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Authors: David James

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C
HAPTER 8
I'm Ready for My Close-Up, Mr. DeMille
I
t was the first day of shooting. We were starting early, but I had to make a stop before I drove over to Ian's house. I had to check on one of my rentals since the tenants had stopped paying rent and I wanted to make sure they had moved out as promised. I could have had them evicted, but that takes a long time and a lot of money, so I talked them into leaving peacefully and, in return, I wouldn't report them to a credit agency.
When the money was really rolling in until the economic Big Bang, I bought several condos that I figured I could rent out for a few years, then sell at a big profit since everything was going to go up forever and ever. This one was in a development in central Palm Springs, modern with a two-story atrium, and really very dramatic, inside and out. I fell in love with it the day I bought it.
When I walked up the sidewalk to the front door, something was amiss with the front door: it was a-missing. As I walked inside, I quickly discovered that everything else was missing, too—the stove, microwave, refrigerator, bathroom vanities, even the toilets. Yes, the toilets. Did they take them dirty? Needless to say, I wasn't in a good mood when I left the condo and headed over to Ian's house.
As I pulled up to Ian's house, it looked more like a beehive than a place where an over-pampered multimillionaire hairdresser lived. There were half a dozen trucks parked on the street, with men carrying equipment, and women brandishing walkie-talkies—money was being spent on a grand scale.
I was stopped by a frantic woman with a walkie-talkie who, after ascertaining that I was a member of the show and not a crazed lunatic trying to crash the shoot, waved me into the parking area outside Ian's garage. Once again, my Toyota Land Cruiser was the shabbiest car in the lot, showed up by the Bentleys, Mercedes-Benz SLS, and, landing at the top of the car heap, a beige, two-toned Maybach Landaulet—Ian's, with the vanity license plate spelling WHAT IF.
I was directed to a tent that had been set up for wardrobe and makeup, which I thought was odd, since this was supposed to be a reality show. Apparently, they didn't want
too
much reality. I brought my own bathing suit, opening credits outfit, and several changes of clothing, all of which were put aside in a closet by my stylist, Jacob. Pronounced Yak-obb, even though he didn't have an accent.
“First thing, we're going to shoot the opening credits, where you appear with your name. Jeremy wants you looking fabulous, since this shot will not only open each show, but they'll use this shot in the promos too,” Jacob said, turning me around slowly and sizing me up like a cut of yellowfin tuna at a Japanese fish auction.
“Promos?”
“The commercials they run to advertise the show. Also on the Web site, blogs, etcetera, etcetera. You're gonna be all over the world. For your credit shot, Jeremy wanted you in this little number,” he said. “The color is more color-friendly to the cameras than the stuff you brought.”
Little is right: There was very little to it. It looked like at one time it was a legitimate dress, but that it had been clawed by a cougar. Folded up, I imagined it filled a measuring cup with room to spare.
“It's awfully sheer,” I mentioned, a fact that fell on deaf ears.
“Let's see you in that first, then we'll do your hair,” he said, shushing me off to a curtained booth to change.
I slipped into the dress, and yes, it was awfully sheer. Thank goddess I worked out, rode eighty miles a week on my road bike, and hiked every other week. When I presented myself to Jacob and looked at myself in the mirror, I could see what was wrong with it right away. My nipples were plainly visible.
“Jacob?” I suggested. “You might want to tape over my nipples . . . they're showing. We don't want that on national television, do we?”
I received a withering look that would have killed a cactus.
“Why do you think Jeremy picked out the dress? He wants viewers to see your nipples.”
Clearly, I wasn't getting through to Jacob. “I'm not sure that's such a good idea.”
“Trust me, sweetie, we'll make it look tasteful. We're not gonna make you look like a street walker.”
As soon as Jacob had uttered those words, they lodged in my head like buckshot from Dick Cheney's gun. I was going to look like a slut on national television.
“It looks great. Now don't worry, Miranda.”
“Amanda.”
“Yeah, whatever. Look, you're in my hands; my job is to make you look great for the show. C'mon. This is a gay show, not
The Real Housewives of Orange County
. Now there's a truckload of skanky pole dancers for you. Trust me . . . pleeeeaaassseee?”
“Okay, Jacob. I'm going to trust you.”
“Great, you're going to look fabulous! Let's see the hair stylist now.”
“Stylist? I think my hair looks great now.”
This time, a look of
do-you-really-think-that-you-poor-thing?
“Jacob, I have a hair stylist here in town. Roberto. Yes, he's a little dramatic, but he does a good job and he's good with color. I mean, yes, he does like driving down to Oceanside to pick up Marines occasionally, but . . .”
Jacob stopped leading me toward the hair and makeup styling tent, turned around, then put his hand over my mouth.
“Are you through?”
“Yes, I guess so. I'm just a little nervous.”
“That's normal. Being on television for the first time.”
“No, not that. I do have a guy who styles my hair here in town. If I get it styled for the show, Roberto is going to know next time I see him.”
“He'll get over it.”
“He's a dramatic Brazilian queen. You don't want to piss off a hairdresser, especially him, any more than you want to aggravate a plastic surgeon as you go under the knife or an airplane pilot before takeoff. They can make life really ugly for you if they want.”
“Amanda, darling, who is this whole show about?”
“Ian Forbes.”
“That's right. The man who made millions cutting hair correctly. Do you think Jeremy is going to let just anyone cut hair on this show? He knows Ian is going to be watching everything. So relax and trust me. You're going to have Sebastian from Ian's own salon in Beverly Hills do your hair. He's refused to style some of the biggest names in Hollywood, he's that good. ”
“Shit. Sorry. I guess I am lucky.”
“You don't know how lucky you are. You are going to look so great, your life is never going to be the same again.”
Little did I know how right he was going to be.
 
I got my hair styled and I had to agree, in the hands of a talented stylist, a lump of clay could be made into a masterpiece. In fact, it was a revelation that made me deliriously happy, then angry for all the years and thousands of dollars I'd spent thinking I couldn't improve my appearance any more than what the gods gave me. My problem is that I was hiring amateurs. I looked in the mirror as Sebastian finished up on me and I looked at my reflection—it struck me that I wasn't a bad-looking woman. Or, at least now I wasn't. The reality was that there was always great potential there. It just took someone like Sebastian to give me enough style to make me shine.
“There,” Sebastian said, giving me a hand mirror so I could admire myself up close. “You look like Jane Lynch from
Glee
. Sexy, smart, not too polished. Natural. Plus, it helps play up your nose.”
“My nose?” I asked like a bleary-eyed child. “Play it up?”
“Oh, yes. I like your nose. Very come-fuck-me.”
I never thought about a nose inviting fornication, but I suppose it was possible. Over the years, I've heard of guys getting turned on by everything from writhing in custard to wearing certain wristwatches. Yes, wristwatches. The right kind of wristwatch can make some guys cum. Go figure.
“Come . . . ?”
“Your nose. It is very sexy. Very virile, aristocratic.”
I put my hand on Sebastian's arm. “You find my nose aristocratic? When I think of aristocratic noses, I think of pointy, sharp ones like the British.”
“Well, then, Amanda, you haven't spent enough time in Europe. The continent. The French. The Italians. Germans. All big. You are beautiful, now go and make love to the camera.”
As I was escorted away by Jacob, I had to ask the question: “Is Sebastian straight?”
“Yes, he is. His girlfriend is absolutely stunning,” Jacob added.
“Does she have a big nose?”
Jacob thought for a moment. “I don't really remember. But he seemed to like you.”
“Nooooo, Jacob! He was just being nice.”
“No, I've seen him style lots of women. He doesn't flirt with them like he did with you.”
I thought no more about what Jacob said for the time being. I got into my dress and when I was squeezed into it, they made me up. I stole another look in the mirror and, Jesus, if I didn't look fantastic. It was a whole new way of thinking for me.
I got to the set and they were just finishing up shooting Keith MacGregor. Keith was attired in a black silky shirt unbuttoned practically to his waist, showing off his hairless chest and tan. And, if I wasn't mistaken, his padded crotch. Now, I'm no slut, but I have seen a number of male boxes in my time, and I can tell when one is not all-natural. Keith's crotch wasn't anything to sneeze at, but it seemed more than prominent, compliments of the stylist staff. I wonder if they were serving kielbasa at the lunch. I mean, it ran a few inches down his right leg.
As for the rest of him, Keith had that relaxed, easygoing presence in front of the camera and acted like he spent all his life in front of one. He probably did just one take, just like Elizabeth Taylor.
My television debut was a little different. I didn't even have to talk. All I had to do was smile and turn toward the camera with my body. But I couldn't get it right. Take after take, and I couldn't act natural. Go figure . . . a reality show and I couldn't be real.
The assistant director, Matthew, finally spoke up, “Amanda, just stop trying to be a character. Be yourself.”
“Easy for you to say,” I replied. “I'm still trying to figure out that one.”
Eventually, the cameraman either got the promo footage he wanted or he just plain gave up. He released me to get into my own personal swimsuit, which apparently wasn't so hideous, so I was allowed to head out to the pool area. In hindsight, I should have turned back right then and there. But that's the problem with hindsight. It only comes to you after you really need it.
C
HAPTER 9
Open Mouth, Insert Prada Loafer
A
s I saw the pool area, I almost gasped. It was beyond spectacular. The huge pots of cactuses that ringed the pool were retrofitted with blooming flowers that would burn up after a single day of shooting. Fabric cabanas lined the south end of the pool, and even though the day was pleasantly warm, misting systems spewed clouds of evaporative water, providing a cool oasis through the miracle of pressured water and the laws of thermodynamics. There were buff waiters wearing skintight neoprene short shorts that clung to every crack and bulge. On each tray of food that the waiters carried were incredibly elaborate finger foods and appetizers that trumpeted hours and hours of cooking and hand assemblage. And then there was the alcohol. It poured from bottles that seemed to be everywhere. Everywhere. This was reality?
As a tray of bubbling champagne flutes with the label of Dom Perignon prominently displayed for the cameras floated by, I grabbed a glass and downed it, bolstering my courage.
When everyone was in place, I felt like the science nerd at a party of high-school cheerleaders. So I did what any socially outcast person would do: I moved nearest people who were the least threat to me, and that person turned out to be Aurora. We camped out in one of the cabanas, owing to Aurora's third bout with skin cancer.
It was then that a cameraman moved in on the two of us. There was no hiding.
The assistant, who was part of the audio dialogue, prompted us to start the ball a rollin'.
The question: You've met the contestants. So how do you think they're going to fare?
Like a coward, I turned the question over to Aurora, who immediately slipped into her persona, which was a natural. She looked at, no, confronted, the camera, then gave her verdict: “I think they all have a good shot at winning Ian's hand, seeing that we've just started. But I have my eyes on Gilles. He's rude, arrogant, and self-absorbed. I don't know if he's going to make it.”
I would have thought that these qualities would make him the perfect match for Ian. In all candor, these were the qualities that pushed Ian to the top of the international world of beauty. He was not only known for styling some of the world's most famous women, but he gained his real fame by berating those same women for seeing shitty hair stylists. His famed disagreement with Elizabeth Taylor over a hairstyle reduced her to tears. It also made him a star. And even more famous. And infinitely desirable.
The camera swung to me, waiting for me to add something wonderful and remarkable. I froze up. I knew I was supposed to add something to what Aurora had so adroitly thrown out there, but I was so nervous I couldn't come up with a great, insightful sound bite. Nothing. So I merely said what popped into my head: “I don't know what Gilles is after, but he seems like gold-digging Eurotrash.”
After it was out of my mouth, I realized that I should have been more diplomatic, but goddammit, this show was after reality and that's the reality that the champagne fed me. Fuck 'em.
Aurora tried valiantly to cover up the mess I had made, then sat in.
“I think what Amanda is trying to say is that Gilles has preconceived ideas of his worth as Ian's possible partner and heir, and they don't necessarily coincide with what's good for Ian. As for the rest of the guys, what I saw on my first meeting appalled me. Most of the men were texting, playing video games, and not paying attention to information about this program,” she said, jabbing her pointy index-finger talon toward the ground for emphasis. “You'd think that they would be taking this whole situation a lot more seriously! I mean, if I were in the position to potentially inherit the kind of money that would make me secure for life and have a famous lover to boot, I would throw myself into the effort. But these guys are used to putting on some fancy clothes in Paris or New York and walking down a runway and having people fawn over them. Well, that's not going to happen here. If these guys think they're going to flash some white teeth, wear tight trousers, flirt with Ian, and be declared the best match for him, they better think again. We will have to see how things turn out. I don't have
any
favorites yet, but today will produce some winners”—she flipped her head to camera number two for emphasis—“and some
real
losers.”
Okay, so her response was a tad better than mine. My first episode and I had blown it. To top it off, I had blurted out my bombshell while I was drunk. No, make that tipsy. That was my official story and I was going to stick to it. The sad thing is that what I had said was what I felt about Gilles. My reality. He really was a piece of gold-digging Eurotrash. What Ian saw in such people mystified me, but I guess a pretty face, washboard abs, and huge uncut dick added up to qualities that an over-the-hill, overweight hair stylist nearing sixty-seven would leap for. For me, it seemed ludicrous that the majority of the human race leaped toward those who provided a great face or a hot bod. And as we got older, you would think that we would be past the shell game of good looks, but as we got older and more able to afford the young, desperate people jumped at youth. The saying that “Old age and treachery always win over youth and skill” seemed like a lie perpetrated by ugly old queens. I can't tell you how many times I've been dining in local restaurants or perusing the local modern furniture stores only to see a January-December romance. The young escort leading the old queen around by the ring in his nose, buying $35,000 sofas, $140,000 cars, and Viagra by the barrel. The face and body always won. But not while I was still alive. Not on my watch. Not this time.
The cameramen moved on since it appeared that Aurora and I were done. They concentrated on Ian, who was holding court like King Louis XIV, his courtiers sitting in rapt attention to a story of how he threw Sharon Stone out of his salon one day when she requested that he weave bits of bark and leaves into her hair for an awards show. (She was trying to get in touch with nature.)
And that was that. Until lunch, that is. We were all herded to the canteen tents, where the only food being served was devoid of carbs. Just meat and steamed vegetables. Jeremy had seen to it that no one on the show developed unsightly bulges while the season was being filmed. This was a reality show and reality was thin.
As I sat across from Aurora, who went on and on about her impressions about the contestants and how she saw their chances (after basically one meeting), I noticed some of the weirdest eating habits I had ever laid eyes on. Aleksei was drinking his Diet Coke through a straw. That might not sound weird, but he stuck the straw a good six inches down his throat, then like a snake, sucked up the caramel-colored liquid and swallowed it in waves, like a snake trying to ingest a raccoon. I pointed out this strange phenomenon to Aurora, who dismissed it with an I've-seen-it-all wave of her black-fingernail–tipped hand.
“Eating disorder?” I offered.
“Teeth bleaching. He doesn't want to get them stained.”
“But why would that matter? Apparently they aren't ever supposed to smile, have a thought, or eat as part of their job.”
“Oh, there's nothing these guys won't do to remain perfect. Most of them suffer from body dysmorphia.”
“And that's a mortal fear of getting your teeth stained?”
“It's an obsession with perceived defects in a person's body.”
“In whose body?”
“The body of the sufferer.”
“Oh, I thought it might involve finding defects in another person's body.”
“That's another disorder, Amanda.”
“And that is called . . . ?”
“Bitchiness. No, these guys can't stop obsessing with the idea that specific parts of their bodies are imperfect. They keep me and a lot of plastic surgeons in business.”
“Well, Aurora, I guess that accounts for all the plastic surgeons we have in southern California.”
“Amanda, it's not just the surgeons. There are hoards of people willing to do anything to indulge the crazy ideas these guys have. There's someone to pluck your eyebrows, suck the fat out of your abdomen, put weights on your balls to make them hang lower, and even people who will bleach your asshole. One to two percent of the world suffers from it,” Aurora reported, a pride emanating from her grasp of the facts.
“I don't believe it.”
“No, it's true. About two in every hundred.”
“No, not the dysmorphia statistics, Aurora. The . . . the . . . er . . . anal bleaching.”
“Getting rid of the chocolate starfish?” she replied naughtily.
“So they get their . . . this area dyed because . . . ?”
“Two reasons. One, aesthetics. Two, it makes them look younger. The way they see it, a whiter asshole says it hasn't been—how do I say this—tinted with time. White teeth, white asshole.”
“Two phrases I never want to hear again in the same sentence. But what does this have to do with modeling? With the possible exception of Thierry Mugler, I don't think any designer would ask these guys to expose their assholes on the catwalk.”
“You don't understand body dysmorphia, Amanda. Like most dysfunctions, they're perceived. Their existence is in the eye of the beholder. These guys spend hours poring over their bodies, waxing, tweezing, and trimming. They examine every part of their bodies . . . even the parts most of us don't see. But
they
see them—the flaws. And they strive for a perfection they can't ever reach, because time is either keeping one step ahead of them, or their perceptions change, so what was considered perfect last week needs changing, plucking this week. It never ends.”
“And all this attention to appearance is why these guys look so good?”
“That, and good genes,” Aurora replied, scanning the guys around the pool.
“I know, you can spout all the bullshit you want about societal values, aesthetics, blah blah blah, but there is something about these guys that makes you look at them. Even when they're not made up, they stand out.”
“Scientists think it has to do with pleasing proportions and exceptional symmetry. I don't know what it is either, Amanda. They do look abnormally handsome, don't they?”
I sighed. “They have such a leg up in life with their looks. I must have spent seven thousand dollars in my lifetime on rejuvenation creams and all I'm doing is reanimating the dead.”
“Don't get all depressed now, Amanda. But there's a lot underneath the beauty that isn't pretty. These guys also suffer because of their looks: visual perfectionism. They won't even go out and get the mail without looking perfect. Look at David Laurant. He has a different, expensive look every single day. One day the hair is white and flipped up, the next it's pasted down and lying flat. Three days from now it will be dyed black. Obsession with image.”
“Aurora, you know all this from just observation?”
“Oh, I know David is obsessed with his image. Gilles is so narcissistic that his therapy should consist of nothing more than staring into a small hand mirror with the words ‘
You Are Beautiful and Perfect
' printed on the surface. Gilles is also incapable of feeling empathy toward any human being. Keith has fears of abandonment and sexual dysfunction that sometimes cripple him. Marcus Blade is another body dysmorphic, taking so many steroids that he almost blew out several arteries a year ago. Drake has a deep-seated need to exert power over men sexually. And Ian . . . Ian. Don't get me started. He's self-obsessed, narcissistic, vain, and uses his money and power to control everyone around him, both through sexual and financial means.”
“Aurora, I'm not sure you should be telling me all this. What happened to doctor–patient confidentiality?”
Aurora gave a quick laugh. “Amanda, the patients I usually work with are important, successful people. You're unlikely to associate with them.”
“Not them, Aurora,” I replied, knocking her off the pedestal I had previously placed her on. “I mean the guys here on the show. What you're telling me is highly confidential.”
“Oh, I don't treat these guys here. Just Ian. The psychiatrists who work with all the other guys told me all this.”
Just then, the three large-screen televisions scattered around the lunch area sprung to life with footage of Keith MacGregor talking to Aleksei while they casually stood around in bathing suits that covered about as much as a playing card. We were then treated to various scenes of the individual contestants capturing their trepidations about being able to win the contest and why they were going to be declared Ian's heir—in equal portions. The editors threw in footage of Aurora, the consummate actor, delivering lines to the cameras like she had grown up cutting her baby teeth on a telephoto lens.
What struck me about what had been captured already on film was how the cameramen seemed to call all the shots for the show and managed to create a show just from their roving cameras. With just a little push, the show seemed to roll along on its own.
Then, up came the part where I called Gilles gold-digging Eurotrash. I heard gasps from a few of the guys, but when I shot a glance over toward Jeremy, he was smiling from ear to ear, Medea smiling over the deaths of her children.

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