Name: Sex and the Vampire IX- True Beauty
Author: VoceAngelo aka Joey or Jovi
Email: VoceAngelo@aol.com
Rating: R for nasty language and gay kissin'
Summary: The boys are doin' it for themselves again in 
yet another episode of SatV. Divided for length 
Pairing: X/Gr, G/Forrest, O/Gunn, X/Wes (friendship)
Warnings: Lotsa cursin'
Disclaimer:  They ain't.  They belong to Joss Whedon, 
Darren Starr, Marcus Shenkenberg, Anna Sui, Wilhemina 
and Ford Modeling Agency all belong to themselves.  I 
make absolutely NO money off of this.
Distribution: Naked Souls, UCSL, Xanderslash, 
Grahamslash, StepAwayFromMyXander and Zane Rosetta's new site 
located at http://www.angelfire.com/pop2/elzano
Author's notes:  Please tell me you love me! This is 
dedicated to Wirrrn! because he's just him, and I'm 
just me, and we're just each other.  Muah!  *grope, 
fondle, squeeze*

~Sex and the Vampire

The boys and I were shopping in SoHo one fine summer 
day.  The pigeons were cooing.  The sun was shining, 
and every gay man with an expense account and a Prada 
sling bag was out and about cavorting in the loveliness 
of this 87-degree July day.  I kept grabbing Wesley, 
the only other person who loves and hates shopping at 
the same time as much as I do, and running into the 
small, extremely expensive shoe stores, once native to 
Greenwich Village that seemed to be popping up 
everywhere downtown now.  Oz and Giles lagged behind already 
weary from the summer heat.  I breathed deeply.  Wesley 
and I looked at each other instantly and squealed, 
"NORMA KAMALI!!!!"

We ran across the street to our favorite designer's 
store.  The moment Wesley and I stepped in, we were 
almost floored by what we saw.  It looked as if someone 
had dropped a bulimic model bomb in there.  Gorgeous men 
and women, all tall, all thin.  Their straight, taut 
bodies and young smooth skin gleamed with a 
luminescence only to be found in fairies? or people who have 
snorted entirely too much ketamine.  

Wesley and I felt insignificant and small.  We looked 
at each other sheepishly and tried to make as little 
noise as possible as we headed straight for the door.  
Giles walked in the moment we reached the handle.  
"Xander, you're going to have to slow down if you want 
me to keep up."
"Rupert," Wesley said, "We have to get out of here."
"And why is that?  I'm not leaving Norma's until I've 
bought something."
"Giles," I said, "Please let's just go.  This place is 
loaded with M-O-D-E-L-S."
"Models?  Well, dear.  Then we HAVE to stay.  Besides, 
I'm as good-looking as any of them.  Stand aside, 
kids."
Giles strutted in, tall and proud as any of them.  He 
seemed to have this endless wellspring of confidence 
about him.  Whether businessmen or models surrounded 
him, nothing broke him.  I wondered how he did it.  
(Then again, we've celebrated his 39th birthday for the 
past five years.)  How does one come to get this easy 
confidence that pours out of every pore?  How do any of 
them exude this confidence?  It got me wondering.  
What is it about proximity to beauty that can make the 
"normal" person feel so not beautiful?  

Oz walked in next and announced clearly, "My God!  A 
model bomb exploded in here!"
After several glares from the beautiful people behind 
the cash register, Oz strutted in quietly, grinning 
like a Cheshire cat.
"Shh, Oz," I giggled, "The beautiful people might hear 
you."
"Fuck the beautiful people!  Who wants a hamburger?"
Giles smiled softly and stroked the fabric of some 
linen shirt.
"Boys," he said, "Norma's quality has diminished 
significantly.  Let's blow this popsicle stand, as the 
Americans say."
Wes mouthed a silent 'thank you' to Giles, and we left 
Norma Kamali's store bagless.  Nevertheless, we were 
saved by Giles's keen observation on Wes's and my 
insecurity.

"So," Wesley said, "Who wants a cigarette and a bottle 
of water for lunch?"
"I'll take the cigarette," I said, "and raise you a 
glass of iced water with a twist of lemon."
Oz said, "Isn't lemon fattening?"
Giles smiled fully and said, "Pizza, boys?"
"Pizza," we said in unison.

After the pizza, we went to our respective homes, and 
I sat down to type.  What made us that insecure with 
our looks that we needed to make catty comments about 
the "beautiful people"?  I mean looks can only get you 
so far in life? maybe a lucrative contract with the 
Wilhemina Modeling Agency, or at the very least, a sugar 
daddy.  Is inner beauty what counts the most?  Can 
someone fuck the underwear ad guy and not even bother 
with a hand job for the rest of us?  What makes the 
normal ones truly beautiful?  What makes any of us truly 
beautiful?

Across town in Wesley's York Avenue apartment, he was 
having some issues of his own.  He stared at himself 
in his large mirror.  He pulled and prodded at his face 
with his long fingers.  He opened up his gray eyes 
wide.  
"Thirty-six.  I'm thirty-six.  Oh God!  I'm 
thirty-six!"
He ran to his telephone and immediately dialed the 
number to the most expensive plastic surgeon on Park 
Avenue.  

Giles was doing much better than Wesley or myself.  
After we parted ways, he went back to the Norma Kamali 
store and went straight for the incredibly hunky bald 
model behind the counter who wasn't a day over 
twenty-three as compared to his thirty-nine? or forty-four? so 
I think.
"Young man."
The hunky Norma Kamali guy looked up, his mahogany 
colored eyes meeting the green of Giles's.
"Yes, sir?"
What is your name?"
"Forrest."
"Wonderful.  Forrest, I'm Rupert Giles.  You might 
have heard of me."
"Oh wow!  Yes!  You handled the public relations for 
the Anna Sui fall line during Fashion Week with your 
partner, Wesley Wyndham-Price, right?"
"Exactly."
"I've modeled before.  Never for Anna Sui.  Some New 
York designers.  Nothing fancy."
"Well, life is about to change for you very soon, 
Forrest."
"Oh.  Wow."
"But for now, I want that black linen shirt on the 
rack in the front."
"Yes, Mr. Giles."
"Please, Forrest," he stroked his the clueless model's 
chin tenderly, "Call me Rupert."

Giles made the gorgeous Forrest run around the store 
like a chicken without a head, grabbing shirts, slacks, 
shoes, accessories and anything else he could think 
of.  Panting, Forrest handed Giles a pair of sling backs 
through the thin curtain when he felt Giles yank him 
bodily into the cramped dressing room.  
"Mr. Giles!  You're naked!!"
"So," he kissed Forrest.
Forrest was shocked, "Mr. Giles!  I'm not that kind 
of?"
"I am," Giles said and kissed Forrest again.
He groped Forrest, a slow sly smile spreading across 
his face.  Forrest stared at Giles', his eyes wide.  
Then, he flung his arms around Giles's neck and returned 
the kiss with intense passion.

The incredibly thin girl behind the counter wondered 
what the hell was all that panting and grunting, she 
heard coming from the dressing room.  After about twenty 
minutes, it stopped.  She abandoned her post behind 
the register to see what was going on back there.
"Is everything all right back there?" She asked 
suspiciously.
A fully dressed, but mightily disheveled Giles 
appeared from behind the last curtain.  With an evil grin, he 
said, "I don't like the color.  Sorry."
He tossed the same linen shirt into her hand that he 
commented on earlier when he was originally there and 
walked out of Norma Kamali with a satisfied grin on his 
slightly lined face.  Poor model Forrest adjusted his 
shirt and looked sheepishly a the pale, skinny girl 
and said, "Sorry!"

I continued musing on model and smoking a Marlboro 
light when the phone rang.  
"Speak quickly!  I'm working."
"Hey, dude."
"Graham cracker!"
"If you're in middle of your column, I'll call back 
later, baby."
"No, it's cool.  Just writing a rant about models."
"Really!  I used to be a model when I was nineteen"
"Huh?"
"Yeah.  When I moved to Ontario, a Ford Agent said 
that I had the rough look that was so huge then."
"Rough look?"
"Yeah!  Steely eyed.  Cool.  You know, rough."
"You've always been soft and fluffy to me."
Some laughter and Graham said, "Hey.  Wanna know what 
else is hard?"
I laughed slightly and said, "I'll call you later, 
Gray."
"Bye," he said flirtatiously.

Shit!  My boyfriend!  A model!  Well, if six foot 
three and sandy blonde hair were not enough for Ford, 
then? SHIT!  I was dating a model!  I rubbed my greedy 
little hands together.  A model that took the high road- 
this required further investigation.

I dropped my work and hightailed it over to the Ford 
Agency.  I figured I would walk in with the same dazed, 
glazed and bored expression that most male models wore 
and said to the receptionist at the front, "Who's in 
charge of the male models?"
The receptionist never looked at me, "Virginia.  Fill 
this out.  Have a seat."

It was that easy?  If so, then everyone could model.  
This was a cakewalk.  I sat down and filled out my 
name and address when all of sudden to my incredible 
surprise and complete shock, in walked Marcus Shenkenberg, 
smoking a cigarette, with five o'clock shadow, yelling 
it his slightly overweight assistant in German.  The 
receptionist set out an ashtray, never looking up from 
her magazine.
"Thank you," he spat.  Then he faced his assistant and 
continued yelling at the poor boy in German.  Out 
walked a bright faced, curly red head that was rather top 
heavy and too short to be a model that looked 
pointedly at Marcus and asked him, "What the fuck is the 
problem now?!"
Marcus rattled on in German to the redhead with the 
really good perm.  
"OK," she said, "Fine.  We'll withdraw the fucking 
prints, but I'm glad he told you to show up.  This whole 
diva attitude of yours is really pissing me the fuck 
off.  You should fucking thank him.  I don't care if 
you smoked crack and drank whiskey all night.  You show 
up to every photo shoot on time.  Besides, you know 
we'll airbrush the fuck out of it."
I heard a bedraggled looking Marcus Shenkenberg mutter 
something that sounded like, "Danke" and walked out 
with his assistant smiling gratefully at the redhead.
"Who the fuck is next?"  She said is a booming voice.
The receptionist pointed at me still not looking up 
from her magazine.
"Are you Virginia?"
"Yes.  Your name?"
"Xander."
"Great.  Come right on in."
I walked behind her into a very stylish office with 
wrought iron and glass furniture.
"You know," she said before she sat down, "you look 
really familiar.  The name rings a bell too."
"Well, I write an articulate for the New Yorker called 
'Sex and the Vampire'."
"Oh my fucking God!  You're Xander Harris!  Wow.  What 
are you doing here?"
"Well, I figured if they can do it, why can't I?"
She folded her arms and lifted her eyebrow, "How old 
are you?"
"Thirty-four."
"Kinda late for modeling.  Don't you think?"
"It's never too late."
She smiled, "You are fucking outrageous!  I love it!  
Who's to say that beauty ends when you hit 
twenty-five?  We can be the first to embark on older models!  
Wilhemina was the first to do plus sized models.  We're 
going to do old.  It'll be fucking great!  Fucking, 
fucking great!"
I was grinning from ear to ear.
"Before we go any further, did you have a model named 
Graham Miller from Canada originally?"
"Graham?  Graham? Graham?Graham!  Yes.  That was about 
fourteen years ago though.  He got crow's feet at 
twenty-three and we had to let him go.  Great body though.  
Why do you ask?"
"I have a crush on him," I said with a wicked smile.
"Don't we all?  Well, Xander.  Thank you for dropping 
boy.  I want you to be here tomorrow at twoish.  I'm 
going to run these past the president."
"Thanks, Virginia!"

I walked out of Ford feeling strange.  Old?  I am 
thirty-four and she called me old?  She was at least 
forty-five, and yet, I'm old?  I do not consider either age 
old.  I don't even consider fifty old.  Yet, I might 
have started a new trend in modeling, and all because I 
walked into her office with my thirty-four year old 
ass, and I have another appointment with her tomorrow.  
Holy shit!  I'm going to be a model!  I had to call 
everyone!