Charity G. Finnestad - Hollywood in Heels: A Small-Town Girls Adventures in Tinseltown

A Small-Town Girls Adventures in Tinseltown

Charity Gaye Finnestad

Skyhorse Publishing

Copyright 2013 by Charity Gaye Finnestad

Cover photograph and all interior photographs Annique Delphine All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

www.skyhorsepublishing.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available on file

For

My Magic Man,

Robert Henry Kondrk

My Prince,

Talbot Alexander Kondrk

My Hero,

Peter Lehner

My Soul-Sister Muse,

Annique Delphine

And all the frogs I kissed along the way,

without whom this wouldnt exist.

May you all find your own happily ever after.

E vents in this book may be out of sequence, a few minor characters are composites of more than one person, and conversations were recreated to the best of my ability.

Furthermore, names, dates, and locations have been changed, and a few red herrings were thrown in to confuse would-be sleuths. All of this was done in a concerted effort to protect the guilty. Lets be clearthere are no innocents in this book.

Now that we have that out of the wayeverything you are about to read really did happen. As the wise old sage said, You cant make this shit up!

Ass-ettes [ass-etz]

noun

1. The bubbles of flesh located at the top of a womans legs that magically open doors for her and get her where she wants to go in life.

2. Any desirable trait possessed by a female that increases her market value.

Example: Her ass-ettes took her straight to the top.

N o question about it; Im a modern-day Alice, and Ive fallen down the rabbit hole. Theres no other way to explain my current situation. Im sitting on a stool in a back room of a Hollywood Hills mansion having hot pink feathers glued to my private parts by a complete stranger. Dozens of half-naked women parade around me getting ready for the fashion show we will soon be participating inif you can call these scraps of lace and fowl Im wearing fashion. I personally find that to be a large stretch of the imagination.

A tall, silicone-breasted blonde leans over me, pouring her massive naked bosom into my lap. She asks the makeup artist gluing my feathers to apply more bronzer to her areolae. Without pausing, he whips a brush from behind his ear and dusts her big round nipples in powder. Thats rightmy makeup artist is a guy! A dude! A man! The person disassembling a feather duster and gluing it to my thong and breasts has a cock between his legs. Wait for the real bombshellI dont think hes gay! I know a straight man when I see one.

Flecks of bronzing powder rain on my bare legs as Big Boobs gives Makeup Dude a thank-you grab to the crotch. He tweaks her nipple. She purrs. I shudder. Thats the final straw. Im officially in shock. Next thing you know, theyre going to be making out across my lap. This is most definitely not what I signed up for.

It all sounded so innocent and glamorous last Monday when my supposedly legit modeling agent called me about the job. Its a lingerie fashion show for an MTV Movie Awards after-party hosted by P. Diddy. Four hundred bucks for two hours work. I certainly needed the money. Id run through all my measly savings and had no idea how I was going to pay my rent the next week.

Admittedly, Id never modeled lingerie before, but how hard could it be? It would be practically the same as wearing a bikini around a pool. As my agent talked on, I imagined a Victorias Secret-style runway and gorgeous brassieres; maybe I would even get a set of Angel wings. How cool would that be? I was kind of surprised they would pick a model with my less-than-voluminous endowment in the chest area to model lingerie, but according to my agent, they wanted variety. Well, if it was variety they wanted, my skinny legs, pointy hipbones, and bite-sized breasts were happy to oblige.

Even better, Id heard you normally get to keep the clothes you model. I was certain that would be the case with unmentionables. I was about to acquire a whole new set of panties to replace the ones Id purchased so long ago that there might still be a pair of Underoos among them. How exciting.

Ha! Silly, naive Charity, fooled again. Undone by her overly optimistic, rose-colored perception of Tinsel Town. There will be no new lacy drawers in my future. No wings. No glamorous moment to brag to my grandkids about when Im eighty and wrinkly. No sexy brassieres. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Instead Im being turned into a freakish Playboy-bunny-meets-Kentucky-Fried-Chicken creature by a man who likes to nipple-tweak strangers (and is dangerously close to mine). Theyll probably send me home with a Ziploc baggie of feathers at the end of the nightif Im lucky, and if the damn things even come off. Otherwise, tomorrow I may be scheduling an emergency appointment with my Russian wax mama, saying, I have a strange request; do you do feathers?

Ive fallen to a level I didnt even know existed Im poultry porn!

You might be asking yourself, How on earth can a girl come to this? Let alone a good girl who went through twelve years of Christian school and graduated from college summa cum laude with degrees in religion and education.

I blame it all on the red carnations.

I grew up in Seattle. Well thats not exactly true. I really grew up in Bellevue, which is essentially the Beverly Hills of Seattle. Everyone there was rich. Everyone, that is, but us. Im not quite sure how my dad got the deal he did on the fixer-upper house that we never quite fixed up (and which ultimately burned down) on Lakeside Heights. But Im certain that every neighbor on the block rued the day when the ragamuffin Finnestad clan moved in. They were posh. We were pesky; too loud, too exuberant, too everything. They shopped at Nordstrom, Bloomingdales, and Saks. We shopped at Value Village, Salvation Army, and Goodwill.

When I couldnt find what I wanted at one of greater Seattles many thrift stores, I would draw up a design, make a pattern, and my handy mom would whip it together with scrap fabric that my grandma had been hoarding for the end times. I was the luckiest girl alive. I had no idea we were poor. I just thought we were creative. No one else in the entire city looked like me, and I loved it.

At least, I loved it until every horrid Monday morning, when I had to get ready for school. Dont get me wrong; I loved school. I loved everything about it: the books, the assignments, my desk, my teachers, my friends, recess. I even loved the smell of number-two pencils. I was a nerd. A much-loved nerd, but a nerd nonetheless. There was only one glitch in my willing cooperation with the process of educating my young and impressionable mind The fucking uniforms!