Page 1 of Offensive Plays

Prologue | Libby

Three women have consistently been a voice on my shoulder throughout my life.

The first is my best friend's mom, Sherrie Brooks.

I put her at the top of the list because I wouldn't be half the woman I am today without her constant encouragement.

"You can do the hardest of things, Libby girl."

The second is my own mother. Unfortunately, the only time I've heard her voice is on the occasional interview I happen to stumble upon. The woman gave me up while I was still a baby. So, to say I know her voice would be a gross understatement.

Her actions always spoke louder to me than any actual words she could have spoken.

And if her actions could talk, they'd say, "You're not worth staying for, Libby."

Then there's Mrs. Ferguson. I'm sure she has a first name. But I only know the woman as Mrs. Ferguson.

Her voice, at times, can sometimes be the most unexpected. Every negative thought I have about myself somehow takes root from the words she spoke over me when I was only eighteen.

"You're no good, Libby. And you'll never be enough."

As much as I hate her words—spoken to me with the fury of a woman protecting her young—they're also the words I hear the most vividly. The ones I hear echo through my head as I delete another post I don't have the nerve to share.

Somehow, the only relief I get from the constant need to perform and look my best is the adoration of faceless men from a dating app I recently signed up for.

Well, dating is a bit of a stretch. It's a hook-up app. And my last hurrah before I give up on dating altogether and focus solely on my career.

I tend to get derailed when I’m in a relationship with someone wielding a penis. And lately, I don't need much help getting derailed. I do, however, need a lot of help in getting railed.

Just railed. No relationship. Hence, the hookup app.

There's a knock on my door and I can't help but jump at the sudden interruption.

"Ms. O'Connor, the photographer is ready for you."

I slide my phone onto the dressing room table and check myself in the mirror before following the photoshoot assistant to the open studio space.

"Well, well, well," the photographer, Jacques Pierce, says as he takes me in. "Gigi didn't do you justice. You're gorgeous. You'll steal the show."

I smile, taking Jacques's outstretched hands into my own as we give each other pecks on the cheeks. He's famous for photographing some of the top models in the industry, and thanks to my good friend and fellow model, Giselle Murray, I recently connected with him.

"Let me have a good look at you," he says, taking my face into his hands and inspecting me.

"Ah, yes. You'll be perfect for this. Let's get started, shall we?"

Taking a step back, he holds a hand out for me to take my place in front of the camera. I've never been shy in front of the camera. It's where I come the most alive. Knowing that faces I'll never have to meet in real life are watching me. There's something hypnotic about it.

I move and pose effortlessly, taking extra care to show off the couture dresses that the assistants help me change into between shots.

After almost two hours, I'm exhausted and ready to head back to my hotel. Hopefully I still have time to FaceTime with my nephew before he falls asleep for the night back in the states.

"Only one more look, my dear,” Jacques says, adjusting the settings on his camera.

I look to the wardrobe rack and there are no outfits left. I assumed we were done. But sure, one more look.

"I'll need you in only the Valentino," he says. "Everything else can go."

I shake my head trying to understand what he's saying. "As in only the Valentino jeans?"

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