Reversible, leather and fur pull over, Calvin Klein Collection
It was… exactly what the f*ck it was. I had to get on the F train to get to a part of Long Island I had originally thought was Queens. Then I was standing at the wrong bus stop (let’s not talk about my not having a vehicle. This is why I wanted to live in Manhattan). Eventually, I was supposed to walk 1.7 miles to an address in the middle of darkness, on the other side of a graveyard. It was f*ckin brilliant. I sat on the N6 debating meeting Shannon in a parking lot in the dark, and swiftly threw my house key between my fingers. “I’m not going out like that,” I thought to my self, “he might, tho.”
I loved a girl named Michelle once. (Not that way pervs -___-) Not so secretly, my brother had a thing for strippers *shrugs* & might I add, they were pretty dope girls. Besides getting paid to take their clothes off, they were good girls. They loved my brother because my brother (a sucker for love like myself) loved them back. Since I was too young to know about things like that, I knew far too much. Michelle was my favorite because she’d ride me around in her Mazda 6 and play Mya’s Fear of Flying (and she let me pick my favorite song “Lie detector” and would sing the lyrics with me, “I became a freak under the sheets, put his ass to sleep. Creep into the kitchen. Got the remedy. It’s call the lie detector, slipped it in his drink. Brought it to is bedside, said take a sip of this and don’t think.” She allowed me to be a person. That was the first time I understood individuality. Michelle didn’t have the best family history. But she had great hair, a fabulous smile, a tight ass and a heart unlike any other I’ve ever felt. One time, Michelle’s car ran out of gas on our way home from the movies. We had to walk to to a gas station in the dark (Attelboro, Massachusetts had not one cab, I promise).
“If you’re ever walking somewhere alone,” she taught me, “Hold your keys like this.” She only had to show me once. As she held my left hand, I took my keys out of my pocket with  my right and adjusted them like she had showed me. I didn’t question Michelle. I knew where she came from. But what I knew more was that she was still breathing. 
Clothing by
        I’m un-f*cking-stoppable. Not to be f*cked with. I joined Model Mayhem on October 3rd; 9 days ago. Nothing fancy. Just real shit about my not really being a model. I like the model “thing” though, but I’m 5’2. Either no one is going to hire me, or only people who truly know what the fuck they’re doing will fuck with me. As I told you all on on my post yesterday, I’m already super booked *stands and ovate my damned self* with my first shoot happening yesterday, and my first show on October 23rd (I’LL INSERT THE EVENT LINK SOON!). On my way to the shoot, I met a girl named Stephanie (spell it how you spell it lol) and we talked about not working for “The Man” anymore. Part of moving forward is simply to do. If you’re not doing nothing is happening. You can’t expect to move forward without any input on your part. The difficult part, though, comes in defining what exactly to do. In a “Public Relations/Marketing” degree saturated world (don’t take offense, I’m Communications, but I’m more of a genius than all of you *promises*), it’s tough to decipher what should  be done from what is being done. The key, is new shit. What you all want is new shit. *shrugs* It doesn’t take schooling to know that. Books can guide you but your heart defines you, chica. The corazón is what [brings] us home. (HOV is everything.) 

You know how to figure out what to do next? Do everything in the order of what makes you happiest. Go where you’re most comfortable.
       I only know half of why I’m doing this: I need to. I’m on an Oprah trip & still haven’t decided against being on the cover of every issue of whatever it is I decide to do.  What I do, is I sell myself. I am the product. I am all I have. I can’t be anything else. & those of you how fuck with me feel that. I appreciate it. I’m just here to provide a little bit of encouragement, so that you know what I’m doing and understand that you have the power to do as well. 
Clothing by
       I broke all the rules cut the shoot early. Shannon and I took a break in shooting to spread love (the Brooklyn way?) and had amazing conversation. He provided most of everything: Make-up, an extra strapless bra (because I forgot mine), all the attire minus the shoes, but he had some there in case I didn’t bring any. Most everything was new, still in the casing and had the tags on it. Instead of pay, he gives models a DVD of their retouched images and multiple outfits to keep. I was super rude when he asked my nationality, but had embroidered a tee and pair of panties for me. & I’m Dominican, so you know how ginormous my pride is. My first 2 outfits where “Asian” inspired (silk, intricate patters & traditional cuts). There was a lace top with skirt combo that went next. Then, My ass was all out in my Dominican thong. I got comfortable to do all that bar stool, ratchet BS (you won’t be seeing those 🙂 btw)  I had three outfits left, but I ended the shoot. The next outfit was a sexy, all black sheer & lace combo. Mask. Gloves. Everything, man. Unfortunately, the ensemble called for no panties. “Can I put my other panties back on?” I had asked. They’d have gone well, they were just black, but Shannon insisted it simply wasn’t the same. So… I had to be a disappointment and tell him I couldn’t take anymore shots. The Dominican thong was EVERYTHING, but I simply can’t put my bare vagina on film. I simply can’t.
Clothing by
“Some people don’t look at the whole picture,” Shannon explained. After I said no, we encountered a little bit of awkward silence, but I helped him straighten up and clean. He ended up giving me a lift home and I think we got a lot closer simply because of my saying no. “It’s tough to say no,” I’d explained. I could have easily gone spread eagle and, Shannon can attest, once I get comfortable, I get the job done, but I have to set limits for myself. He’d told me about other model who have mangers/boyfriends who try to enforce those limits for them and I understand. Sometimes, it helps to have people around you who make you better than you are. It’s not the reason I have my brother’s and mother’s names tattoo’d on me, but it’s a benefit of it. People who watch over you lift you up. But, there may come a time when it’s just you… then what? 
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized to Shannon
“It’s alright. I’m not sure what made you say no, but  I saw you got serious so I stopped pushing.”
“My brother,” I explained and had him focus on an example he’d shown me., “would have already whooped my ass for the pictures I took today. I can’t do the others.” I’m #NotBoutThatLife *shrugs*
 Shannon smiled. I think he respects me. You all know how much I love that shit 🙂
          Define your own limitations.  When I got home, I posted my vagina on Facebook. *shrugs* It was really Instagram, and that goes to my Twitter as well: My vagina is all over the web, now.  Honestly, I figured this picture wasn’t so bad taking into account what I didn’t shoot. The whole time, I had to sit and consider what was okay to shoot and what wasn’t. This was my first shoot yall. & The truth is, if you’re okay with doing certain things, who ever can make money off of it will gladly assist you. “She was okay with that,” Shannon would say as he tried to provide me comfort in what other models had shot. That’s fine. But I realized that those girls aren’t me. I have to have a limit somewhere. I did do topless. Reason: They look terrible. I kinda just wanted to see (but didnt want to look). No one’s buying those. *shrugs* he shots from behind look #dope tho.   I was on the phone with another photographer/promoter the other night “What would you say your flaw is?” he asked.  
“My breasts, I guess,” I replied. “I don’t care, tho.” 
“Ok. So tell me this, how many guys have you been with?”
“Enough,” I answered. He laughed. 
“Ok. So, out of those guys you’ve been with, how many complained about your breasts?”
Clothing by
       You’ve got to hold your head high. That’s all it is, really. We’re our own worst enemies (and I’m not the first to say that). What we think our flaws are are only our flaws once we’ve allowed them to be. We try to see ourselves through forgeign eyes and pick out whatever you can pick out. We’re mean to ourselves. When I got off the F, I stood next to two very pretty girls at a bus stop. Now, I could say they’re pretty because I hope they read (because I hope they do) but I say they’re pretty because they are (and I hope they know). When I first walked up to them –a fabulous hot mess in all-black-everything, heels and fur), I remembered what I was wearing. I don’t know what the hell I looked like, but I felt myself itching. That’s when you try to figure out what people see. You watch how they look at you. If they smile. If they stare. If they look you up and down. You try to figure out what they’re thinking but… eventually, you have to realize you’ll never know. And who gives a f*ck? I haven’t quite figured out how to manage that as a normal person, but as ELLA, i just suck it up and give people my card. I allow everyone additional time to judge/love.
“What makes you different from other models?” the photographer/promoter asked. 
“What makes me different, is I actually love myself for exactly who I am.”
         I encourage you all to do the same. I went to sleep last night thinking about how to explain my vagina being on the internet (featuring my ass soon enough).  What people think doesn’t matter unless it’s damaging. Granted, I don’t give a fuck who likes my photos or not, but there won’t be photos of my (bare) vagina for you to judge. We can all do what we want, you’ve just go to decide what’s okay for  you. Bravo to the ladies with the guts to bare all that, more so the luxury to do so. I simply can’t. Too many eyes on me.  Today, I decide the only way to do it was to put more lipstick on and smile. 
F*ck it. At least half of it. I still look good 😉 *brushes shoulders off*
Clothing by