The "outstanding specimen" that Dr. B.H. Compliment was speaking of was a mole that I have in my pubic area -- just to the right of the base of my penis. When I was very young, I wondered if my penis was just another nose that pee came out of instead of snot, and maybe the mole was a booger. I could never pick it, though, no matter how hard I tried. And, when another kind of "snot" started to come out of my second nose, I decided that hypothesis had run its course. As I got older, I started to actually kind of like it, thinking that it gave me dick some personality. It was as if I had Cindy Crawford's face in my crotch; just facing the opposite direction I would have hoped.
I never learned the "bathroom woman's" real name, but she told me that I could call her "Momma". I think she was trying to further calm my nerves, but it backfired and served only to make her seem even creepier.
Momma worked for an agency I don't want to name (for fear of being sued), but for argument's sake, let's just say it was Elite Modeling Management (LINK). Could have been, could not not have been. Who's to say? She just so happened to be at the 40/40 Club the night I wormed my way inside. It was a chance meeting of epic proportions, seeing as they were "actively seeking a new, specialized talent," as she would later tell me. Apparently, the upper tiers of the fashion world had grown tired of the way the industry was heading, and longed for a resurgence of the "classier" models of yesteryear, a la the previously mentioned Ms. Crawford. They felt as though her elegance and grace came not from her personality or her looks themselves, but specifically from her facial mole.
"That's where you come in," Momma told me.
"You think I'm model material? Wow, that's flattering," I started to say.
"No, not you, per se. Your mole." She was a master at simultaneously cutting people off and cutting a hole in the sails as soon as they had the slightest bit of wind in them.
"I see. As soon as the opportunity presents itself, I'm going to rub this mole all over your face."
"You want to put your crotch in Momma's face," she asked.
Defeated, I bowed my head and sighed. "Not when you word it like that, Goddammit."
"I win," she gloated.
"Fuck off. And to think, I was almost starting to like you."
Little did I know how much I would actually grow to like her. She explained her plan to me: Use the X-Ray-looking machine (it ended up actually being a high-tech camera) to take high quality pictures of my mole, and then use highly evolved photo editing software to place it onto other model's faces; changing its shape, size, and color as needed to fit each individual. When I asked what happened when they were seen in public without said mole, I was told they would use artificial moles for appearances. When I asked why they couldn't just use the artificial moles for the pictures, I was told that it was an entirely different ball game. In person, with movement, the worst cover-up job will pass. But in pictures, when their essence would be captured, you needed the real thing. You needed the best. You needed my side-shaft marking.
Somewhere between Momma's initial poke, and my captors eventually warming up to me and singing "Watcha gonna do with all that mole, all that mole beside your pole," I became convinced that it actually was my calling.
Stay tuned for the mildly exciting conclusion...