Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,26
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