So Then She...

A year or so ago, I found myself in an office in Midtown, waiting to have a quick meeting with Adriana Lima. It was right before the Victoria’s Secret fashion show and the Brazilian bombshell was in the midst of trying on outfits she’d be donning for the famous annual spectacle. Outfit number two was a stringy number that clung to her bronzed body for dear life. I’ve seen more fabric in a handkerchief. Around the studio, thirty-some odd workers milled about, each working in frenzied unison to tweak her ensemble to perfection.

The supermodel got to her final look, which included her Angel wings (pictured here), and after a few quick adjustments, the fitting was over. Lima disappeared behind a wall in the back of the studio to change back into her street clothes before we sat down together. I settled into a couch and thumbed through some materials in preparation when her handler approached. Lima was very late to another appointment downtown and they still had to do a few fittings for an upcoming bathing suit photoshoot, so would it be possible for us to conduct the meeting over the wall, since Lima would be stripping naked in between the outfits?

I declined, saying that face-to-face interactions were preferred and offered to reschedule, but that wasn’t an option for her. More handlers approached and ventured suggestions to remedy the dilemma. “What if we put you in a chair with your back to her?” “What if you just stood facing away from her?” None were really conducive to her full attention, which meant it would be a rather pointless endeavor. Then Lima stepped out from behind the wall.

“It’s totally fine,” she cooed in her intoxicating accent. “You’ve seen girls naked before, right? You can watch,” she smiled at me. Granted, I’m all for seeing supermodels sans clothes, especially live, but under the pretense of business is not the most optimal of circumstances. I’d prefer not to stumble over all my words because I’m too busy being stunned by your body, Adriana. I politely declined again, saying that wouldn’t be right. 

Lima was wearing jeans and a tank top that she’d pulled on in haste, as it wasn’t fully down yet, leaving her stomach and the top of her jeans exposed. She took one step towards me and unfastened her jeans buttons, slowly. “Are you sure?” she said, her voice deepening into a sexy baritone, all while fixing me with the same sultry stare I’ve seen grace the pages of the Victoria’s Secret catalog.

One button popped loose, then a second, then a third. Her underwear was now visible and she stood there, her hands grasping the denim and pulling it more open. “You reeeeally don’t want to see me naked?” She now stood about five feet from me, jeans completely undone, her orange panties peeking out like a flashing neon sign screaming for its due share of attention. Her shocked handlers looked on, as though witnessing some riveting trainwreck.

“Listen, Adriana. If you take your pants off, then I’d have to remove mine and that’s going to be awkward for everyone here. I’m not wearing clean underwear.” I prayed my attempt at humor would end this sexy Mexican standoff with a renowned lingerie model.  

She laughed and relented, but cocked her head to the side in disbelief. “Give me five minutes,” she said, turning and strutting back behind the wall in her commanding gait. “You know, you’re the only man in the world who doesn’t want to see me naked,” she continued after vanishing from view.

The encounter left my brain whirring, but I reached a number of undeniable conclusions. First, Adriana Lima is hot. Second, Marko Jaric is a fucking lucky dude. Third, and the real point here, I’d rather be known as the guy who didn’t want to see you naked than grouped in with every other male who drools over you. Why? Because then you’ll remember me; and the fact that I didn’t treat you like a coveted piece of meat.

A few weeks later, we all decamped for Miami, the home of the fashion show that year. The day of the event, I was wandering around the hair and makeup area when someone I knew was chatting with Lima, clad only in a thong and pink satin robe, her hair up in curlers. When I approached, my friend began to introduce us, but Lima cut him off: “Oh, we know each other. He didn’t want to see me naked!” she admonished.

Wrong. I did want to see you naked, but not in an office with a slew of workers staring at us, and I’d prefer it if you weren’t married, and I’d really like it if the nakedness meant that you were into me. But none of that had been the case. Curious, I asked if she remembered my name. When she nailed it, hearing her pronounce my name in her spicy accent made me feel better than any glimpses of nudity ever could have.