My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie He was the best model because every photo had a piece of his soul. It was like The Picture Of Dorian Gray, only sexier; I mean, he at least showed off some of his skin in the shots. No one else could made a shirtless promo for Italian salad dressing so tantalizing. At forty-two years old, Mark Wimbly was brown-haired, green-eyed, slim, svelte, and square-jawed. He looked just as young and dashing as he did at nineteen, the first year he started modeling. That was when he snagged a lucrative gig at Denny's Warehouse, parading tuxedos and three-pieces in front of the camera. At twenty-five, he was the spokesperson for Lancaster Sportswear, the prime actor in Babble Cologne commercials, and a representative for about seventeen other brands of clothing or accessories. Throughout his early years of success, Mark worked with esteemed photographer Lauren Schultz, who managed nearly every photoshoot and wiggled her way into Mark's modeling contracts every time.

Everybody knows that the devil is a woman, and she is mighty fine. She keeps her red horns hidden in her red curls and rides home on the H Line. She'll smoke three packs and say she'll have your back, but with each mistress, it's all the same. It's a mystery to me how I fall for all her schemes, but I guess it's all part of Hell's game.