Getting Waisted by Monica Parker Page A

Beverly approved. I chose to block my ears and tune out their misgivings. I did the justification quickstep, so sure they didn’t know him the way I did.
    I introduced Johann to all my favorite cafes, bars, and shop owners. He knew how to charm everyone, and I was in heaven as I followed in the wake of this spectacularly good-looking specimen. In some unrealistic way, I believed his aura washed over onto me, casting me in a prettier and better light, one that made him choose to hang out with me. But still, I was gob-smacked that he wanted to spend more and more time with me and I allowed myself to fall deeply in love. Soon, he began spending nights at my place. At last, I had a man in my bed and all of Katja and Beverly’s suspicions were ignored. I actually believed they were jealous. What I didn’t know was that he was thrilled to be out of the crowded hostel he’d been living in and my place was perfect for his needs. I think even if I had known, I would still have allowed myself to ride the wave—in case it was one that was never going to come to my shores again.
    It didn’t take long for the gloss to fade. If my self-esteem was fragile before, it was now Code Red as I came to understand that I was in love with a man who preferred sleeping with a mirror more than with a warm body. Johann was a model. Shoot me now! How perfect for him that I was a dress designer and knew people. I was so happy to introduce him to everyone I knew that could help him and it wasn’t long before he began to get one fashion gig after another. On the downside, I was anointed with the less than glamorous position of sherpa: his personal 24/7 schlepper . I had a car and I came to understand how valuable this commodity could be, as I drove Johann to his go-sees—auditions for modeling jobs. I delivered, picked up, and often paid for his dry-cleaning, and ferried his massive wardrobe back and forth to wherever he was shooting.
    To hang with him, I had to hang with his new friends who were all picks of the litter, meaning other fahboolus models. I dragged giant wardrobe bags, enormous tool-chest-like containers filled with hairspray, special brushes, tweezers, nostril-hair clippers, and gallons of water to dazzling locations where I thumbed distractedly through countless magazines, which featured the very people I was waiting on, while Johann, Yanka, Vibecka, Tiiu, and other exotic giraffe-like creatures were primped and polished before being posed in unnatural positions on freezing cold beaches in winter—but propped to look like summer—and to ski slopes in summer made of mashed potato flakes piled mountain high. I liked those shoots, knowing that if I were desperate, I could just add hot water and salt and I would be able to feast for weeks. Johann was not the brightest penny in the purse but he was smart enough to thank me over and over for all that I did for him, which was pretty much everything except cut his meat into bite-size pieces.
    What the hell was wrong with me? He was a divine genetic creation put on this earth to make mere male mortals feel inferior, and I already believed I was an inferior, clearly made not in God’s image but more likely in his Latvian housekeeper’s. Johann was so full of himself it didn’t matter; he never noticed. He didn’t see me. I even went back on the dreaded bananas and milk diet in the hope that if there was less of me, he might come to love me. Ha . . . not ever. He was already in a committed relationship with himself.
    I may have been insecure, but I wasn’t stupid, and when I caught him cheating on me with a woman old enough to be his mother, I packed all his clothes and put them outside the front door. He assumed that she could help him even more than I could because she owned a big-time modeling agency. Johann from Amsterdam didn’t understand, but this time it wasn’t a language problem. He just couldn’t believe I was throwing him out. I could. I was deeply grateful to both Beverly