A friend of mine suggested, I write a tell-all book, about men I’ve known.
Please don’t mistake this for hubris, but models quite often are thrown into the path of the rich and famous.
“It would be a hit,” my friend said. “You’d make money.”
If anyone needs cash, it’s me, but to earn it by telling secrets, taints the privilege, to say the least.
I treat others the way I want to be treated, therefore, HATE when I’m gossiped about. I mean, really HATE it.
Recently, on a job, I overheard someone telling someone else I suffer from hearing loss, like I was some kind of freak at a carnival. I was so upset, running into the bathroom to cry.
It wasn’t the hearing loss part, since I’ve finally owned my plight, it was how she spoke of me, as if I’m half a person it’s best to stay clear of.
I knew a girl, once married to the comic Richard Pryor, who wrote one of those books….Tarnished Angel, l believe is what it was called, and she went on all the top talk shows carrying on about, who was great in bed and who wasn’t.
I remember cringing as I watched, the display, so very awful.
I’d rather be broke then globally offensive.
My friend…very connected in the publishing world, meant well, but it’s just not in me to kiss and tell.
Not my 20, as they say in Harlem, discretion being a trait, I can’t help but to admire in myself.