Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,35
opportunity offender, if you will. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a kumquat that’s calling me. A pleasure to meet you.”
I left her standing there, unsure whether I was a bitch, really had fruit to buy, or was too much of a celebrity to bother with the unwashed masses. And to tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure what I was just then either.
CHAPTER 14
What Does A Scotsman Have Hidden Under His Kilt?
“Well, Toviah broke the code of ethics for models—he smiled on the runway. Everyone knows you’re supposed to be devoid of emotion, thought, and feeling during a show. I mean, no wonder he can’t find work. He did it to himself,” David warned.
We were all seated around Ian’s cavernous living room, cameras rolling while we waited for Aleksei to arrive. In the beginning, Jeremy insisted that everyone be present when we began shooting, but two things changed his mind. Having people show up naturally was, well, more real. Plus, these were gay men. Correction, these were gay men who were models—they rarely showed up on time. When Aleksei finally did enter the room, something was out of place about him: He was wearing a hat instead of sporting a new hair color or style.
“What’s with the hat?” Ian asked.
Without saying a word, Aleksei removed his cap to reveal a bald scalp that looked like it had been scrubbed with a steel wool pad. His scalp was an angry red.
“Someone put depilatory in my shampoo. I felt it when I was shampooing—the burning—but by the time I figured out what was happening, it was too late.”
“That’s too bad, Aleksei. Maybe it was just cheap shampoo,” David replied with just a hint of a smile on his face.
“And maybe it was just someone cheap who put that hair remover into my shampoo?” Aleksei fired back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Aleksei. I have no reason to sabotage you or anyone on this show. I will win this thing fair and square. I don’t need to resort to childish tricks. Why don’t you wear your wigs, then?”
“Someone cut those up as well.”
Just then, Gilles joined us in the living room. Naked. Yes, he was huge. I mean, huge. And second, he was definitely European. Now I understood Ian’s attraction to Gilles.
“Well, someone act like a child,” Gilles joined in. He held up a pair of pants to reveal a large, ragged hole in the seat area. All my pants, ze swim suits, zhorts . . . all zeese holes!” He sat down dejectedly on a white cotton duck sofa. “I need to look good for the camera.”
I made a mental note not to sit on that sofa again.
“Gilles,” I started, “in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re filming here. I know you might live in the Marais in Paris, but here in Palm Springs, we wear clothes . . . sometimes. Or at least underwear. Some of us . . . especially when we’re in front of cameras.”
I knew perfectly clear why Gilles had come into the filming naked. Partly, he was French. But mainly, he was showing off his assets—something that Ian didn’t fail to notice. Nor I. I had to hand it to him, he had a huge cock. Low-hanging balls. Pubic hair that needed a trim, but other than that . . . I understood that women weren’t supposed to think about such things, let alone talk about them, but there was something about dicks being so primal. The undeniable masculinity of a man. And yes, I was horny. Ken was still caring for his mother and I hadn’t gotten laid in weeks. Believe me, nothing else about Gilles turned me on, but his dick was reminding me that I needed to get laid. And soon.
“I think someone is trying to send a message,” I added.
“I agree,” David chipped in. “You could drive a Cadillac Escalade through that hole.”
Gilles agreed. “Zhoost look at zeese hole,” he said, holding up the violated pair of pants again.
“I wasn’t talking about that hole, Gilles.”
Gilles threw the pair of pants on the floor in disgust. “I don’t know why you must attack Gilles so much.”
“Because you throw the blood in the water yourself. A shark can’t say no.”
“I just don’t know why they don’t finish this contest seeze day and declare me zee winner. If I don’t win soon, I will have to zell my body on the street.”
“Gilles, you can’t sell from an empty pushcart,” I said, lobbing in a