breathless. I love powerful—manly muscles, broad shoulders tapering into narrow hips that curve into a hard athletic ass. Don’t get me wrong. I like the front side of a man, as well. I also find it attractive when a man can carry on a conversation. In the least one that talks. Is this asking too much?
What was wrong with this guy? Was he a mute? I wished he had uttered something about the weather. A little small talk would not have hurt. The silence was painstaking. What was the point of him escorting me if he wasn’t going to try to soothe my nerves? What if I screamed, would that make him react? Speak? Blink? At the end of the ride, I concluded he was the strong silent type.
The elevator stalled a few times on the way up. I felt a pang of panic in the center of my chest. Finally, the elevator stopped on the thirteenth floor. The doors silently flew open and I nearly jumped out. Always being polite, I turned to wave good-bye to the elevator security guard. His face was deadpan, he nodded, I smiled and the doors closed.
I stood in another large foyer; again it was lined with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with black and red walls, painted in a checkerboard pattern. In front of me was another desk made of black marble. Another young woman dressed all in black, go figure. She was uncannily similar to Robin the receptionist downstairs. This pale-blond haired beauty had even more breast cleavage spilling over her outfit. She rose to greet me. At closer observation, I guessed that she was not much older than me. She looked like a pudgy, petite playboy bunny that was stuffed into a Cabbage Patch doll dress.
“Miss Ridame, could you wait here, please?” The blond pointed to a seating area of red leather chairs.
On the wall behind me hung large pictures of previous contestants; they were all extremely beautiful women. I recognized a few familiar faces from prior seasons. The women displayed were the show’s successes. There were quite a few, a dozen or more. According, to the tabloids these women were all happily married to rich, well groomed older men, and younger wealthy men too. All of them were model-material and gorgeous.
Beyond, the receptionist’s desk was a large window with a view of the Santa Monica Pier in the distance. I could see the Pacific Ocean; it was a stunning vista. I stood, admiring it, momentarily distracted before I took a seat.
I fished out of my tiny Chanel the sheet of paper with Bleu-Rae’s answers to why she wanted to be on the show. I went through them, inwardly, cursing Bleu-Rae for not making her notes legible. My eyes scanned the ludicrous chicken scratch.
The list went on and on. What the fuck was my sister thinking? I would be embarrassed to use these answers. I crumpled up the sheet of paper and stuffed it between the arm and cushion of the chair. There was no way I would use them.
I knew nothing about the man who was about to interview me. My nerves began to kick in. I am uncomfortable with this one-on-one stuff. I am much better in a group scenario… preferably when someone is not asking any questions to me—kind of like an orgy, but not. My eyes scanned the lobby, well, judging by the decor— he’s probably in his thirties… fit, tanned, and blond, to match the rest of the personnel. God, I hoped he didn’t don those artificial highlights that some men are getting. Yuck. This look is too metro-man for me.
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blond came out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blonds? It was like the Stepford wives with large implants here. I took a deep breath and stood up.
“Miss Ridame,” the latest blond asked. “Mr. Maximillion will see you in just a moment. May I take your sweater and umbrella?” She reached out to retrieve my things.
“Oh please.” I handed her the umbrella. “I thought it was going to rain today.”
“Rain…” She stared at me dumbfounded and her movements were robotic, as her eyes darted oddly toward the window. “It never rains in southern California.” She giggled.
This blond was making me feel stupid, how ironic. I am not a blond racist. I had nothing against blond females. Most of my girlfriends have blond hair. I don’t tell blond jokes. Bleu-Rae and I were born blond. But, in some cases, if their behaviors fit the stereotype quips, I will not take pity on them. It is not my fault for judging someone who is acting like a bimbo; whether they are black—brunette, or a redhead haired woman. This was not a case of redhead vs. blondes. These girls were acting—
She fumbled with my umbrella and it popped open. I almost laughed out loud.
“I hope that is not a bad sign.” I tried to drown my laughter—she smiled at me—I bit my lower lip. “For me, I mean, a bad sign for me,” I repeated so she didn’t think I was jinxing her day.
“Yes, I understand. I get it, it looked like rain today—and rain could kill a good hair day. Never hurts to be prepared.” She smiled politely, rapidly blinking her lashes. By her expressions, her brain seemed to be working overtime.
“No, I meant bad luck with the interview.” I firmly said, somewhat annoyed with her giddy attitude.
“Oh yes, of course.” She sheepishly said. I paid her back just a little for her previous
“Have you been offered any refreshment?”
“Err—no.” I replied. She frowned and eyed the young woman at the desk.
“Would you like tea, coffee, or some apple juice?”
“A glass of water would be lovely, thank you.” I replied. Damn, I winced she didn’t even offer me water. They must think I am a real diva, or super contrary.
“Jessica, please be so kind and get Miss Ridame a glass of water.” She sweetly asked the young woman at the desk. Jessica scooted up immediately and slid behind a door on the other side of the foyer. Her chubby thighs made a sound when she walked. Boy, Jessica, had a tiny waist, but what a caboose she was towing. It was kind of freakish.
“My apologies Miss Ridame, Jessica is our new intern.” She whispered, lowly so Jessica could not hear. “Please be seated. Mr. Maximillion will probably be another two hours—I am just kidding.” She quickly added. I didn’t like her sense of humor. “He’s finishing up with the last girl, these things take a while, some girls take five minutes; others take much longer. Is there anything else I can do for you?” She asked so sweetly as if honey was pouring off her lips.
Her decorum was over the top, seething properness. She was a little too blond for me, but yet elegantly poised, even when I was behaving like a smartass, trying to knock her off her pedestal, she did not falter. Ms. Perfection stayed on task. She would make a great spy, or CSI agent. Damn. In my humble experience, most girls that look like her would have a good snide comeback. Conclusion, these weren’t girls, but trained blond angels, or worst yet, wolves in sheep’s clothing. On second thought bunny clothing. Silently, I admitted to myself I was very intimated with all the blond hair and huge boobs. Something was odd here, amiss.
Jessica returned with a large glass of sparkling water. “Here you are Miss Ridame. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No thanks,” I replied.
“Thank you. Jessica.” Blond Number Two turned away and motioned Jessica to follow her back to the marble desk. I glanced at them periodically, as they both continued in their work. Their banter was very professional, not ditzy at all. This was very confusing, their blond giddy demeanors faded away.
She turned and said through the space in the partially opened door, “Drinks, definitely, Steele Rod,” as she blew him a kiss.
Her voice was deep, solid and smooth like slab of granite. She was laying it on heavy and thick. I didn’t hear
