Dear Jill: Should I Date a Male Model?
I’ve been getting a lot of “Dear Jill” questions lately. I’ve also been reminiscing with an old friend, my Modeling Advisory Board member Ricky Haas, about our male model dalliances (does a year+ count as a “dalliance”?). We held a board meeting, the two of us, plus our spouses (what husband doesn’t want to talk about her wife’s hunky ex?), to discuss those rocky times with our exquisitely sculpted pretty boys (I did not actually use the description “exquisitely sculpted” in the meeting, but something similarâ€”that goes over well with husbands also). It got me thinking about one of my favorite “Dear Jill”s of all time. I actually ran it twice in Tear Sheet magazine, seeing as the wisdom contained in it is so timeless.
I’m going to run it again here, as a reminder to send your Dear Jill Questions (they need not be about male models, but those questions are always welcome) and as a test to see if my husband ever reads my blog. If you are a male model, you may want to skip this post. If you do read it, feel free to comment and defend your kind.
Tear Sheet Excerpt:
As this is the Male Model Issue, I decided to reach deep into the cobweb and skeleton-filled Tear Sheet archivesâ€”16 issues backâ€”and resurrect the very first “Dear Jill,” a delicate and intricate analysis of another male model issue: Should one date a male model? My answer hasn’t changed much, since several years of hands-on research have only verified what I suspected all along.
Here’s the original version, with a few edits and improvements derived from experience (those passing years do have some value in the modeling world). Read it, clip it, frame it, and male models: don’t be offended. I’m sure devilish will continue to be desirable well into the next millennium.
Iâ€™m a 19-year-old model from Kansas, and I just arrived in South Beach. I met a guy, a big-time model, at a bar last night. He wants to help me out and take me to New York. Heâ€™s such a hunk! Should I trust him? (He doesnâ€™t know Iâ€™m only 19.)
â€”Dorothy, Miami Beach, FL
Oh Dotty, Dotty, Dotty, Earth to Dotty,
OK, Iâ€™ll skip the â€śYouâ€™re only 19; you should be home playing fetch with Toto, not out in bars flirting with the big dogsâ€ť spiel. After all, youâ€™re older than half the models guzzling beers faster than they can grab for the next free drink pass.
Onto the core issue: the guy. Four years ago my answer would have been simple: No male models ever! My new answer? NO MALE MODELS EVER, NEVER EVER, NO EXCEPTIONS, ABSOLUTELY NOT, NO, NEVER!!!
And who said he was â€śbig-timeâ€ť? Him? Heâ€™s either a conceited liar or a big-time modelâ€”both of which are bad news. Mix the Scarecrow, the Lion, and the Tin Man together; put this scary combo on the yellow brick road walking backwards away from Oz and Gwendolyn and all things good; gradually extract bits of brain, courage, and heart, along with lots of young girlsâ€™ reputations torn up like tornado-struck towns; and, voilĂ , youâ€™ve got the path of the male supermodel.
A bit harsh? Maybe, but never mind, itâ€™s all irrelevant. You canâ€™t keep your age from him forever. As soon as he finds out youâ€™re 19, heâ€™s going to start looking for someone younger.
Bonus question: Are most male models gay? I’ll answer that later this week.