An American Apparel model's defense of the controversial CEO

Click here to view a gallery of American Apparel's most famous and provocative ads


I hate being sticky. I hate being sticky and I am laying on my back on the floor, my naked chest covered in cheap syrupy lube whose original purpose was not this one, because as much as I hate the feeling of liquid silicone accumulating in my belly button, I love Dov Charney more.

The notorious T-shirt magnate is hovering over me with his camera, pleading with me to look more into this, more like I want to come. I tell him I am trying as I narrow my eyes and lick my lips, but that it's hard because, I tell him, I am incredibly hungover. My best friend calls to him from the couch between bites of potato chips, proclaiming this to be very true. We were more than five hours late to this shoot at Dov's loft in Manhattan because I could not stop puking up the entire bottle of wine I downed the night before. I blame the friend because it was her birthday, although when I glimpse my protruding ribs on the back of L.A. Weekly weeks later, I'm secretly thankful for having nothing left in my stomach that day.

Dov is just like any other dude who loves soda and hot girls, except he created the perfect T-shirt and he likes sex ... a lotI try harder for Dov. I shield my eyes from the camera flash, my head still throbbing with cheap merlot. Next month, when I go home to L.A. for my winter break, I will see this exact moment plastered back-to-back with another on a big billboard on Sunset Boulevard. I will simultaneously remember the wine and the lube, and I will immediately crave a hot shower.

I met Dov two years ago. In less than an hour after our introduction, he started taking pictures of me. He had asked me come down to the American Apparel factory and main offices in downtown L.A. after I had submitted a picture of myself with a big wet pink pout to the company via an e-mail on a dare. I knew what the ads looked like, but the prospect of meeting the controversial CEO with those generous muttonchops was just too tempting.

Upon meeting Dov, I was pleasantly surprised. Far from the lothario I expected, Charney seemed to be perfectly harmless as he stood at least three inches beneath me. Our introduction was simple enough, just like shaking hands and smiling hopefully at any other potential employer.

Dov quickly launched into a conversation about 50 different things at once with nearly as many people. Employees constantly streamed in and out of his big white office (which was also not the dank and perverse sex dungeon of the media imagination).

Naturally, I was waiting for the situation to turn into the opening scene from any basic porn flick, but Dov just offered me a Coke from his office fridge. I immediately began to dismiss the nasty rumors about him. He seemed just like any other dude who loves soda and hot girls, except he created the perfect T-shirt and he likes sex ... a lot. Which, really, what normal guy doesn't?

Up next on the agenda was a tour of the factory, which occupies the floors below Dov's office. Cheering on his workers as they huddle diligently over yards and yards of AA's trademark colorful cotton blends, we ran up and down the factory floors while Dov described his business philosophy. It was all incredibly sexy—the vibrant colors, the hum of the machines. And like that, within an hour of meeting Dov, I am on my back and my shirt is on the floor while he, in the politest way possible, is telling me I have perfect boobs.

Maybe Dov's the man women always wanted in their lives, the one who shoves French takeout in front of them, tells them they're beautiful in spandex, and gives them vibrators just becauseTo date, Dov has faced three sexual harassment lawsuits. Two of the suits were settled out of court in 2005, one is still pending, and all three were brought on by former employees. As a model, I am technically an employee. Never, however, has Dov ever made me uncomfortable. If I don't want to pose a certain way, then I simply don't. Never has there been any coercion and definitely no need for legal intervention; it's as simple as, "No, Dov." Then we move on. If you choose to get involved with the company, you must know that American Apparel comes standard with an image dripping with all things sexual and sensual. It's raw, it's sometimes controversial. We all know what's going on. We're all adults here.

About a year ago, I gave an interview to my friend's website, bigstonehead.net. This comment was left soon after: "I have met the man and hated him from that day on. I think a lot of these girls fall in love with Dov Charney because of all the money that he throws at them and the fact they gain some type of celebrity status with other employees at American Apparel. I also know that he [Dov] has paid people to blog good things about himself, and that his whole persona he has been developed over the years. He is another guy that loves to throw in the fact that his company is risqué and he is also Jewish. Wow!! Ugh."

For the record, I don't get paid money every time my face or body shows up somewhere. Nor has any other American Apparel employee ever said anything to me. In fact, I've never even met another model. Dov (which means "bear" in Hebrew, by the way) is incredibly protective of his models.

You could think of Dov as a champion for positive body image. He likes his models happy and squishy, unlike the emaciated aliens of the runways. I gained a few pounds after our first photo shoot, and family and friends would comment on my "fuller, softer facial features," much to my dismay. In a world where cheekbones are artificially enhanced, this sucked. But when I saw Dov for the first time since gaining a few curves, he told me I looked better than ever, sincerely. Any man who wants me to eat more is just hands down fucking great.

So why do people love to hate Dov then? Maybe it's because he's exactly who men aspire to be: an incredible entrepreneur, constantly surrounded by beautiful people, successful, powerful. And for women, maybe he's the man they've always wanted in their lives, the one who shoves French takeout in front of them, tells them they're beautiful in spandex, and gives them vibrators just because. For the record, this rumor about Dov is true and I've never been more thankful. Anyone who thinks getting a guaranteed orgasm as a gift is gross is lying. Straight up lying.

Still, both strangers and my friends alike ask me about Dov all the time. Their questions are usually along these lines: "Oh, that's you half-naked right there? That's totally cool. So, isn't Dov Charney like a huge perv?" It's the "isn't" that really gets to me, because it means that everyone just assumes he is nasty. To which I say no, not at all. Yes, he is sexual. He is a man with a penis. So what if he vocalizes it a little more than your male typical coworker/roommate/ex-boyfriend? As long as he doesn't try to stick in you, who cares?

Let's get to the assumptions: You probably assume that I am a dumb ho who is too strung out on coke and low self-esteem to note the difference between a compliment and harassment. Sorry to disappoint. My upbringing was incredibly boring, complete with a cute dog and an involved father. I go to a damn good college in the Hudson Valley and I love my friends more than you love yours. Nothing I do is an attempt to channel self-loathing or to make up for crappy relationships. I think my nearly naked ads on the back covers of your magazines and newspapers are funny. When I am old and my metabolism gives up on my steady diet of cheese popcorn and my once-glorious boobs are no longer perfect, at least I will have the proof that once upon a time I didn't go to the gym and I was still pretty fucking hot.

After the aforementioned hangover shoot this past November, Dov spent weeks editing the photos before they went up on the americanapparel.net site. He was proud of his hard work, but when I saw the slideshows for the first time, the sight of my bare nipples scared the shit out of me. Even I have my limits. So I called him, woke him up, told him I was freaking out. Immediately, he replaced the pictures with ones sans nips. Again, simple. "Claire," he told me, "I would never use pictures you weren't completely comfortable with, you know that."

I talk to Dov a few times a month over the phone. Usually it's a short conversation. He just wants to check in, make sure I'm alright. I ask how his life is going, how the new mannequins are going, if he's seen any good porn lately. He asks if I have seen any myself lately, how school is going, if I'm putting the vibrator to good use. How we got to be such good friends is a mystery. Maybe it's because we both divide our lives between Los Angeles and New York. He understands how it feels to miss palm trees or the smell of snow, depending on which city I'm in at the time. Or maybe it's just because you have to feel a bond with someone in order to let him dribble lube all over you.

Whatever the reason, our conversations always end the same way, in a serious tone of voice bereft of the usual playful lisp. "Call me anytime, Claire, for anything. I'm always here for you." And you know what? I would.