1.
There were few women, or men for that matter, more beautiful than I was. I had luscious blonde hair and a silky olive complexion emphasised by dark blue eyes and a perfectly shaped nose and a rosebud mouth. My legs went on for miles and I had a body most woman would die to have. I was irresistible to anyone I considered encapsulating into my web. I got taught from a young age that my beauty was all I required to obtain fame and fortune. From the age of four, I was entered into local beauty pageants by my mother. It took only two entries until I won the first of my large collection of crowns. From then on it became an obsession for me to win at any cost. At six, I began modelling, and within a month, I had an agent and was being sought after for fashion shoots and TV commercials. By ten I had achieved great fame; my exquisitely beautiful face graced the cover of a young society magazine, and naturally I was noticed by the influential socialites. By the age of just twenty, I was being flown across oceans for photo shoots and fashion shows.
My parents, both average looking and from poor backgrounds, relished my popularity and the new world I gave them entry into as the parents of the most beautiful girl in the fashion industry. Needless to say, I was an only child, spoilt beyond any form of control and I knew how to throw a tantrum anywhere and at any time to get my way.
At one stage in my life, I wanted nothing more than to win the title of Miss World. However, once I started modelling it was no longer necessary for my career and I felt it beneath me since I knew I would win the title at any rate. While taking a break on a shoot, a less important model challenged me that perhaps I did not have the guts to accept losing the crown and that was why I did not want to enter the Miss World competition. How dare she test my beauty! Or my power to win! And so I entered. I put my modelling career on hold for a year to concentrate on the Miss World title. I was fully aware of what being Miss World meant and how it might benefit my modelling career. Not that it was necessary, as my beauty alone was sufficient.
The end of the year at the Miss World finalist competition I stood on stage amongst the last five finalists. The other contestants stood nervously smiling wondering if they had done enough to win the crown. Not me. I knew I had won it; I had done enough eye flirting and trapping of anyone important in my web to get assured of that crown. They announced the fifth runner-up, the fourth, the second princess and then they exclaimed in a fake hype that I was indeed the new Miss World. How had anyone doubted that I would win? The rehearsed tears rolled down my cheeks and I exclaimed in false astonishment that I had won. The other contestants surrounded me with hugs, kisses, false adoration and congratulations. No one dared me and then didn't expect me to achieve the highest accolade, especially if it involved my perfect body.
The year of being Miss World went by so quickly that it hardly affected my modelling career. If anything, I was as I thought I would be, even more, sought after than ever before. I was the perfect Miss World – a patriotic South African who fought the plight of whatever the international politicians thought was important. After I had handed the crown over to the new Miss World, I knew nothing would stand in my way of one day being the most sought after model spread across the covers of every high society magazine regardless of its genre.
Besides using my incredibly perfect body to advance my career, I used it to gain the adoration of any male I desired. It often happened that after a day of working from the early hours of the morning until late into the night all I wanted was to be comforted and told by a poor adoring man that I was the most beautiful woman he had even seen. I knew this to be the truth at any rate, but it was good to hear it. There was, of course, a lot of envy from the other models. Shame, they could not be blamed for it. I was difficult to beat. I had been trained from an early age to detect any competition and eliminate it. Every model was competition to me, and so every model got the same treatment – don't mess with me!
I frequented nightclubs and as I was almost always in a different city the men did not know me. They thought I was simply too good to be true and that they were the luckiest men on earth to have even the pleasure of speaking to me. Totally unbeknown to my colleagues I would watch every man's eyes and take note of to whom he was taking a fancy. Once I figured it out, I would make every attempt to win him over simply so that I won and the other model would go home empty-handed or with a second prize. At times, the poor girl was almost in the man's arms when I joined the conversation, and within fifteen minutes he was mine. He had won the trophy woman for the night, and he counted himself lucky.
If I did go on a proper date, the privileged man was in his element, the poor sucker was actually under the misconception that it might lead to a second date. Usually, I ordered a salad at dinner, as maintaining zero percent body fat was a priority, but there were those dinners where the man had so much to say about my meal choice I agreed to have an actual meal. I picked at the food on the plate in front of me feigning a lack of appetite or making up any feeble excuse. By the time we left the restaurant, I had been to the bathroom and vomited the few bites of food into the toilet. The unsuspecting date thought he had, in fact, had a meal with me.
I never went back to my hotel room or apartment with a date; it was always back to his place. I left before he woke up and that was the last time he would ever see me or hear from me. It was all just so easy. The lack of female friends did not have any impact on me at the time. I was sadly under the misconception that everyone loved me.
Being a model meant that someone was always touching you. From hours before the shoot began someone was messing with your hair or your face and depending on the type of shoot it was possible that even your body got painted. And then there were the people that clothed you, fiddling with the garments on your body until they fitted perfectly. I employed my own personal stylist and makeup artist to eliminate strange hands always touching my perfect body. I demanded my space in the always crowded dressing rooms. That this meant others had to get inconvenienced did not bother me. That was their problem, not mine, I was the one in demand and the main attraction and therefore, I demanded what I wanted, and got it. I insisted on my changing area to get sterilised before I entered the building. The only brand of water I drank and whatever else my mood demanded was to be readily available at the snap of my perfect fingers.