Chapter 1

Imagine this: Your earliest memory is being in the kitchen, your mother is listening to Christina’s music while making delicious meatballs and spaghetti. The music makes both of you dance. The singer is a talented young breakout star, half Cuban, half white, petite frame with a dynamite voice. Blonde, ponytail and high heels, a fashionista.

Two decades later Christina is sitting across from you in a conference meeting. She’s become an icon and her career has shifted toward being a panelist on a network singing show. After her pregnancy, she’s attempting to make a comeback to the music scene along with launching a line of wellness products.

Am I starstruck? Yeah, absolutely. But as the youngest person in the room, it’s important to project an air of professionalism so I can be taken seriously. The conference table is filled with laptops, papers, and sample products. Christina is our first major celebrity so we’re treating this like a golden opportunity.

“Here’s what our mission statement should be,” she says. “Our product isn’t just pleasing, but healthy for the vagina. A woman’s vagina is our epicenter. It’s pleasure, it’s pain. It can give life. The vagina goes through a lot, so we need to make it feel good. It needs to be pampered and nurtured.”

We’re making vaginal lubrication, by the way, along with other products for intimate female care. Officially we’re a wellness brand. The fancy, high-end type, the kind that exudes sophistication at a reasonable price for the everyday woman.

For the final part of the meeting, someone opens a digital folder with vaginal pictures and shows it to Christina for approval. A conscious decision had been made to feature vaginas on the eventual website and promotionals. The amount of nudity shown is an ongoing question.

“Beautiful women, but it’s almost pornographic. Like they’re too perfect, you know? I have this vision for something with more… clitoris. A bit more labia.”

The comment catches the team by surprise because we’d gone through great lengths to procure this set of vaginas. We went to different models who pose naked for a living, which apparently is the opposite of what Christina wants.

My boss Gabby flashes a disarming smile.

“I’m sure we can find what you’re looking for. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

The singer looks around the room.

“How about you?” Christina says.

For some reason, the popstar is gesturing toward me. All eyes in the room look in my direction. My boss stares at me with inquisitive eyes, wondering why the popstar singled me out.

“You’ve been quiet. We might benefit from your input.”

“Well, actually I’m in charge of social media marketing, so I’ve been typing notes on…”

“You’re the target audience,” Christina says. “No offense, but I want broad appeal. Not just model types. Does that make sense?”

“It does. You want the product to cater to celebrities, career women, and regular everyday women who are just trying to get by. You can feel like a star without feeling pretentious. Celebrity-without-celebrity, in a sense.”

Christina’s eyes brighten. “Exactly. That’s exactly what I’m saying! So we can’t use porn quality pussies for marketing. It’s not inclusive enough. We need natural. From the moment you walked in this room, there was something that piqued my interest. You’re the main target for this product.”

“But beneath that veneer of a shy, intelligent employee, lurks something more complex, am I right? Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s the vibe I’m getting from you.”

I notice my boss shooting a death glare in my direction, that ‘Don’t you dare fuck this up,’ expression that she’s known to give people. Millions of dollars are on the line and losing Christina would be a disaster for us.

“Sexuality has always existed on a spectrum,” I say. “Embracing unique bodies and loving ourselves, rather than constantly striving for some unrealistic standard of beauty is super important. I love that you’re promoting a message of self-love.”

Do I believe any of that? I honestly don’t know, but it was the first thing that came to mind. It’s my way of matching Christina’s energy as I’ve been preparing for the eventual marketing campaign for next year’s release.

“That’s interesting,” she says. “I actually dig that.”

“Are you comfortable in front of a camera?”

“Sure, I’m on social media a lot.”

Christina nods. “Open to modeling the product? You exude a vibrant charm.”

And like that, I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.

“Bad ass. Can we get a sample? I want to finalize this right away.”

They say that when you have a near death experience, your life flashes before your eyes. I’m experiencing something similar. I tell myself it’s okay because my colleagues have probably seen the million swimsuit pictures I post on my Instagram page. They’ve already seen countless vaginas in preparation for this meeting.

I stand and undo my pants. My underwear is showing and I refuse to look at anyone except the pop star. For added clarity, I pull my underwear higher to reveal the shape of things. Christina nods, liking what she sees, but she wags her index finger up and down. Her hand gesture could be interpreted in different ways, but in this context, it’s clear what she wants.

Call it spur the moment. Call it being impulsive.

My boss, who’s sitting right next to Christina, gives me a curt nod that it’s the necessary move, so I pull my underwear down and enter a world of humiliation I never knew existed. Actually it feels liberating in an odd way, but humiliating nonetheless. I focus on Christina as my sex is exposed. It’s like we’ve formed a sexual kinship. Surely this binds us together in some cosmic way, right?

“That’s it!” she says. “You are the star of this product!”

I pull everything up quick — but not too quick, can’t let anyone know my weakness — and I smooth my pants to look normal again. I sit down as the meeting comes to an end, and like that, I’m the main model they’ll be using. It’s a twisted feeling to sit here after my most intimate area was exposed.

The meeting concludes and my boss goes to Christina and offers a handshake. Everyone also shakes her hand and starts to leave. There are small glances in my direction, people wanting to see how embarrassed I am, but the only thing I can do is feign bravery.

When everyone makes their exit, Gabby lingers by the door to wait for me, then she brings her lips to my ear.

“You are a fucking rockstar,” she whispers.

I whisper back, “Thank you.”

What I’m really thinking is, ‘You are a fucking cunt for putting me in that position and I should sue this company into bankruptcy,’ but why am I so aroused? I have a hard time walking to lunch because of what’s going on between my legs. I’ve never done anything close to this, I’m not an exhibitionist, so where does this leave me?

A renowned photographer is setting up cameras and lighting in the studio. Stylists — hair and makeup — are going to and from Christina’s dressing room. It’s a big deal because Christina had decided that celebrating motherhood should be an integral part of marketing. She wants to show that motherhood can still mean sexy and having a successful career.

I’m sitting alone in my dressing room wearing a long white robe and a small tshirt underneath. Nothing else. The last few weeks have been stomach churning, more so than the time my friends took me skydiving. The only saving grace is that the general public won’t know these pictures are me. I’ll be anonymous, just a specific body part for people to admire.

The downside is the photoshoot itself. My only experiences with professional photographers are school photos and attending weddings. I’ve never been the star of the show. Nude? Never. Not even former partners have nude pics of me. The other problem, of course, is my reputation at work. They know it’s me in these photos. My private parts will be on their computer screens. Eyes will always be leering at me.

For my troubles, I’ll get favoritism at work and a generous pay increase for keeping Christina happy. Protection from layoffs goes a long way in this economy.

Worth it? You tell me.

An assistant comes and gets my attention.

“You’re needed in the studio now,” she says. “Christina goes first, then you.”

I step into the slippers they provided and follow the assistant to the main studio. I’m struck by how dark it is with the main lights off. The photography area is lit by neon blue and purple lights, like something from the last Blade Runner movie.

Christina is surrounded by a team of stylists and she comes barefoot wearing only a thin robe. Her hair is dyed platinum and her skin looks bronzed. There’s confidence in her body language, a fierceness in her eyes. She’s done provocative shoots in her career, but this is her post-pregnancy body and she’s got something to prove.

She drops her robe and the assistant takes it away. She’s fully nude and her body is slathered in oil. Her oiled skin shimmers under the neon lights. Including myself, there are 8 people in the room and she has the confidence of a goddess to be standing like that. I thought it would be a situation where her nipples and private parts would be strategically covered, but I was wrong.

Her figure is closer to her younger days, compared to her slight weight gain in the last decade, followed by her recent pregnancy. Curves are a natural part of aging and they looked great on her, but she chose to push herself with a trainer and personal chef. I’ve never seen her full topless before, she’s never released those kinds of shots in her career, except for the occasional flash of nipple. From what I can see, she has larger breasts that kind of sag, the kind filled with milk.

It’s a bizarre thing seeing a woman you admire in the bare. It’s entering a forbidden zone. Like I was never meant to see this. Christina walks to the center of the set; the interplay of darkness and neon looks surreal on her oiled body. Everyone is relaxed about this except for me. They’ve all seen this before, I’m the only person new to this world.

The photographer snaps pictures, the neon lights change color, casting a different glow on her body. She strikes different poses. The photographer gives suggestions here and there, but for the most part Christina knows what to do. This is her show after all. In some pictures there’s a closeup of her face, others her hips and legs, others with her hands covering her boobs, or even holding them. Lots of emphasis on her breasts and hips. The zone of motherhood. How it’s changed her body. Her nipples harden.