The Fifteenth Annual Worldwide Fashion Conference

Content Warning: swearing, sexual/suggestive content

Don’t ask how I ended up in the middle of a worldwide fashion contest, surrounded by a bunch of hot women who might as well have been naked, their clothes were so tiny.

Oh, God. This should be a lesbian’s dream come true. I mean, what better place could I end up? Still, as much as I would like to drool and flirt with them, I can’t help but notice how inconveniently underdressed I am.

Let me back up.

Hi. My name is Azalea Johnson. I’m twenty-something now, I think. It doesn’t really matter. Unlike these girls, I have never been obsessed with fashion or makeup or anything like that. Why does it matter what the boys think of you, anyway? Men are weird.

And--hang on. That lady there? I bet she had like twelve plastic surgeries to get her eyes that big. Also? Her dress could pass as a bathing suit. Not that I mind, really. The tan on her legs almost seems real. Damn, she looks good.

Alright, sorry for the interruption. 

Now, again, you’re probably wondering how I, Azalea Johnson, in my stained, ragged hoodie and ripped jeans (not like the actual fashionable ones, like jeans with holes in the knees because I’m too broke to replace them), got lucky enough to end up here. I’m starting to wonder about that too.

Well, okay. It all started as a job offer, alright? 

Jesus. That sounds like the start of a lame horror story.

Whatever. Not to brag or anything, but I’m kinda a tech genius of sorts, and anyway, this nice rich lady wanted to hire me to film some events. She said I had the steadiest hand of anyone she’d ever seen, which I suppose is a compliment. Of course, this is coming from an eighty-something-year-old, who can’t even hold a coffee cup without spilling it all over her lap.

I said yes because I’m broke. I didn’t quite realize what she meant when she said that my first assignment would be filming part of a global fashion contest. I was like, oh, cool! Maybe there’ll be some cute girls there that I can hang out with. But mostly I just cared about how much she was paying me.

And so here I am.

Wait a second, I think the actual contest is starting. Ope--gotta go get ready. That announcer guy said we’ve got three minutes until the first round.

Let’s fast forward three minutes, shall we? You don’t need to sit around and listen to me cursing at all my cameras and stuff as I tripped over things and spilled my beer on one of the computers. 

“Welcome to the fifteenth annual worldwide fashion conference!” the announcer shouted from center stage just as I smacked the button to turn on my camera. Nailed it.

He droned on about tradition and some other boring things, but I was still fiddling with the zoom controls and stealing peeks at the line of supermodels that snaked across the back of the stage. With a few final words, the announcer bowed and left the stage. The panel of judges clapped politely, but not very enthusiastically. I wouldn’t be surprised if some kid had to stand down there with the little cue cards saying ‘applause’. 

The first model walked in, with a flashy introduction from the announcer, and batted her long fake lashes, striking some sexy poses and showing off her booty shorts and cropped tank top. When she first walked on, I seriously thought she was just wearing a bra.

The judges watched stoically. The model left and the next lady walked in. She was a little cuter than the first, with big brown eyes and round glasses. She smiled and spun around, showing off a pretty sweater dress that barely covered her ass.

I think it was at about the fifth model that I started watering at the mouth.

Look, I know I sound like some creepy old guy, but at this point I couldn’t really help myself. Okay, that’s a lame excuse. Let me put it this way. Guys, if you’re reading this (and you’re not gay), consider yourself in my place. Single, young, surrounded by incredibly good-looking supermodels who have a lot of skin showing.

That’s right. Don’t judge me and I won’t judge you.

My favorite one was the fourteenth model. She wore a very stylish tailored suit that didn’t show too much skin, and she also had a short, distinctly lesbian haircut. My gaydar went nuts when I saw her.

She also carried herself with a little more confidence and composure than the other models. Instead of looking at the judges like, oh, help me because I’m a damsel in distress, she was like, look at me wrong and I’ll stuff your judge’s clipboard up your ass. I think the judges may have docked a few points for that.

Anyway, the rest of the event was hardly surprising. Lots of too-perfect, makeup-covered faces and almost-swimsuits. I snuck out of the recording studio and grabbed myself another beer at one point to replace the one I had spilled.

After the one hundred and forty-second model (a pale, freckled redhead with baggy jeans and an even baggier sweatshirt) came by the judges panel, the first round was over. The judges bent their heads together, probably making fun of all the ugly styles they had just seen. 

In hindsight, they might have been figuring out who had been eliminated from the contest.

Fifteen minutes later, they knocked out almost half of the models.

The second round took another hour, with each model spending more time in front of the panel, either trying to get the judges to look at her shapely ass or oversized boobs. By this point, I had already dozed off a couple of times and gone on a thirty-minute-long bathroom break. 

When the second round was complete, the judges disqualified another group of models. Bitter that they were keeping me here for so long, I silently hoped that the eliminated contestants would cry out all their makeup until they looked like nocturnal South American monkeys.

The third and final round was the shortest, but it still felt like eternity before the last supermodel (a classic blonde in a sleeveless black leather dress) walked out of the room. The judges shared their notes one final time, and after almost twenty minutes of careful deliberation, they announced the winner.

“Thank you for visiting the fifteenth annual worldwide fashion conference! Good night,” the announcer called from the stage, waving at the audience and the cameras. Exhausted and relieved, I reached over to shut the cameras off.

My finger brushed the red ‘STOP’ button.

I realized something was wrong.

I glanced between two identical buttons on the control panel that read ‘RECORD’ and ‘ERASE’. My mind drifted back to the beginning of the contest, when I had triumphantly punched the button to start the recording, only seconds before the announcer started talking.

Yet somehow, throughout the entire fashion conference, I hadn’t noticed that the camera had been off all along.