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Valerie Masters On Being A Super Model: If you’re one of the lucky ones, you’ll not only become internationally recognized and admired, but you’ll live it up in style, travel the world and make lots of fond memories………. New York, 1994
Madonna once said in song, “Some boys come and some boys go, and that’s alright with me. Experience has made me rich and now they’re after me.” This concept applied to me, with an exception. At twenty four, I was the picture of spoiled youth.
My father had amassed a fortune in the hotel business, the Seasons, and my mother was his charity-donating, First Lady-like, impeccably mannered and well-cultured trophy wife. Me, I was the single daughter of both these two who were straight out of the Rockefeller family.
We lived in various homes but I distinctly remember growing up in Manhattan, New York City and here, in the fabulous iconic city I began my career as a model. My folks wanted me to become an actress but even some actresses begin as models and I had to get my face out there.
So that’s what they made me do. My face was photographed and seen, appearing in ads for Dior, Chanel, Victoria’s Secrets and bikini ads. I was even in calendars. I took it in like a fine wine and naturally got drunk off of it. I loved every moment of it. Any celebrity who says at the top of their lungs in convincing tone that they hate the paparazzi and being constantly photographed and followed is a liar. They love it. I know because I loved it. They would hate it if no one paid any attention to them and treated them like the average Joe. So there I was, a young and rich American princess, visiting New York again after having moved to California when my mother divorced my dad. I was to do a series of unique and interesting sessions with an eccentric, little-known but very wealthy photographer with an artistic bent. His name was Ron Ash, a San Francisco native. He had come to New York with his artist wife to absorb the rich variety that was budding in the early 90’s and draw inspiration for their art.
I had no interest in doing something like this because it would not further my career but theirs. A classic yellow taxi took me to their apartment in the Upper West Side. It was an old but stylish apartment building with tainted windows and balconies, surrounded and shaded by dozens of trees that lined the street. I looked around and saw that no one was walking about which I found odd for two in the afternoon.
“Thank you,” I said to the Arabic male driver and paid him. A chill nipped the air. It was autumn and leaves of gold, carmine, orange and mud-brown spread over the streets and even on top of parked cars like so much confetti. I took a deep breath, brushed a strand of dyed blonde hair to the side of my face and walked up to the door. An elderly man, gray-haired, well-dressed and dour, opened the door as if he had been expecting me. This gave me the creeps because it was as if he had been spying on me from a window the moment I arrived by taxi.
He eyed me up and down with a look of hauteur and did not seem impressed by my little black dress and sunglasses, something I had bought from Beverly Hills. Truth be told, I felt he thought I was a hooker. I smiled faintly and said to him:
“I’m Valerie Masters, I’m here to see Mr. Ron Ash and his wife Linda.”
” Wait one moment, miss” he said in a sullen British voice. So the guy was obviously the butler which was out-of-place. I knew no one in the Upper West Side that had one. Ron and Ash must have either brought him along from San Francisco or he worked as their butler every time they were in New York and lived in this apartment. Whatever it was, it was so strange and it was the first time I had ever seen a butler. Not even my own family had a butler. I had been cared for by a first-rate nanny who also did the “butler” stuff. I stood there waiting, the breeze in my face and hair, for approximately five minutes which felt like an eternity. God, how big was the place on the inside? What was keeping them? Finally, they emerged, the two of them. They took me by surprise. I had imagined them to be as young as me or possibly in their thirties, but Ron and Linda were clearly much older. They were oddly beautiful together and had the air of a famous couple, to be more specific, a lot like Paul and Linda McCartney. They were both wearing dull, dark colors. He was in a tight black shirt and tight dark jeans and she was in a long mahogany dress made of some light, gossamer fabric. They grinned at me and Linda offered me her hand.
“Come inside or the wind will blow you away,” said Linda with a giggle.
I didn’t much like her comment on my thinness. They took me down a hall, neatly furnished with tall potted plants on both sides. The floor was shiny and parquet-like and it was as if I was not entering an apartment but a hotel. They guided me to a living room, or at least I thought it was, where thee were dozens of sofas, chairs and love seats. A record player was in view and two shelves, high and stacked against the wall, crammed with bursa escort LP’s. I could see their taste in music from the labels and titles on the records: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Doors, Jimmy Hendrix and Simon and Garfunkel. I didn’t want them to see me looking at their decor, so I cast my eyes down demurely and took a seat. They sat next to one another and held hands, still grinning at me. What was that grin? They looked mischievous and as if they knew my deepest darkest secrets.
“Like the place?” Ron said, his eyes all over me.
I knew that look. Boy did I ever know that look. It was the look guys gave me when they saw me dancing in clubs or working out a gym. A look of lust. Linda, strangely enough, did not seem to mind and was even staring at me in quite the same way. I looked around, for now they had silently given me permission to do so. My eyes fell instantly on a collection of photographs and sculptures. The figurines were evidently of their making. They were nudes, poised in sexual positions of every kind – man on top, woman on top, etc – and also in yoga positions. Very peculiar. The photographs were in color and framed but looked old. It was Ron and Linda in their younger days, their long, luxurious hair streaked in sunlight, daisies in Linda’s hair, beads around Ron’s neck and both wearing the signature threadbare clothes of 1960’s hippies. They had been hippies! And judging from their eclectic tastes and the peaceful but adventurous vibe in their home, they were still hippies – at least at heart, hippies that had aged and had become wealthy.
“You have a lovely place,” I said.
Everything I said was so formal and tactful, having been raised to speak that way. Ron and Linda could see right through me. They laughed quietly with one another and Linda brushed a finger on her long blonde hair. She got up from her seat.
“Would you like a drink? We have everything from pink lemonade to a variety of alcoholic drinks.”
“No thank you.”
“Well don’t be so timid. If you need anything, you have to let us know or Forbes. Forbes is our butler. You are going to stay in the guest room upstairs. Forbes will show you the way. In the meantime, tell me, how’s your father?”
“He …he divorced my mother. My mother had an affair and I’m living with her and her lover. He’s a Texas oil tycoon. I hate him.”
“I’m so sorry to hear all that, Valerie,” Linda said with real sympathy, “but such is life. But how are you? You look good. Hell, you look hot. You are in every magazine. You’re fast becoming a top American model.”
“It’s been fun,” I said to her, ” and the pay is good but I…I’m still finding myself. I want to be an actress.”
“It took years for Ron and I to discover ourselves but your various experiences make you who you are and you eventually become who you are. Money does help and you certainly have that, now all you need is the right guides.”
Forbes, the stern-looking butler approached and told me to follow him to my room.
* * * * * I stayed with Ron and Linda for what I believe was a month. The first week was a lot of fun. We went everywhere. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, naturally, was the first excursion. Ron and Linda were real art connoisseurs and they discussed and deconstructed various works of art, and practically served as museum guides for me. Then we went to eat a light meal at a pretty sidewalk cafe. The evenings saw us frequenting artsy films in theaters that were out of the way in the city and dance clubs that were pretty tame. Or so I thought. It was in one of these clubs where I met an unforgettable woman. Rather, a woman who would cause something to happen that would change me.
But before I get into that, I have to explain the build-up, the rising slope of pure erotic adventure. If you hear from your friends and co-workers and from sleazy tabloids or late night talk shows that I’m a promiscuous, sex-crazed bimbette, don’t believe them. Never in my life have I sought erotic encounters. They just fell on my lap, I just happened to be there, it was all very natural and had nothing to do with a calculated move by my part. So here’s how it was. A week passed, I had seen all of New York City’s most touristy, brochure-loved sites – Central Park, Brooklyn Bridge, the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. All with good reason. Ron, with his equipment, and Linda with hers, took photos, made sketches and illustrations, all which would later become part of their art. They were all pictures of me – clothed in simple, but chic clothes, my own California couture, in front of all the New York City landmarks. Passing crowds thought I was a star, and many already recognized me from magazines and from the two soap operas I had done since the age of eighteen. All that went by pretty fast, and it’s now a blur in my memory. The finished product was lovely and served a double purpose – it promoted me and Ron and Linda’s art.
One night, Linda was ill and indisposed to attend a party in honor of her recently published coffee table book bursa escort bayan of artwork but Ron went – with me. I had not wanted to go, but even Linda insisted I go, for most of the art in the book was of me. So Ron played the gallant escort and, arm in arm, dressed in formal evening wear, we went into the grand ballroom of the Hilton hotel. I didn’t like that it was my family’s rival hotel. The Hiltons were “classless and self-promoting” to quote my mother. I had no personal vendetta against them and felt indifferent but being in a Hilton hotel room made me uncomfortable. Sure enough a group of photographers, doubtless yellow journalists, saw me and began to follow Ron and me. I lost track of them after Ron was himself surrounded by admirers, all asking about Linda and wanting autographs.
Then the greedy buzzards swooped in. The suspicious looking photographers began to take photos of me, some even boldly tugging at my carnation pink loose, flowing “Aphrodite” gown- one I had designed myself. One of the straps fell off and one of my breasts was exposed, causing everyone to shout and holler, making all kinds of noises. And the flash from cameras followed.
“Oh, Ron, get me out of here, please,” I begged him in a desperate whisper.
“Fuck, you poor thing,” he said, his vehement words surprising me.
He grabbed me firmly by the arm and we ran out of the ballroom, cutting through crowds. Outside it had begun to rain. Ron hailed a taxi and we discreetly managed to get away. I was repressing tears. I felt shame and stressed out by what had happened. Before long, I knew that a picture of me, with one exposed breast, in the middle of a crowded and classy ballroom would appear in all those smutty magazines that specialize in celebrity scandals. Everyone would think I had done it on purpose and think that I was a slut, if they didn’t already think so. I was a chaos of emotion on the inside. Rage, too, filled my blood. To think how the Hiltons would laugh, too, laugh and say “I knew she was a slut.” It was even possible the accident with my wardrobe in that hotel would further promote them. Ron knew I was in distress and he saw me shivering in the cold the rain had brought. He wrapped me up in an overcoat.
“Thank you I said.”
The taxi was swift and before long we had crossed to a distant part of the city and in the darkness and falling rain, I could not recognize the location. I coughed all of a sudden.
“You look like hell,” Ron said with a slight laugh.
” Jesus, it was awful. Damn paparazzi, damn them straight to hell.”
“It’s going to get worse, babe. Listen, I know what’s going to calm you down. It’s going to calm me down as well. It’ll do us both good. We need to escape, and relax.”
Now, let’s face it. I know the overture to sex when I hear it. But he was so handsome, really, for an older man. To this date, I have no idea why being so young and so hot I was drawn to mostly older, experienced men. And even some women. Ron Ash was a striking man. Maybe he was not especially hot, but he was not unattractive either. He had dark hair with streaks of gray, what some would call salt and pepper hair, a hair that was almost curly, a full head of hair that although no longer hippie-long, was still rich and full. His body was considerably sturdier than in his youth. He had a great chest, hot ass, good legs and a somewhat Semitic or European face. He looked a lot like rock star Lou Reed. At least face-wise. He had a rock thing going on, and of course the artist/photographer occupation made him desirable. He had, along with his wife, made me even more beautiful in their artwork. To top everything off, he had saved me, saved me like a knight in shining armor on a dark night in New York, taken me away from the shame of what happened in that hotel ballroom.
“Where are we going?” I asked him, “home to Linda?”
“No,” he said and his voice had developed a deep, lusty tone, “just some place.”
I was adventurous, really. When some girls would be shaking in their heels at the sound of those words, I was very excited. Did I know it was going to turn out to be something sexual? Yes. But what was about to happen was something I did not see coming, as far as sex goes. “But….what about Linda?”
“What my wife doesn’t know won’t hurt her. She knows I’m an artist and a sexual person. She has herself attempted to be a swinger along with me. But it didn’t work out and it excited me more than it excited her. She doesn’t know that I’ve been seeing another woman.” “Oh.”
“I’m a sexual person, Valerie. I couldn’t stay long without ….and my wife, as sweet and sexy as she is…it’s….not enough.”
I thought about my mother. She had surprised me by taking a lover and then divorcing dad. She had been such a conservative, 1950’s Donna Reed type mom that such a thing blew my mind. But after that, nothing sexual and human ever surprised me. Ron was an amorous man and clearly sought to experience a wide variety of sexual encounters. Was I to be his next? It never occurred to me that all the escort bursa while, in the back of the taxi, he never looked at me. His mind was somewhere else, even his gaze was directed by the window. It was the first time a man had ignored me when I was sitting right next to him, so close that our thighs touched. But perhaps this cool and indifferent attitude was all part of his game. I really didn’t know.
The taxi stopped in front of a club I recall having danced in with Linda. Ron paid the taxi driver and out we went, hurriedly scuttling across the street so as not to get too wet from the rain. The club’s name I don’t even remember now. It was really no big thing. A small brick building with a neon sign and hardly any people in it. The people there were all young, ethnic and the few whites that were in there were evidently their friends or even dates. A black man and a Latino, muscular and stern-looking, served as bouncers. They took one look at me and recognizing me allowed us in right away.
A black girl in a skimpy dress served us drinks. The music was blaring and not to my taste. It was MC Hammer or perhaps some other rap artist or rhythm and blues. I looked around. Everyone was under twenty five. They were smoking and a cloud of smoke filled part of the large room. The dancing was not tame this time. They were bumping and grinding and sensually moving their bodies in a flowing rhythm with the ethnic music.
“I don’t think we fit in here quite well,” I said to him, in a giggle.
“Nah. I like this place. They know me in here, even if they think I’m a lousy white dancer,” Ron said in self-deprecating words and a laugh.
He sipped his alcohol and now, finally was staring at me. An electric wave of sex surged through his look, and it made my stomach quiver with the anticipation of a familiar kind. What was it? It was only a year ago when I felt it. It was in Cancun, a hotel, a man. Fernando.
Ron’s lascivious eyes undressed me, moving from my breasts to my feet. He began to dance slowly, enticing me to the floor. I complied and we were both dancing slowly, nothing as lusty and lively as the other dancers, but no one seemed to notice. No one seemed to notice that we were in formal wear either. As we danced, my anxiety and stress slipped away, drowning in the red light that pulsated with the music, disappearing into the darkness. I now felt better. I felt more like myself. I could have been in Cancun again from the way I was dancing with a smile. Ron’s eyes turned from me for a moment. He was staring at a woman that was approaching us. I looked over his shoulder.
She was a bronze-skinned woman, of Spanish blood, with dark hair and breasts that were clearly bigger than mine and probably implants. Her body was to die for. She had curves, a nice pair of legs and cocoa eyes that were naughty eyes. She walked up to Ron and they kissed. I wanted to look away.
“This is Alma,” Ron said.
So this was the woman he was sleeping with, the woman Linda didn’t know about. I figured from the decidedly provocative manner in which she was dressed, and from the air about her, that she was probably from a working-class area of New York City, perhaps the Bronx, perhaps Queens or Brooklyn, and clearly a woman who was nothing like Linda. Linda was sweet, soulful, sexy but this woman was sexuality personified. She could have been Rita Moreno as the firebrand Anita straight from Westside Story.
“Hello,” she said, but she did not look at me.
Ron and Alma danced together for the length of one song, one that was of particular interest to Alma and I was forced to dance with a stranger, a Puerto Rican whose name I didn’t even know. The music ended and Ron gestured with his hand, enticing me to him. If he wanted to dance between two girls, I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure. I had no idea he was going to take me here so that I had to watch him with his lover. It was not to my liking. If you’ve heard from blabbing reporters or other blabbers that I’m jealous and demand complete attention from a man, that is true.
“Hey, girl,” Alma said, rudely, “didn’t you hear Ron? Get over here.”
I walked over to them, none too pleased.
” I don’t care to dance anymore,” I told Ron.
“We’re not going to dance, we’re heading out of here. Alma wants to go home and we’re taking her there. We’ll have some more drinks there.”
Oh, he had to be kidding me. Did he expect me to be part of a threesome with him and the Latina mistress? No way. But how was I going to get out of this? All things considered, there was no way out. Where would I go? Back to Linda, who was quite some distance away in Manhattan? I’d have to get a cab or walk and at this time of night it was not wise to do. Someone would recognize me when I arrived in Manhattan, irregardless of the hour, too. I was stuck. Some people find themselves lost in a foreign city, some people are lost in a forest while hiking but me, I was lost in a different way. No longer really innocent, no longer really helpless, I was stuck in an adult situation. Perhaps there was a way out and being young and dumb, didn’t know of it. I was a hotel heiress in a messy pickle. To top it off, I was a little drunk. And there was more. I sensed something, some strange drug, had been slipped into my drink.
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