I Was An Adult Model — A Photographer Sexually Assaulted Me

My old modeling portfolio is filled with adult magazine pages. In one, I’m posed in a garter belt and towering heels on a 20-year-old magazine cover. In the pages of that issue, I’m a naughty librarian with a bun. My tight skirt is on the floor, and my blouse is unbuttoned. I pose with my legs spread, and I touch myself. I’m smiling, looking at the camera. In the last shot, I’m on all fours, holding a black stiletto with my tongue extended toward the heel.

I’m a cowgirl in another magazine. The sunlight is golden across my skin, and I’m nude, save for a cowboy hat and a skimpy denim vest. In another magazine, I’m “Girl of the Month.” In the “interview,” they say that I’m 6 inches taller than I am and a college student who enjoys sex as a form of exercise. In this set, I’m only wearing thigh-high stockings. My lips are full and glossy, and my legs are spread in every shot. I look at the camera without apology.

In those magazines, I knew what I was doing. The money was good. Anyone who looked at the photos would believe that I was pleased to be there.

The Photographer’s studio, an airy Chicago condo with floor-to-ceiling windows, had lots of natural light. Every room could be turned into a photography set by changing around the decor. Our shoots were professional, and a female makeup artist was always there. Her job was to ensure that I looked flawless and was attended to. I felt that way, working with The Photographer.

I was grateful for the work. I’d been modeling nude for years, mostly smaller gigs and occasionally with amateur photographers who paid well and understood that photo shoots didn’t come with any expectations of sex. The Photographer’s status made me feel special and important — part of an exclusive team.

I was single and had a strained relationship with my mother, who’d packed me off to foster care at 13 when the state told her to choose between her abusive, alcoholic boyfriend and me. I don’t think she could have known that I’d spend the following decades searching for someone to choose me.

The Photographer and I worked together so often that year that we became friends of sorts; I loved the attention, I loved playing dress-up, and I believe he liked working with a model who showed up on time and wasn’t on drugs or a diva.

I didn’t recognize the occasional mood swings I was experiencing as panic attacks. I had no other way to pay the rent. I was in my 20s, and I’d been posing nude since I aged…