Beauty Pass Sluts

My first week here has been a bit aimless. I've wandered through the fashionable Plaka neighborhood with one of my roommates from the model apartment. She's a slightly disheveled but remarkably low-maintenance Siberian with hooded green cat-eyes and platinum blonde hair. She washes her off-white clothing in a blue plastic tub and dons the same vintage Givenchy windbreaker and hole-ridden pleather skirt day in and day out without acquiring any discernible odors. Unlike her, I need to shower two or three times a day to evade the scent of the Turd World. She aspires to be a deejay, and our shared enthusiasm for gabber music, coupled with my previous experience with college radio, has brought us closer. I reveled in the Athenian streets teeming with tourists near the Acropolis, all in early March. It left me wondering about the surfeit of tourists at this time of year.

We share the same bunk bed in our threadbare apartment. I'm perched on the top bunk, she occupies the bottom. It's in a safe part of town, reasonably clean, but devoid of amenities. There's no washer or dryer; instead, I hand-wash my clothes and hang them on a balcony rack. This monastic cell is my writing sanctuary, but once I step onto the lively streets of Athens, writing becomes a distant dream. Bringing my stela along is out of the question; "New Greeks" could snatch it in a heartbeat.

My Dutch roommate is amiable but introverted. Dutch models are conscientious, often cooking at home and maintaining a neat living space. They boast a healthy body image and a sense of stability. Their English fluency surpasses that of most native speakers. They're erudite, level-headed, and not inclined to wild parties. Many juggle modeling with university studies, seeing it as a side gig. This is in contrast to the Brazilians I've roomed with, who either retain their Latin appetites or resort to extreme measures, like vomiting, in pursuit of escaping poverty, exchanging one form of destitution in the favelas for a more glamorous one.

In contrast, Russian models grapple with visa issues beyond their control, making it challenging to secure contracts with European and American agencies. Designers and brands steer clear due to political and financial complications. Despite these obstacles, Russian models work diligently. They enjoy smoking and drinking and maintain a pragmatic, no-nonsense disposition, flavored with culturally-appropriate gallows humor.

The struggles of these Brazilian, Russian, and Ukrainian girls are evident as they scrape by, weighed down by debts to their agencies. These debts, often written off by the agencies, are compounded by a meager weekly allowance, a mere fifty dollars or euros, barely sufficient for daily needs. The harsh reality is that models receive their earnings at least three months later, with a substantial chunk, ranging from twenty to seventy percent, withheld for local taxes, exorbitant rent, and expenses. Agencies, functioning as both landlords and creditors, profit from this system, while the rest amounts to very little.

As a result, you'll often find these girls enduring uncomfortable encounters with promoters at clubs they despise, alongside men they'd rather avoid, all for the promise of free food and subsidized travel.

And, if they play their cards right, they might secure a marriage into wealth.

On a different note, I've been neglecting my usual kosher diet, indulging in extravagant dining experiences abroad. From a Twin Peaks-inspired speakeasy to a Japanese-Greek fusion tapas spot that served an unforgettable pork katsu sandwich, lamb liver skewers, and sake. Whenever I model outside of my domestic market, I give in to forbidden foods. At home, I maintain a strictly glatt kosher kitchen, but overseas, the culinary temptations prove irresistible. This is compounded by the mediocrity of Toronto's food scene, offering a variety of cuisines but lacking exceptional culinary experiences.

Thoughts of X have been ever-present. While I longed to see him in Athens, a part of me hoped he wouldn't actually make the trip. Realistically, the chances of us meeting in Athens, or anywhere else for that matter, are quite slim. Our last encounter took place in Copenhagen, when I was signing separation papers with my husband, during a period of genuine separation. It was before I moved back in with him, as we couldn't proceed with the divorce until after a year of separation.

I'm struggling to finish this letter. Failing to conclude it would be yet another testament to my shortcomings, and these ceaseless thoughts are like a vice around my mind. First and foremost, I'm distracted by the lackluster nature of my current letter exchange with X. My messages brim with raw emotion, sent sporadically in intense bursts of longing and desire. In stark contrast, X's replies are clinical, devoid of emotion, and arrive in lethargic blocks, sometimes taking days, weeks, or even an entire month to reach me. I, however, respond promptly, within two days at most.

Each time a letter from him lands in my mailbox, or I venture into the labyrinth of his cryptic palimpsest, it becomes a veritable Talmudic exercise. I'm left deciphering his responses, reading between the lines, and peering into the depths of his emotional fortifications.

Our communication is further muddied by our decision to block each other's telegraph cipher, shielding our conversations from prying ears and curious eyes. Although he instigated the block, I've attempted to unblock his cipher multiple times in a desperate bid to hear his voice. Yet, the calls never connect, leaving me to question whether my voice is unbearable or if the act of talking to me is in itself a taxing emotional ordeal.

He claims he wants to see me, but his feelings waver between his comfort with the woman back home and the notion of eloping with me. According to him, my desire for a more serious relationship erects a formidable barrier, a hurdle that exists due to his inability to offer the entirety of himself. He suggests that my desires reveal ambivalence on my part, driven by the sheer magnitude of the stakes. Yet, this rationale strikes me as utterly absurd.

I have to admit it’s difficult. Sometimes my limerence subsides for X because of his weak soft boy shtick and his desire for safety and stability. However, my desire for him grows because he becomes even more inaccessible. I feel so dumb and foolish, like an absolutely boy crazy schoolgirl with no grounding whatsoever.

It feels like high school all over again, unrequited love from every man imaginable, including my own father. Is that how you felt when I rebuffed your advances, my dearest former friend, A? Is this how men always feel when a woman they adore rejects them? Or do men merely languish in silence like I am because they’re just expected to?

I am in so much pain. I knew my passion for him was more ardent than any feelings he may or may not have for me. I could feel it in my gut, and it put me in a position of severe emotional distress. I don’t think anyone can comprehend how much pain I’m in nor do I expect them to. I told him not to bother coming to Athens unless it's for a decent chunk of time- at least a week- and to certainly not come to Athens if he was going to be cagey. I don’t say this because I’m some sort of princess but because my heart can’t take that, and I don’t want to be a mere flesh-light even though I am exceptionally horny. The stakes are higher now. When I first met X, I signed separation papers and my husband assumed as such. Now, I am under the husband’s roof, and he thinks that while we have our bumps and hurdles to overcome, that all will ultimately be fine.

I’m disgusted by my own womanly cowardice, the sort of womanly cowardice where a lady’s security is paramount and she’s keen to monkey branch from one suitor to the next. I have unfortunately craved security since I was very young. As spontaneous and fun as I can and always will be, I don't really want the vast expanse of boundless freedom. I want X to claim me.

Indeed, I project my own self-hatred onto X's fragility. Both of us struggle with it. Men, it seems, are often plagued by a distinct form of cowardice, marked by emotional detachment and adept compartmentalization. They use it to stow away emotional turmoil and focus on immediate tasks. While it serves them well in building civilizations, women like me find it paralyzing.

Our predicament, I believe, is twofold. First, no woman has compelled X to commit fully to a lasting union, replete with children and a quiet home. The kind of domesticity he might find stifling. Second, he desires to trade his bohemian lifestyle for something less defined—though he and his current partner, a term I detest, appear ill-equipped for that journey.

Moreover, it's possible X faced enticing propositions, like a nineteen-year-old when he was thirty-one, but the effort to secure such unions likely felt insurmountable. In the past, creative pursuits provided him with a shield, and it seems he's employing a similar excuse under his present circumstances. This understanding comes from a place of self-awareness, knowing my own complexity, yet unwavering in the sincerity of my feelings for X.

This is an exhausting predicament. My love for X is overwhelming. He insists his attraction wasn't solely physical, but I believe it mostly was. While I might not be the most beautiful or intelligent woman, standardized tests in sterile settings have dubbed me quite smart, even though I never feel it. I don't have much to show for it, and my personality is far from ideal. X claims I possess an unusual sense of humor, yet I don't see myself as exceptionally funny because, after all, I'm a woman. Women aren't expected to be humorous. Being the funniest woman in the room feels like being the smartest person with Downs' Syndrome—far from a remarkable feat. I often consider myself the epitome of foolishness.

I'm living a damned lie. This letter, I scribble furtively, hidden from the prying eyes of my distant husband, who waits for me thousands of miles away. Tears stain my words as I realize I may not finish this confession. My life is an elaborate self-deception, a game I play.

I tell myself it doesn't matter if Athens yields no work. It's just a working holiday, I repeat, emphasizing the "holiday" part. What does it matter if I visit the Acropolis for a mere hour or the Cycladic and Archaeological museums for just a tad longer? I fill my hollow heart with spa days, fine dinners, and primping, as I assure myself it's fine to dive into debt. I'm fine with the Wave Exchange jobs, even if it's the least sexy work out there. My agents should find me work, based on the agency's past reputation. Even if my portfolio lacks lingerie test shoots, it doesn't matter. No one has faith in me, anyway.

I betray him. Marriage, a consolation prize, means nothing to me. Safety is dull, just like seatbelts. I love the reckless thrill of drunk driving. It's a Faustian act, seductive in its danger.

I don't care about safety, nor what happens to me. With no children of my own, I’ll just send you this letter and then, perhaps, die. But I also want to publish this letter under a nom de guerre. I want it to wreak havoc, to stir the loins of men, to infuriate, to be sued for libel, and to become a leper. And then, and only then, may I finally have the courage to take my own life. I frequently expose my skin and reveal my entire body, yet I am seldom nude, let alone naked. I am only nude on paper.

But you must know that I'd have gone to the ends of the Earth for X. Even if a piranha gnawed off half his face, making him an incontinent paraplegic with a pirate hook for a hand. I'd have crossed seven seas for him. It's unlike me, for usually, I'm the sort to waffle and keep it safe. But not in this case. X, with his bizarre dreams, Al Khidr visions, and tantalizing propositions, made me believe something changed. Yet, I know he saw me as an occasional continental mistress. He used me for his ego boost, all while I bared my true feelings.

In this maelstrom of delusion, deception, and dreams, I'm left to unravel. What is the industry's elusive preference? I wish I knew, for if I did, I'd have done it already. I'm sure of one thing; I'd have thrived in the eighties or nineties. My mother agent's first words to me, "This is not your era," haunt me. I'm at best a fatter cross between Mica Arganaraz and Imaan Hammam, maybe after a few drinks.

I just know that I'll never heed my dreams again. My dreams, those deceitful phantoms, much like manipulative machine elves, lead me astray.

I was, and still am, prepared to lay my life at X's feet. I would traverse any path he desires. Even through Athens as a clotheshorse, a twenty-seven year old clotheshorse. I'm not so naive. The industry has undergone a seismic shift. Late twenties and early thirties, they flourish, should their visage and form remain. It's not exclusive to the waifs of fourteen to eighteen. But, alas, my look finds no lasting niche. I am but a failure.

This industry, as I've conveyed to you, is irreversibly flawed, irreparably broken.

I never anticipated this trajectory fresh from university. A thwarted mannequin, a desolate housewife.

Toronto, oh Toronto, I abhor the thought of entrapment in your clutches.

I employ every stratagem to escape your grasp.

Modeling, a respite from mature reckoning, a transient escape. It is merely a working sojourn. Yet, I can but postpone the weighty verdict.

My husband's longing intensifies, his patience wanes. He waits for my return, for our union, cloaked in the sacred rites of chuppah and shattered glass, attended by kin. He longs for my presence, at our hearth with our grizzled hounds, and my culinary artistry. He wishes for my pursuit of steadfast, substantial wage labor. A plan emerges for our progeny, like all prudent Millennial aspirants, poised for the C-Suite mantle, a vacancy left by retiring Boomers. Foreign soil beckons, two fleeting years as expatriates, then perhaps the perceived sanctuary of Canada. Yet not Toronto, for even he spurns that metropolis. The Maritimes or Victoria, perhaps. There, the specter of food scarcity and climatic calamities recedes.

Healthcare, he contends, finds its place in the frozen expanse. A fallacy, I retort, for the fare is wanting, climate change's eschatology false, and healthcare's promise unfounded.

His dreams unfurl visions of three or more progeny, yet in truth, he would concede to one or perhaps two, teetering on the brink of Malthusian prudence.

Safe, ensconced in the lap of upper-middle-class luxury, a cocoon of creature comforts. A pauper's mentality eschewed, yet a patrician's ostentation resisted. For remember, progeny are a consummate indulgence, cast aside as labor's yoke wanes.

He wants to cradle me in the nocturnal hush, my coarse unruly ringlets brushing against his face, his manhood nestled pressed against my spine, like a Glock, resolute. He prefers to enshroud me in love, to suffocate me in tenderness. He longs for the return of my former self.

My appearance remains unappreciated. I hold a vague understanding of the market's collective inclinations and the unique predilections of individual markets, yet this terrain remains cloaked in uncertainty, shrouded in obscurity and ambiguity. It transcends mere beauty; it's a domain governed by markets—tangible, social, and financial. My aspirations lie in securing commercial clients, specializing in lingerie and swimwear. Agents and bookers insist, "You're a perfect fit," yet they withhold support inexplicably. Instead, I'm relegated to the less alluring realm of wave exchange work, with no lingerie test shoots in my portfolio. Confidence in my potential is conspicuously absent, and the industry persists in its drive to de-eroticize and depersonalize, even for those seemingly established. It seeks to sever women's ties to their material and incorporeal reality, rendering them sexless, rootless, and amorphous. I once believed my unique appearance was the conduit for advertisers' desires, a quintessential representation of global homogeneity due to my ethnic ambiguity.

Beauty takes a back seat; the paramount concern is appeasing the global consumer.

Securing lingerie work today is a challenge as it has ceased to be provocative; some argue it borders on criminal. The quest is no longer to discover a beautiful brown girl from the Bahia favela but to locate an obese, freckled, redheaded mulatta, or perhaps a bald amputee with vitiligo. Lingerie must steer clear of exquisite craftsmanship and artful design, as these qualities undermine profit margins and desire.

The intent is to avoid igniting the passions of men.

The modeling industry now prefers trannies, especially those who attain the Buffalo Bill ideal of closely mimicking attractive real women, adopting womanhood as an uncanny skin-suit. Prior to the ascendance of robots and artificial intelligence in modeling, gender goblins and eunuchs will suffice. Before long, these deviations will supplant us, the so-called “authentic women” who are scarcely women but essentially homosexual men – because everyone is functionally a homosexual man in this political economy – with tits and self-cleaning holes. What more does a man want than a man with tits? Models are simply ahead of the general population in experiencing this phenomenon. Natural female attributes are undervalued. Instead, runway aspirants are encouraged to invest in a modified orifice and skin grafts from cadavers, employ fillers for reconstruction, reshape their jawlines and foreheads, and permanently transform their God-given anatomy with experimental hormones.

Becoming a simulated woman is the ultimate ideal, for models must not possess hips capable of bearing children. Attaining the likeness of Carla Bruni represents the zenith of achievement. In my mother agent’s roster, the standout model is a tranny imitating the appearance of Bella Hadid, who in turn imitates the iconic Carla Bruni, a feat achieved through an ungodly amount of plastic surgeries.

My mother agent couldn't care less about me; I'm not a moneymaker like some of the trannies or alien mystery meat she handles. I get it; it's a business, but still, I'm not skinny enough or fat enough or hot enough or weird-looking enough, it seems. My face is too editorial but not editorial enough, and my body is decidedly commercial.

To top it off, my tits are too big.

Sometimes, I wish I could just lop off my tits and magnetically attach them whenever necessary, depending on the occasion.

Perhaps I'd place my tits on the shelf when I go to most castings and put them back on when I go out for dinner.

Photogenically, I don't measure up. My aura, some say, is too intense, too brooding, too verbose, perhaps. Yet she's meant to be my agent, working on my behalf. But even the basic tasks, like forwarding some photos or asking for my address, seem like an ordeal. I know I'm not special, but is it too much to ask for basic information like where I'll be staying for a month or what my options are, or even when I'll get paid? The most perplexing part is my supposed status in Paris, as I was sent requests from my alleged former Parisian agency last week, a reputable one at that, for a L'Oreal hair campaign. I was led to believe that this agency had dropped me in both New York and Paris, given their merger with another New York agency due to Plague related austerity cuts. I was explicitly told I wasn't signed in New York or Paris, so why am I getting option requests from Paris? Am I signed in Paris or not? And why are the answers so elusive? I should have had a response a week ago.

Here I am, in Athens, rushing from casting to casting, from test shoot to test shoot. The March work is sparse, and opportunities in Athens are generally limited. The more exciting gigs come in May or June, but by then, I'll be back in the cage. Athens serves as an ancillary market, where models come to build their portfolios, securing marvelous magazine editorials and lookbook shoots that would be unattainable in primary markets like London, New York, or Paris. Greek photographers abound and are known for their skills and congeniality, coaxing models to open up and experiment more during shoots. However, when it comes to paid work, it's slim pickings. Occasional swimwear campaigns may offer handsome pay, but wave exchange jobs here don't match the rates in German or London markets. Low rates persist because the Balkans are relatively impoverished. Thankfully, Athens rates aren't as abysmal as those in Istanbul, which would be the final confirmation of my decline if I end up there. If I'm lucky, my mother agent might not even consider sending me to Istanbul after my unequivocal failure in Athens.

So what do I do here in my spare time? I walk everywhere. Whenever I am in an Old World city, I walk even when the metro is convenient and available. I only take the metro if I’m pressed for time. I don’t take urban walkability for granted. Genuine walkability. I’m not referring to the top down bureaucratically imposed walkability from our elites who are obsessed with climate change and the evil of car exhaust and cow farts and the importance of hemmed in "fifteen minute cities." Athens is a strange place. I actually admire its imperfection. I enjoy walking around this city. Many people despise the graffiti. The graffiti artists aren’t as talented here as they are in Berlin, they say. People claim that the graffiti in Berlin is artsy fartsy and aesthetically cohesive but I would say the same of the graffiti in Athens. It’s appropriate. It fits. The entelechy of the "West" is that of perpetual decline, and Athens reflects that.

So do the occasional women in burqas and lecherous Paki pickpockets and junkies shooting up in Omonia.

One night, I saw a man stab the shaft of his penis with heroin in Omonia en route to dinner with a girlfriend.

He was surrounded by twenty lit large citronella pillar candles as he executed this needly business.

Oh, and who could forget the whistling gypsy creep wearing an ill-fitting ringworm-lined Mickey Mouse costume circling Monastiraki Square?

And who could forget the gypsies with self-inflicted burns and poached pale pikey minors, gypsies begging in fetal position near Monastiraki station?

How did those dark gypsies steal blonde children? And who could forget the strikes in Syntagma Square?

I swear these Greeks put the French to shame when it comes to striking. They’re always striking. It’s close to election season now, and the energy is at a fever pitch because an old guy killed sixty people in a train derailment.

He had no merit whatsoever for the job.

However, there is also a throbbing undercurrent of vitality in this city. The people are hearty and the food is fresh, certainly better than the dining in my neck of the woods. I roam the streets and subsist off of iced cappuccinos and one big meal a day, one large meal that snakes through my serpentine body. The sunsets are Neapolitan watercolor gradients. I never take the sunlight for granted.

Toronto, a city perpetually shrouded in gray, where sunlight is a rarity, and the drabness never relents. It's not the most elegant city; its public transit, while decent by North American standards, leaves much to be desired with only two subway lines and unreliable buses. Yet, even in a place with fewer crackheads and tweakers than New York or San Francisco, the societal ills seem to be marching in that same grim direction.

In my mind, Toronto is a sprawling metropolis choked by plastic and fiberglass, constantly drenched by relentless rain. It's an ugly cityscape of gray block tenements, obliterating any charming bay and gable homes and craftsman bungalows. I envision the gutters, smeared with furbaby waste, a term that aptly describes Toronto, where everyone has a pet because they can't afford to raise children. Labor is imported from the Turd World, and the city's grittiness is reflected in the streets, strewn with muzzle debris and stools coated in lint. It's a city of microplastics and ceaseless construction, its "patio" dining spaces offering little respite, resembling more of a riffraff concrete al fresco cafeteria than a charming Parisian bistro.

The bike lanes, unlike those in Copenhagen or Amsterdam, do little to ease commuting; instead, they transform cyclists into a nuisance. Parking is a fantasy, a luxury that few can afford in this city where nothing comes easy. It's a place where the exchange rate of the Canadian dollar feels like a cruel joke, especially when compared to the euro, the British pound, or the American dollar. The cold, the gray, and the rain leave me unsettled and chilled to the bone.

It's a city where my fingers turn blue, and even the simple task of picking up dog waste feels like a struggle.

If your only purpose in life is working to enrich some faggot and then chasing dogs to catch their shit with little baggies, then that is some of the most degrading nonsense imaginable.

I huddle by my space heater, my aging dogs by my side, as the city weathers its own decline.

I accept the notion that I am a failure who never completes anything of consequence. I rationalize the fact that I waste my life living as a Wave Courtesan, signaling distress by saying somewhat witty yet incendiary things. I'm a leech-like entity with no real value, no real career, no real purpose.

It doesn't matter if I run out of "things to do."

Instead of immersing myself in meaningful work or pursuing any consequential tasks, like composing this letter or actively participating in photo shoots, I aimlessly wander. My constant companion is a taciturn girl I met at a casting, representing another agency. She hails from Leipzig but is now based in Milan. With her editorial and chameleonic appearance, her face serves as a blank canvas. We share a unique bond, where I can confide in her without reservation, and she listens.

Occasionally, I engage in leisurely walks and enjoy brunch with my introverted and level-headed Dutch roommate, an aspiring photographer. At the same time, there's the aspiring Russian deejay, previously mentioned, who occupies the bottom bunk bed. Recently, I even ventured out for coffee with another German girl from the neighboring model apartment. She's an aspiring visual artist working on her thesis about Hannah Höch, a commendable choice, and generally, a pleasant person. However, she does let slip some misinformed comments about subjects like black queer glitch feminism, occasionally hinting at an excessive level of socialization. Suppressing an eye roll becomes a test of self-control.

But during our conversations, we did find common ground when we both acknowledged that life experienced primarily through stellae can often feel void of genuine connection. At least, that was one point we could agree upon. However, she went on to make perplexing claims about the Ahrimanic Lattice and the singularity being a form of patriarchy. In my view, they signify the decline of men as dominant figures and, ultimately, the erosion of humanity as a whole. They transcend human control.

The overarching telos of technomagic seems to be the eventual elimination of its creators. One might argue that the majority of developers, coders, and architects behind these technological marvels are men.

Nonetheless, I digress with these specifics. I just find it challenging to muster respect for anyone actively pursuing a Master of Fine Arts degree.

My preference leans more towards individuals with informal education. Nevertheless, I've encountered models who provide pleasant company. However, it's doubtful I'll cross paths with these girls again, unless I venture to work in Seoul, Berlin, Milan, or Tokyo.

The scope of conversation among models often feels limited. Firstly, navigating potential sensitivities can be challenging. Secondly, the fleeting nature of our work often leads us to revisit the same concerns during discussions. We're preoccupied with our performance at castings, striving to impress casting directors, maintaining and updating our portfolios, securing clients for consistent work, and modifying our appearance to gain an edge in the competitive world of modeling. We also question our relationship with agents and bookers, seeking answers without appearing overly assertive.

We frequently assess our options, whether we'll secure work, when we'll commence working, and when we will receive our hard-earned payment.

Additionally, there are questions about our financial obligations to the agency.

Lastly, we engage in conversations about who is thriving in the industry and who isn't, often contemplating agency or market changes to improve our prospects.

This forms the core of our daily discussions.

We often dive into these discussions while savoring complimentary food and beverages. Our meals are either generously hosted by promoters or facilitated through gadget repositories for models. Yes, indeed, such gadget repositories designed for models do exist – think Neon Coat, Into, Beauty Pass, and Model Village. Membership on these repositories requires agency affiliation. Though our culinary indulgence is modest, it's often on the house. Furthermore, we effortlessly secure access to complimentary boutique gym classes, nail appointments, haircuts, facials, spa sessions, and occasionally clothing. The only prerequisites are to prove your attendance and reservation for the free service or product, mention of the gym, spa, restaurant, or boutique through your homuncular astral projection, and ensure you look presentable in the mention. That's all there is to it. Tipping is also a good practice, sometimes obligatory, and that's the extent of it. Each city offers unique perks; Paris and New York provide an array of boutique gym classes, and New York offers an abundance of complimentary meals. Surprisingly, Paris lacks this particular perk, requiring familiarity with quality promoters to access free food. In Greece, work may be scarce, but the offering of full meals and multiple drinks is generous.

Thus, we find ourselves in upscale restaurants in Kifissia, savoring well-presented, sumptuous cuisine, often prompting strange glances from servers who recognize us as Beauty Pass Sluts.

"Why must we provide free meals for these girls?" they might mull. "I'd rather serve tables of generous old rich people who leave substantial tips," they could think.

We indulge in the sort of dining experience one might associate with a balding Emirati oil baron entertaining the girls he intends to shower with luxury and piss.

Fortunately, we don't end up in such situations due to the blessings of these gadget repositories. While one might assume we revel in such lavish feasts, we're more likely to be found complaining about various issues. Our grievances include the lack of job opportunities in Greece, our concerns about being signed with the wrong agency – one that maintains its prestigious reputation but is poorly managed, with the owner rarely involved, leaving the agency to operate on autopilot while the bookers seem disinterested. We lament the rival agency's ability to secure the best deals with prime commercial clients, along with their models working consistently. We're frustrated with our irritable bookers who take offense at reasonable questions, my profile not showing up on the "In Town" page of the palimpsest, and the complexities of long-distance relationships. We also fret about the uncertainty surrounding our future, our next work destination, and the financial obligations we owe to our respective agencies. The prospect of starvation, were it not for the free food and dating the right individuals or having the right parents and support networks, is a constant concern.

There's nothing more disheartening than being a Beauty Pass Slut who isn't genuinely working. It makes us feel like impostors. While free meals and sightseeing are delightful, our primary goal here is to work, just like every other model. Sharing these meals and spa visits in our stories leaves us feeling empty.

It's not exactly prostitution, but it still triggers a sense of selling ourselves.

Of being perceived as frivolous eaters.

As Beauty Pass Sluts.

My dearest former friend, A, you view these posts on my story, managing both of the astral projections you operate. I can't help but wonder about your reaction. Is it disdain, disgust, unease, or perhaps a fear of missing out?

Do you consider my well-being in the same way I contemplate yours?

We haven't exchanged amicable words in months, almost nearing a year. I'm uncertain why you choose to follow my stories if you regard me negatively. I, too, occasionally glimpse at your stories.

I noticed that your beloved dog recently passed away.

I offer my deepest condolences for your loss; I know how much you cared for her. It was touching to witness such warmth from you toward your dog, who curiously resembled both you and your wife. I remember your dog, despite never having met you, your dog, or your wife in person.

Dogs are peculiar creatures in that regard. I also share an uncanny resemblance with my dogs, the unfortunate dogs I am currently separated from in Athens – thousands of kilometers apart. The guilt persistently gnaws at my soul.

Dogs tend to resemble their owners because they are like children in many ways. However, as endearing as they are, they're not children; they're dogs.

We may bury our dogs, but ideally, it's our children who should outlive us. The saddest aspect of people who only have pets is that they pour love and devotion into creatures they ultimately have to watch pass away, even though that's the way it should be. We are meant to be our pets' entire world, their guardian angels.

What's even more unfortunate than witnessing our pets' deaths is observing an entire generation of individuals invest all the love they could have bestowed on future offspring into pets that will be laid to rest before human necrosis.

My dearest former friend A, I grieve the loss of your beloved dog, whom you cherished deeply, and I hope you become a parent soon. Although I may never have envisioned you as the father of my children, I wish for you and your wife to have at least one child. I'm certain you'd rise to the occasion. Your child would be unique, especially if you were to have a son. He would be an intriguing Judeo-Hapa Mischling, one of the latest American racial breeds. Well, perhaps your future son wouldn't exactly embody the Confucian aspect, as your wife is Burmese, not Han Chinese, which likely places her in the Bamar ethnic group and adheres to Theravada Buddhism.

Nevertheless, I digress from my initial point, which is that Jewish men tend to be drawn to Asian pussy, leading to the creation of a new American racial group. It's almost like unlocking a new race in a game of Warhammer. This amalgamation of Talmudic-Confucian neuroses, possibly influenced by Buddhism and Shintoism, as well as obsessive compulsions, will undoubtedly be fascinating to observe. If you do have a son, he may likely stand at five foot seven, and he could face challenges in life unless he attains wealth and an abundance of poon.

An intriguing being, and knowing you, you might even give him an unusual name, such as Axel. Axel may encounter some bullying, but he'll need all the support he can get. Perhaps he'll become a short king.

He might even turn out to be a twink.