When a struggling Broadway talent agent reluctantly agrees to represent a male stripper, she finds out there's more to her new client than oiled abs.
Season 1 of Strip in the City
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Today might be the worst day of my life. I just lost my biggest c...
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This week had descended on me like the monkeys from Wicked, sprouting its own set of bat wings and taking flight. And no, I'm not using that euphemism in a good way. I mean it in the most horrifying and literal way possible.
On Monday, I'd sold my car and relinquished my beloved parking spot, which left me feeling strangely claustrophobic. The only way I could escape Manhattan now was by ferry or subway, and I was trying to avoid both of those after becoming #AllWashedUp. Everywhere I went it seemed someone recognized me as the girl who lost her boob tape in the pool.
Some people wanted to take pictures with me. Some people told me how sorry they were about the whole thing, while others asked me what brand of boob tape I'd been wearing that night so they'd know not to buy it. At this point, I was thinking of starting a blog just to preemptively answer all the stupid questions I'd been asked on the daily.
Tuesday and Wednesday I spent at my office workspace, auditioning prospective clients. My friends Sefarino and Hope, the Interior Designers—had sat in with me for fun.
By the end of the day, I was left feeling uninspired, even though I'd extended fair contracts for talent management to two of them. One was a good fit for a children's theater audition that had a casting call off-Broadway, and the other was a decent fit for a parody musical that was holding auditions.
Musical comedy and children's theater weren't my main focus as a talent manager, but I knew enough about the scene to feel confident in my ability to book their auditions.
Both actors eagerly signed, and now I had two more actors to manage than last week. Neither was my next Patrick Longo, which—considering his actions might be a good thing—but I saw potential in their future. I explained to both actors that I was a client-first agent looking to help build their careers.
It was a small win for my business, but at the end of the day, I still felt washed up. My new actors would need to secure roles before I'd see a commission, and my bills were growing by the day.
I managed to drag myself to Flow, the pilates studio Tan and I worked out at, for the first time since my social media belly flop.
One perk of the whole going viralthing was that my pilates studio gifted me a year of free classes as a token of their appreciation. After everyone on social media kept asking where I'd gotten my "great ass" from, I'd tagged the pilates studio as a joke.
As it turned out, people took me seriously.
"We've been getting so much business at both our locations since you tagged us in those viral posts, and we wanted to pay our gratitude forward," the bubbly, athleisure-wearing manager explained to me.
She pointed to a picture of me at Patrick's premiere that they'd printed off my public Instagram page and framed. It was sitting on the reception desk beside a stack of business cards. I tried to keep my absolute horror behind my teeth when I read the caption.
