When we arrive at the house it’s already a hive of activity with trucks, cars, and removal vans spewed out all over the cul de sac. The house looks quite homely and nothing like the MTV style crib/mansion I was expecting. I should have known something wasn’t right when the word “crest” preceded Bel Air.
“How many rooms would you say this place has?”
“Enough I’m sure.” Ricki says.
We make our way inside and are immediately welcomed by what I can only describe as a talking pair of tits, who identify themselves as Kelly.
“Hi I’m Cassidy and this is my boyfriend Ricki,” I say and then lean in for a hug once I register the camera crew.
“Sorry Cassidy could you please re-do that again as you were looking directly at the cameras that time.” A cameraman says.
“Don’t worry about it we’ve all been guilty so far.” Kelly says.
“Hi my name is Cassidy.” and I pause to smile before introducing Ricki.
“Cassidy this isn’t a game show. Just be natural.”
“Wanna meet the rest of the gang?” Kelly asks with about the same level of interest as a McDonald’s employee offering a meal upgrade.
The first thing that strikes me about the house is how white and sterile everything is.
“Hey guys our last housemates have finally arrived,” Kelly announces to the group as soon as we step foot into the kitchen.
A filthy skank bounds up to Ricki like a golden retriever and dives in for a hug, “Hi my name’s Tori,” while I just stand there and wave like a lost child.
After a slight pause the group bombards me all at once with so many introductions that my head begins to throb. The only name I catch is Jorge’s and that’s because it’s hard to forget any name when it’s attached to a person so beautiful. I’m not sure if he’s Mexican or Italian but either way he’s the hottest of the group by a long shot. Other than that the group can be surmised as a pasty Irish guy who appears to already be drunk (but aren’t they always), a wholesome country gal with a nasty checkered shirt and hick name, and some short intense artist type. I make my way over to have a perv on Jorge under the pretext of wanting a cocktail of whatever he’s mixing in the blender.
I feel myself reduced to an idiotic school girl as I say, “I love cocktails.”
He laughs and I feel an instant connection until he tells me it’s a bodybuilding supplement and not a cocktail-reducing me to nothing more than an awkward teenager (which I don’t really get as I wasn’t even awkward as a teen). I put my nervous start down to the cameras and try again.
“So what brings you to the house Jorge?”
“I’m a MMA fighter and I want to push my career onto the next level.”
Wow that’s so interesting Jorge.”
“What about yourself?”
“I’m an actress/model Jorge.”
Stop saying his fuckin’ name so much. You’re not a teacher addressing a class of thirty students. I’m sure he knows you’re talking to him.
“I would have guessed as much-you’re a very pretty girl.”
“Thanks Jorge.”
I feel a mixture of compliment and tragic overkill of his name radiate my cheeks a beetroot purple and pray my concealer at least limits the exposure.
“You want a drink or something?”
I ask him for a water and dream about the something as he runs the facet. I never knew something as mundane as watching a man running water could be so exhilarating-this in itself should be a show.
By the time I realize I’m staring I’ve already been cast adrift from the moment, lost in the voyeuristic pleasure of his body. I continue to appraise him, watching as even the simple turning of a facet causes his entire arm to flex effortlessly, and conclude that if his body was a statement it would be “I am man”. No wonder so many rich LA housewives employ South American gardeners. Which reminds me…
“Sorry I don’t mean to be rude but are you Mexican or Italian? It’s just so hard to tell because you’re so tanned.”
“It’s okay I get that a lot-I’m Mexican.” He says and begins removing his tank top to reveal a Mexican flag to the left side of his eight pack abs.
“What are you looking at?” Ricki asks appearing from nowhere.
My future husband.

Next chapter.

Previous chapter.

From the beginning.

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