The Supermodel's New Clothes

by Imnay Udosay


Many years ago, there was a famous Supermodel, known throughout the world for her devotion to fashion. She cared for nothing else; only the colors, the cuts, the fabric, and all the available accessories that one could conceive. She would not let anything other than the finest of cloth touch her precious, exotic skin. She was so successful and so respected that when the time came, it was easy for her to launch her own designer line of clothes. You see she was more than just a pretty face and slender frame; she loved the art of fashion. Oh yes, she would conspire within her mind all the different shapes and styles and combinations that one could ever possibly wear. And it was said that she nary wore the same outfit twice. She, and all around her, knew that her taste was unquestionable.

Now there arrived on the scene a designer whose creations were said to have a mystical power. The story was spread around the fashion elite and their underlings that a dress or skirt or pantsuit designed by this fellow would be invisible to anyone who had a limited fashion sense. You see, the gods of fashion had blessed this fellow with such talent that anyone who could not appreciate it would not be allowed the privilege of even seeing it. Such are the “artistic” gods.

This, of course, was all falsehood and the bogus designer had himself spread the tall tales about his ability. Truth be told, he was just a simple con man recently escaped from an Italian jail, but he was such a fine liar that everyone believed in him.

The Supermodel said to her assistant, Stephan (pronounced STEF-on, please don’t confuse it with Steven!) … anyway, she said to Stephan that she must have this designer for her new spring line and that she herself would be the lead model for his exquisite work for the big spring show. Now, she had not done any modeling herself for several years and this made all the underlings quite nervous and they knew that they had better see to it that this designer did his absolute best work.

The con-man designer was indeed hired and he began to ask for all the most expensive types of cloth and ribbon and silk, etc. As you should guess, he was just keeping all this material to resell at a later date as to line his own pockets twice. He refused an assistant, declaring that he only worked alone and that he must conjure with various dark arts for the magic to take hold and that these things were his secrets.

After a time, the Supermodel started to get a bit impatient so she sent her assistant, Stephan to go and check on the fellow and bring back a report on the progress he was making.

Stephan went downtown to the studio where the clothes were made. He quietly went in the back door so as to spy briefly before making his presence known. What he saw was of great distress to him for he saw nothing at all. Here was this fellow cutting and stitching and sewing…nothing! “Is it true that I have no taste in fashion?” Stephan lisped to himself. “Could my fashion sense truly be limited…am I a Ralph Lauren retard? A Donatella dunce?”

“Ahem,” Stephan came into the room, exuding an air of confidence.

“Ah, my good man,” said the phony designer, “What do you think, eh? Most beautiful?” He held up nothing in the air as if it were a spider’s web, as if touching it would spoil it.

“Um, yes, quite…um…astonishing. Indeed. Where did you get your inspiration?”

The fellow went on about various places and colors and things such as to give Stephan an idea of the type of garment they were both imagining.

Stephan reported back to the Supermodel with all haste, reciting to her all that he heard from the man. The Supermodel was happy at the news but she did not fully trust Stephan’s judgment, so later that week she also sent her intern, an eager young fashionista with a sharp eye and Gucci in her bones.

The young woman had also the same experience with the con man and not wanting to betray her taste, said nothing but high praise for the work of this false fashion manufacturer.

“I want to know the minute he has something finished,” declared the Supermodel and so a few days later they all went down to the studio to see a couple pieces that had been said to be complete.

Upon entering the place and coming up the area where the fellow was snipping away with his scissors at an exquisite roll of invisible linen, the Supermodel, looking around, began to feel dread. “This can’t be,” she thought. “I’m a Supermodel!” For she, also, saw nothing. She pushed the fear aside, telling herself that success is more about confidence than talent anyway.

“Is there something I should try on?” she inquired. “Yes,” replied the con man, “This one right here. I made the blue silk embroidered trim to match your eyes perfectly. “

He held the hanger up to her neck, as though dangling from it was a beautiful evening gown.

“Come help me.” She spoke to her intern, who was gazing at the unseen as if it were something she would like to wear but knowing that she was too petite. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she exclaimed.

The two ladies ducked behind a divider and the Supermodel returned a moment later, quite exposed but sure that she was most splendidly adorned.

“How is it?” She did a little spin.

Stephan looked her up and down and attempted to disguise his awkwardness.

“You look absolutely…stunning,” he said in a voice deeper than anyone had ever heard out of his mouth.

The Supermodel looked down at his pants.

“Your crotch betrays you, Stephan, in more ways than one. You’re fired.”


The night of the big Spring show finally arrived and the anticipation was felt throughout the event hall, both in the audience and backstage, where a menagerie of young models were all being helped into their outré outfits by the deceitful designer himself. One by one they were helped into shirts and skirts and dresses and heels (the shoes were real, by the way.) Not one of them saying anything at all to the other to suggest that all of them were quite, entirely naked; except for the shoes.

“You are truly a genius,” one of them said to the con-man with the utmost of sincerest admiration.

“Thank you, my dear. No one could look more perfect in that outfit than you.”

The young woman blushed, not of shame but from the compliment of a master.

Now Sting was finishing up his opening set and the girls were ready.

The Supermodel walked up to the group and called them to attention so as to give them their final pep talk. “Ladies, you all look so beautiful. Let’s hear it for the one who has made this night possible.” They all looked over at the gentlemen who’d given them the goods and gave a little girly applause. “All right, girls, here we go…”

The announcer finished his introduction and the ladies began slowly walking toward their entrance with Ms. Supermodel at the front of the line…

The Euro-Dance music began with a deep groove. The audience was still applauding when the Supermodel walked out from behind the wall, the dropped jaws and gaping eyes only served to support her fantasy that she was indeed wearing the finest clothes ever fashioned in the world.

As she began her stride down the extra long catwalk configured for this anticipated event, along with the trail of models that came after her, she began to notice the photographers smiling at each other and looking back at her in a way that one does not look at clothes. And she began to realize the look on people’s faces was one more of shock. Then she distinctly heard someone in the front row say, “Omigod, they’re naked!” And the Supermodel was vexed for she knew it was true, but she knew the show must go on for she could not show weakness. So she strutted all the more boldly, heel to toe, with even more verve and audacious attitude, her calves and thighs flexing like a thoroughbred, her hips swinging back and forth.

And all the models following behind their mentor pranced along, swinging their arms and flipping their unseen scarves; turning and twisting as though they were wearing the most graceful, flowing garments ever gathered in one place.

The end.