Most models were good-looking, but he was more than a pretty face. FLASH.
He had swagger, and guile, and a rugged sort of grace. FLASH. FLASH.
Yet, he could never be happy with any one face that he chose. FLASH.
So all he could do was keep changing his pose.
FLASH. FLASH. FLASH.
"And that's a wrap. Good shoot, everyone!"
Bright lights, loud cameras, nice clothes: it was just an average day for playboy model Julian Plenti.
The California sun was being generous that day. It bathed the beach photo shoot with waves of heat while a roasting wind blew up hurricanes of sand. The radiance made the colors of the beach more intense, turning the water into a lucid cobalt, the tree palms into a glimmering emerald, and the tides' froth into a blinding white. This summery weather would've irritated the average person, but not the almighty beach babe Julian Plenti. He was loving it. He stood bewildered as members of the crew were hurriedly packing away equipment just to escape away to the air-conditioned safety of their lunch breaks. Weaklings.
As the wind began to die down, Julian left the set and followed the other few male models into the changing tent to undress, but he quickly moved out to enjoy the rest of the beach. He left the tent dressed in his most logical hot weather attire: a striped sweater, Nike sandals, and Adidas sweatpants. He then sauntered down closer to the sun-kissed shore, ignoring the few beads of sweat already crystallizing beneath his clothes. The shoot had originally been a couple of yards from where the tide touched the beach, but the model was soon pulling his feet out of his shoes and planting himself in the moistened sand. Its warmth emanated up from his ankles as he closed his eyes, letting the sun's sensual rays fall upon his glorious, celestial body. He was like a statue hardening in the sun. A human work of art. But who was he to keep all of this magnificence to himself? He slyly slit one eye open and scanned the beach for any hunnies in the vicinity. He was first met with an empty expanse of golden sand and sporadic trees, but there were soon two specks in the distance. And as they moved closer and their features became more distinct, Julian realized they were two oases in his coital desert. Yes, they were two tanned, half-naked harlots making their toward him. But more importantly, they had Julian's favorite fruit: melons.
He quickly shut his eye, acting oblivious to the advancing girls' presence. Females always preferred their prey to be unsuspecting and off-guard. Julian learned from experience that a man aware of flirtation would intimidate a woman and send her scampering off. She preferred him weak and unprepared; vulnerable and blind; defenseless and exposed. Wasn't it easier for a lioness to strike a gazelle when the gazelle was looking in the opposite direction?
"Hey, you're a model, aren't you," a honeyed voice asked, interrupting Plenti's lengthening metaphor.
The playboy lazily opened his eyes near the direction of the voice, purposely staring in the sunlight so that the blue of his irises would glitter.
"I'm a model of sorts," he crooned, dropping the pitch of his voice to more manly depths. "But I do often take off expensive clothes in front of cameras. Y'know, in my free time." A smirk slid across his face.
"Right…" replied the one stretching out a yellow swim top. "Well, we did see your photo shoot up there." She might've been tilting her head in the direction of the shoot, but Julian wasn't looking at her face, so he wasn't sure. The only thing in his view was their swim tops, but breasts didn't seem to correspond with the movement of the heads.
"Yeah? How was I," he asked, just for the sake of continuing the conversation. The blue top replied, but Julian wasn't listening. Their responses didn't actually matter to him, a soon-to-be world renowned supermodel. He knew he had the most. Seven years had already passed since he had started his modeling career. Adidas was just making him sweat a little, wait a while. They were creating suspense. That was why he practically lived in his multitude of multiple pairs of Adidas sweatpants, shoes, and tracksuits. To model for Adidas, one had to live Adidas. Wear Adidas. Breath Adidas. Become Adidas.
"We should meet for a few beers later this week. Have a menage` Artois," he purred, decidedly rejoining the conversation. Sure, he had just unashamedly flipped off the French language with his ingenious pun, but it was for the sake of poontang. So it was excusable.
"Ok. How about this Thursday at the Penguin Bar? 11 o'clock? Maybe you can teach us a little French, too," the blue topped one murmured, slathering her voice with a seductive tone.
"Aiiiightt, sounds fye."
The bikini tops seemed to look at the playboy with strained smiles, as if his super cool outburst made them uncomfortable. Nah, that couldn't have been it.
"So, uh, Thursday," yellow top awkwardly chirped, forcing an obviously not uncomfortable smile. "We'll see you then." As the two swimsuits turned around and walked back down the shore, Julian shifted his eyes in time to see their asses wink back at him.
Team Plenti had made another score, one well overdue. As tantalizing as he was, the many time-consuming ventures of his jobs had prevented him from having a good lay for nearly 2 weeks. Even his right hand had been too busy for him. The possibility of an actual bonk made his entire body twitch. Even his moles jumped with excitement.
Finally tired of the sun's relentless attention, Plenti pulled his feet from the wet sand and slipped them back into his discarded sandals. As he walked away from the shore, he pulled out his phone and tapped in the number he knew by heart.
"How far away are you? Shit, you're here already? Alright. I'll see you in five."
Julian had always insisted against hiring a bodyguard. The model believed he was intimidatingly fit enough to protect himself and didn't want some stranger following him around (not a guy, at least). But since he was often too drunk to care for himself and he liked the idea of bossing some big dude around, he eventually chose one man for the job: Sam. Julian didn't trust anyone as much as he did Sam. The two had been friends for what had seemed to be eternities, even though Sam might've lived a few more eternities than did Julian. The bodyguard knew every facet of the playboy's personality, and he always understood him. It was as if they had been friends in past lives, both suffering the banality of each human life and always managing to find each other again. And, truth be told, Julian had sort of a crush on Sam. A friend crush. The bodyguard was just a great cook, and he had great tastes in music, and he always wore the coolest jackets that unfortunately hid his sculpted arms, and he had smooth hair and olive skin and warm green eyes... but, uh, no, yeah, it was just a friend crush.
Julian had been ruminating about his history with Sam while staring at the man from the backseat. Sam was hired only as the bodyguard, but he felt driving the playboy around was a part of keeping him safe. He practically demanded to be the chauffeur, and Julian could never say no to Sam. No one could. The intimidating sincerity of his green eyes made it difficult to deny him anything, and it gleamed from the reflection in the rearview mirror that Plenti found himself peering into. The bodyguard had always arrived early to pick up the model, and today had been no different. Julian had climbed into his parked, super discrete black and red BMW, with sand falling from his pants and mud tracking from the bottoms of his shoes.
"Hey, did I leave any extra--"
Sam reached in the passenger seat and handed a plastic-wrapped, dry-cleaned suit to Julian before the model could finish his sentence.
"Thanks, man. I knew I left this in here." Suit in hand, he plopped down on the seat and started the process of removing his disheveled clothes.
Sam rolled his eyes, knowing well that he was the one who left the clothes in the car. He always kept a spare outfit there, knowing the model would always find a way to make himself dirty. He literally put the clothes on Julian's back.
"I remembered to bring our entertainment, too," half-dressed Plenti chimed, grabbing a cluster of scribbled-on DVDs from the back pocket of the passenger seat and throwing them in Sam's lap.
The bodyguard flipped through the discs, discerning the titles Ich Liebe Dicks and Twin Cheeks . "Yeah, you can keep these to yourself," Sam muttered, tucking the DVDs aside and glancing up into the rearview mirror to see his friend already decked out in his suit. It was unnerving how quickly the model could dress and undress. Maybe he learned it from his modeling jobs. Or from more personal experience. Either way, Sam tried to erase the worrying thought from his mind.
"That's the good stuff, man. It's raw. It's real. Unadulterated art. Sex," the model retorted.
"You said artsex. What the hell is artsex?" the bodyguard asked.
"Ugh, no. I didn't make art and sex into one. That's not even a real word. Y'know, I hate it when people put words together that don't make sense. If it doesn't make logical sense in a sentence, then don't say it. People who do that are such pricks," Julian rambled, the intense passion of his lingual argument causing him to shudder. "Not that you're a prick, Sam. But anyways, you can't combine them into one word. They're one in the same. Sex is art."
"Really? I've always seen it as a sport. Like wrestling, for obvious reasons. Or a race since you're usually trying to get to the finish line first."
"Nah, it's art, man. I can base it on my own personal experience. I like watching people play music. I like watching people have sex, too. And I spend too much money on both," the model casually divulged.
"Words of a true pervert."
"How? I'm not in the peeping tom business. I'm a decent guy, I pay for my music, and I pay to watch sex."
So it was time to end that conversation. Sam didn't reply, couldn't reply, so he simply put the car in drive and started their commute. But with the prior conversation in mind, Sam had quickly regretted his previous thought about his friend. Sure, Julian was promiscuous and irresponsible, but he seemed intelligent enough to care for himself. He had grown to be much more thoughtful than the boyish delinquent Sam had met nearly 10 years before.
Sometimes Julian was an oversexed crackpot, but he could occasionally transform into a literary buff who could withhold intellectual conversations. He could even remember things for himself, every now and then. There was just always so much more to him. Julian Plenti was always anything but two-dimensional.
The sudden deceleration of the car quickly jolted Julian from his retrospection. Sam was pulling the car into a parking spot as the enormity of the airport loomed over them.
The model darted his eyes from the rearview mirror before Sam could meet them, his gaze then averted to his sandals.
"Hey, where did I leave the sh-"
Sam bent over into the passenger seat again to pull out a pair of shiny, black oxfords stuffed with socks, throwing them in the backseat to land perfectly in Julian's lap.
"After all these years, I'm surprised Mr. Blanks still doesn't have his shit together," Sam snickered, unlocking the doors and climbing out of the car before Julian could reply. And though the bodyguard's statement was a lighthearted quip, it still managed to unsettle Julian. As the model slipped into his oxfords and flattened his suit down, a black shape caught his eye from the hook above the passenger side door. He quickly grabbed the shape before opening his door and clambering outside the car. He then met Sam at the trunk of the car to pull out their suitcases: all black, one for each of them.
Sam slammed the trunk shut and locked the car, he and Plenti lugging their heavy baggage behind them.
The pair promptly began their trek to the airport's entrance, an hour remaining before their flight's departure. Time seemed to slow with every step they took, the surrounding actions suddenly occurring in slow motion. Perspiration descended along their bodies beneath the black thickness of their suits. Plenti's shaggy hair further disheveled as the wind swept individual strands, leaving him to look like an overdressed Pomeranian. The reverberating heat fogged up Sam's glasses, turning the bodyguard into a visually impaired toad.
The two had only walked a few yards when the toad tripped over some nonexistent obstacle on the ground, causing the collie to attempt to suffocate an assault of super masculine giggles. After halting to composing himself, the toad took off his glasses and cleaned them on his jacket, sending an intimidating glare to his dog companion. The shaggy canine fell silent and continued to walk with the amphibian, the ghosts of his giggles still haunting the air between them. Yes, the two were definitely an interesting pair: friends from two different species.
They were a few feet from the entrance when everything suddenly moved back to its normal pace. Time had caught up to them again.
It was time to go to another city. A new place. A new face.
Plenti then crowned himself with the black Fedora in his hand and strode forward, the same California sun that warmed him on the beach now setting behind his back.