As I write this, I’m closing in on my 30th birthday. It’s time for a pause for thankful reflection. When I moved to L.A. from a small town in Maine, I had two mantras — “4.0 GPA” and “get naked.” Mantras must work. I didn’t want to party, I didn’t want a boyfriend; my aspirations were simple. Be smart. Get naked. They still are to this day. I am a petite fetish model and adult actress who specializes in making niche fetish videos, painting fine art and even having very thick women wrestle me. I also have an English degree, if you need a little editing. How did a naughty nerd from a small Quebecois-American community end up doing all of this? It all started with a push-up bra.
Let’s enter Maine. It’s French (I’m French). It’s hardcore (weather). It’s spooky (Stephen King). It’s in my high school classroom where 18-year-old me is overhearing someone say, “She’s wearing a push-up and there’s nothing to push up!” as I look down at the empty space between my boobs and my foamy bra. It really felt like the ultimate life failure. I got home, got on the computer and started chatting with boys in a chatroom. I told one anonymous man what had happened at school and I got a “show me your boobs” back at me. Since I had already failed at the life thing, I set the timer in my camera and took nude portraits. Something clicked besides the camera that night. I liked this. I sent the photos and I got a validating “your tits are great!” from Mr. Internet. I really liked this now. I went back to my room and took 40 more photos. I painted naked, happy. Odette, though still without a name, was born.
Maybe it’s a curse that I found my zen state in doing something so taboo.
Despite all of that, I still kept wearing the foamy bra. Soon, it was time to go to college in Los Angeles, my city of choice, because I had a Nintendo game growing up called “California Games.” Everyone has their reasons. My selfies for the internet were only a bandage for my late-teens self loathing. The bra still went on when I started college, all bent, dented and empty. The richer the girl was at my school, the less bra she wore, too. I just wanted to squeeze and punch their perfect boobs all at the same time. Also, I was so broke. Maine dollars didn’t exchange well with L.A. dollars. After trying to get a job as a painter and failing, I found that the only position available in the art department was for a “life model.” I thought that meant it was for modeling everyday tasks. I thought maybe I’d get into fashion blogs because of that gig.
It’s the first day of life modeling and I still have no clue what I signed up for. Pillow bra on, I show up and am given a robe and $40. I was cold. I quickly learned that this shouldn’t be called modeling at all. It’s more like a bare-butt yoga pose that stalled. You probably thought this would be an amazing experience for a budding exhibitionist like me. You were very wrong.
Three “life” modeling classes later, there I was, posing in the cold room. During my break, I took a stroll in my robe to warm up and a man came over to say, “Hey, nice work in there. What other kinds of modeling do you do? I shoot for magazines and the pay is better than this stuff.” I saw an escape from life modeling and replied, “I model everything!” The words “barely” and “legal” were casually tossed around between us. I got a phone number. He was a seven, maybe an eight. Life modeling was making my life underwhelming. I wasn’t about to mess up this chance.
A week later, I am signing release paperwork and waiting for my first real photo shoot to start. It was just him and I, in a hotel room with a nice bed. As instructed, I packed lingerie — namely my seat cushion of a bra — it was looking as visually freelance as ever. After I put it on, he took one look at it and made a striking comment, “Uh, that one doesn’t fit.” Well, not those painful words, but the next ones … “You don’t need a bra, really. Let’s skip the bra.” Skip the bra? I forgot I still had boobs underneath the wired and lacy mess. The bra was my safe place. Still, I took his advice and I skipped the bra. The shoot started to pick up fast. I forgot about the bra ordeal. “What is your stage name?” I skipped that bra and I landed right in a magazine. “Odette, it’s Odette Delacroix,” I said.
All along, the bra wasn’t creating new boobs for me, but only hiding the ones I had. When I finally held that magazine in my hand, I threw away my padded bras with the other. I wasn’t just getting naked anymore. I was skipping the bra! I was skipping bullying, fear and pain. I found my happy place from that shoot. It was no longer a job – a naked shoot. I found my therapy. For me, that bra held a lot of insecurities inside of it, and taking off my clothes set them free. Maybe it’s a curse that I found my zen state in doing something so taboo. The hate is real, but it’s not as real as my love for adult and fetish modeling. It’s not as real as my love for my boobs. It’s not as real as this job is to me. Maybe one day getting naked for the world won’t be such a “bad” thing, but until then, I have three words for you all: skip the bra!
Odette Delacroix is a petite fetish model and clip artist who can be followed on Clips4Sale.com/47000 and @OdetteDelacroix on Twitter. To contact her, email modelodette@gmail.com.
