Brookhaven’s a small town built around a wide, picturesque lake where people fish, swim, and boat in the summer, then lace up their skates once winter hits. It’s full of hard-working, blue-collar folks—electricians, plumbers, farmers, and everyone in between. But lately, being wedged between New York City and Hartford has started to change things.
More commuters are moving in, drawn by the affordable rent prices and quieter, safer streets, while still being close enough to the city lights to feel connected.
For me, it’s just home. The place that I’ve spent all twenty-eighth years of my life, and the keeper of my parent’s memories.
Today’s shoot is for a country music video, set in a stunning outdoor location on the rolling hills of Hartford. The beautiful hills are lush and green this time of the year, the fall having not yet taken over the foliage, but the chill in the air reminds me it’s just around the corner.
I pull up to the set where the farm is located after giving my name with the security guard at the end of a long, winding road.As I stroll into the building, I can’t help but notice how bizarre the set looks.
Dirty, and dusty, what you’d expect for a country music scene hosted on a farm, but sprinkled around the flat, center of the barnyard are cacti that they’ve brought in, despite the majestic mountains towering in the distance, which are in my opinion, much more aesthetically pleasing.
A prop saloon is set up in the middle of it all, and judging by the look of things, this shoot is going for an old, western theme.
I glance down at my outfit again, daisy dukes and a cut off white tank top that I was told to wear to the set. Not exactlyauthentic western wearbut it fits the general style for country music videos.
Finally, I find someone who looks like they know what’s going on amidst the confusion.
“Hi, I’m one of the models,” I say to an important looking man who’s wearing a headset and looks stressed.
“Name please,” he snaps, flipping through a clipboard.
“Rhiannon Carpenter.”
He scans the list in his hand before nodding. “Model number one.” Then pulls a badge out of his pocket and drapes it around my neck. “Don’t take that off unless you’re actively in film. Head inside to the first room on the right for hair and makeup. We’ll call you when we’re ready for you.”
A few hours, a completely new face of makeup and a wardrobe change later, I find myself perched awkwardly atop a beautiful brown horse in front of the makeshift saloon, now wearing an outfit even more revealing than my original.
Apparently, my cutoff tank top wasn’t sexy enough for the creative vision this artist has, so wardrobe, and by wardrobe, Imeanhair and makeup, has swapped it out for a fire-engine-red, silk bra with a bow in the front that leaves little to the imagination.
One strong tug and my boobs are out for everyone on this set to see.
I shift uncomfortably in the saddle, acutely aware of the absurdity of this situation. A bright red bra, jean shorts, and a horse? I have no idea how these things tie into a country music video, but I’m pretty sure it’s got nothing to do with authenticity to the era we’re supposed to be portraying.
Also, I’ve never ridden a horse in my life and I sure as hell didn’t expect my first time to be while half-dressed, in front of a camera crew, pretending like I know what I’m doing. Now that I think about it, nothing in the contract that I signed, and Leo reviewed included me riding on a horse.
“Okay! When we say action, you’re going to guide the horse straight past the saloon while looking back at Davey. Bat your eyelashes then blow him a kiss. Got that, Rhiannon?”
I nod my head. Compared to my other three jobs, cleaning hotel rooms, working as a sex therapist, and supporting our family thrift store, these modeling gigs tend to be the most thoughtless.
Thirty seconds later, the director calls for action, and the unmistakable twang of country-rap music blares through the speakers so loudly that my horse startles.
“Easy, girl,” I whisper to it, though I’m not sure if they’re a girl or a boy.
Davey starts lip-syncing to lyrics that I can barely decipher, and I nudge the horse forward, their steady movements a stark contrast to the chaos that’s happening around us. Luckily, or maybe unluckily for them, they seem used to the music.
I’m nervous, but I find a rhythm quickly, swaying my hips in time with the horse’s stride and pretending that I’m back on the familiar rumble of my brother’s chrome motorcycle.
The cameras whirl around us, capturing every angle as the artist dances around ridiculously in front of the makeshift saloon. I try to sit upright, chest pointed out, with a fake smile plastered across my lips and a prayer that the ribbons covering my boobs don’t come undone.
I toss my hair over my shoulder at the exact moment I’ve been instructed to, locking eyes with Davey and giving him a sultry look, complete with a blown kiss for good measure. He winks and plays along, but just as we ride out of the frame, the horse speeds up unexpectedly.
“Whoa.”
The sudden jolt throws me off balance, and my grip falters. My heart leaps into my throat as I clutch the reins tighter and squeeze my thighs around their strong body, desperately trying to steady myself before I end up in the dirt.
Oh… shit.
Thankfully, I manage to steady myself enough for them to calm down, finally releasing a steady exhale.
