was sent straight upstairs into hair and make-up. I’d never had my make-up done before. I felt like Béyonce. This world was so new to me. It was all so g l a m o r o u s. The house was spread across three floors and everything was painted white. How very minimalistic. These Londoners knew how to decorate. The photographer was a woman, phew, that eased my nerves a bit. I was decked out by the stylist (honestly, it just gets fancier) in black lingerie- suspenders n’ all, and thrust, quite literally, into the spotlight.

A shot from my first Nuts magazine shoot

God, I loved it. I felt so sexy, so confident, so beautiful. That feeling that comes over you when you’ve had your hair and make-up done, outfits chosen for you and been pampered and primped to an inch of your life whilst being told how great you look by a whole team of people is indescribable.

At that moment, you really believe your hype, and it shows through the lens. I guess that’s how they get great pictures. But then all of a sudden the hype came crashing down. “Okay, can you take the bra off now please?” What? Fuck. I hadn’t agreed to go topless. I hadn’t really discussed anything, it was such a whirlwind morning of excitement that I hadn’t even asked what the shoot would entail. Naive as it may have been, I was only eighteen and new to this whole world and didn’t know what to expect. I’d told my agent when I first signed with the agency that I wasn’t going to do topless, and I naively assumed that they would have relayed this slightly important detail onto the client.

“Um, erm, I, um don’t do topless sorry” I mumbled. Awkward silence. I continued to tell them how I couldn’t do topless as I was scheduled to take part in another beauty pageant in a couple months, and they had banned anyone who had posed nude or topless. Power to all females, right? *eyeroll*. The team let me take a break to call my agent who assured me that this was a huge opportunity for me, that they’d booked me without even seeing me, that I should just do it. But I stood my ground- Rule #1.

I learnt very early on that if you were going to survive in this industry, you needed to be strong and assertive when it came to marking out your line of what you will and won’t do. I think this is where some girls went wrong and ended up having bad experiences. I know of a few who were too shy or embarrassed to say that they were uncomfortable doing a certain shot or pose on set, and then would contact the photographer or client afterwards asking them not to use those shots of them. This would piss the client off because they’ve just wasted their time getting pictures they can’t use, and have to sift through thousands of shots picking out the ones you don’t approve. It was much easier, however awkward it may feel at the time (and it really does feel awkward standing their practically naked trying to explain yourself to a group of strangers), for you to just to say “Sorry, I’m not comfortable doing that” and then you could all move on and find a different solution together. This is what me and the team at Nuts did. We met at a compromise of implied topless, so bra off, nipples covered. This reluctancy to show everything right away actually proved to be a positive and became my main selling point in the industry, leading to me being offered lucrative deals from mags for my “first big reveal”.

I have to point out that the level of mutual respect between everyone on set, not just of this particular shoot, but every professional lads mag shoot I’ve worked on, was unquestionable. This is one of the reasons why I think the loss of Nuts and Zoo is such a shame and a danger to aspiring models who don’t have that support network or safety net around them. I still shoot with this same female photographer six years on, which is testament enough to how comfortable and respected I felt on that day.

So that’s it. I was now a fully fledged Glamour model. I was so pleased with how my images came out, although there was one issue. The main pull quote on the article read “GETTING MY CLOTHES OFF IS NOTHING NEW TO ME” WHAT. I hadn’t said that. This is where I learnt Rule #2 of the Glamour modelling world. Never say anything in your post-shoot interview that could be twisted into something suggestive. What I’d actually said was that I had done a swimwear round in a pageant before, but of course that wasn’t juicy enough for the male readers. From that day on my interviews were as boring as I could make them. I remember Zoo mag once asking me what I wore to bed. “Pyjamas”, “Well what kind of pyjamas?, “Fluffy ones”. I wasn’t giving anything away.

After a couple of shoots and losing out on one of Zoo mags’ new girl contracts because I wouldn’t go topless, I soon realised if I wanted to try and make a career in this industry, that I would have to free the nipples. By now my relationship had fell apart and I was being promised big bucks and opportunities if I would just throw caution to the wind and bare all. Everything came to a head when an uncensored aka nipples out image of me in a pink mesh swimsuit was published in a Nuts Summer Special Issue. I had been promised by my agent that my nipples would be photoshopped out- and I again, naively assumed this would happen. I remember seeing the image circulate online and I cried for hours. What have I done. But my family and friends were hugely supportive. To this day it’s actually my mums favourite picture of me (she’s not a regular mom, she’s a cool mom). So instead of wallowing in my own titty-pity party, I decided to take control and own my title as a topless model. I signed an exclusive retainer contract with Zoo magazine for my “big reveal” and claimed it as a big F U to any comments or judgements that I’d been on the other end of.

Obviously it wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies, the professionalism and fond memories I talk about are directly in reference to the main lad mags that I shot with. Outside of that, I’ve had some dodgy experiences, bad advice and done things that I regret. But I’ll delve into that another time.

Of course, the big bucks never came and all the amazing opportunities I’d been promised never materialised. Truth is, I started my journey at a time when the industry had already started to decline. Protests had began against Page 3 and a new-wave of feminists began speaking out about how Glamour models were bad role models for women. I was angry. They were wrong. This wasn’t my industry, my peers, my employers that they were describing. I could think of nothing that encapsulated feminism less than telling me what I can and couldn’t do, how I should and shouldn’t feel. These individuals were taking away our dreams because how they thought we felt, instead of actually engaging in conversation and celebrating our sexuality alongside us.

Attending a Nuts’ Magazine Birthday Party

Fast forward six years from where it all began, and all the lad mags have died. Big Brothers been cancelled. Donald Trump is President. Boris Johnson fucked us over. Toblerone’s have bigger gaps. Oh, and we’re now living through a movement where women are being encouraged to be more open, embrace and own their sexuality, and to free the nipple. I’m all for it, anyone that follows me will know that. However, I wish it wasn’t such a selective celebration of womanhood; but a unity of women supporting women in finding empowerment through which ever form they see fit. Whether that is in the pages of a glossy magazine, or at a political protest.