A Not So Model Home by David James Page A

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.
    â€œEating disorder?” I offered.
    â€œTeeth bleaching. He doesn’t want to get them stained.”
    â€œBut why would that matter? Apparently they aren’t ever supposed to smile, have a thought, or eat as part of their job.”
    â€œOh, there’s nothing these guys won’t do to remain perfect. Most of them suffer from body dysmorphia.”
    â€œAnd that’s a mortal fear of getting your teeth stained?”
    â€œIt’s an obsession with perceived defects in a person’s body.”
    â€œIn whose body?”
    â€œThe body of the sufferer.”
    â€œOh, I thought it might involve finding defects in another person’s body.”
    â€œThat’s another disorder, Amanda.”
    â€œAnd that is called . . . ?”
    â€œBitchiness. 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.”
    â€œWell, Aurora, I guess that accounts for all the plastic surgeons we have in southern California.”
    â€œAmanda, it’s not just the surgeons. There are hoards of people willing to do anything to indulge the crazy ideas these