Honey Flava
“Okay, yeah, sit down, Randy. It is Randy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Randy. God, you’re beautiful,” he said, taking her hand in his.
“You’re not bad yourself,” she said, squeezing his hand and ogling his handsome, tanned face, “but you look much older at a distance.”
“My hair fools a lot of people,” he said, smiling. “I’m gathering material for an article about the shoot, but all I want to do is make love to you.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you really want?” she asked. “Is your hair natural?”
“Yes, but I really want you to go to bed with me. It started turning when I was eleven, and by the time I got to college, it had changed completely. My nickname is Whitie. When did you start modeling?”
“Whitie is appropriate, but I like Randy better. I started modeling in high school. This is my first shot at the big time, modeling for Play Thing. Is that your aftershave?” she asked, placing her other hand on his.
“Thanks, I prefer Randy, too; I’m wearing Old Spice. Why are you modeling?”
“The possibility of becoming a supermodel—you know, fame and fortune.”
“Will you sleep with me?” he asked as he covered her second hand with his.
“Will it make me famous?”
“No.” He hesitated. “But wait, the article I’m writing could make you famous.”
“Okay”—she smiled—“if that’s the case, you can take me to lunch.”
“Does that mean we can make love?”
“No, it means I need meat after the rigors of a session like this.”
“I have meat,” he said, smiling.
“Protein, protein, protein as in food.” She laughed. “I like your sense of humor.”
“Is that all you like?”
“No, but we can talk about that during lunch.”
“Great, I’ll meet you here at noon. I have interviews the rest of the morning.”
Mali and Randy were ushered to their seats at the Elite Epicurean, one of the oldest and best restaurants in Chicago. Its high ceilings, large windows, and early-twentieth-century wooden furniture had a nostalgic look, even in winter. Mali removed her coat, revealing a formfitting brown sweater that would make Pamela Anderson jealous. Randy, who was already horny, took a deep breath and raised his hand for a waiter.
They ordered soup and sandwiches from a tall male server wearing a white apron.
“I see you’re wearing yin-yang medallions?”
“Taoism was one of my favorite subjects in college; I’m a convert.”
“What practices do you follow?”
“I read the Tao Te Ching daily, meditate, belly breathe, and follow traditional sexual practices,” he said, staring into her eyes. “I’d like to introduce you to some of them.”
She smiled. “I’ll have to admit you have tenacity and an unusual approach, but I seldom meet a man who doesn’t want to sleep with me.”
“Will you?” he asked as their food arrived.
They fell silent and smiled as the waiter expertly arranged their food on the table.
“I haven’t thought about anything else since you walked on the set.”