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“An individual’s greatest advantage can also be their greatest vulnerability. It is our faults, our fears, and our failures that connect us. Imperfection makes us human.”
— André Chevalier
Tina
Boulder City is about 26 miles southeast of Las Vegas, and one of only two towns in Nevada where gambling is illegal. A wealthy, upmarket area, it has a population around 15,000, a municipal airport for private planes, skydiving trips, and aerial tours of Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon.
Early May in Nevada. At 10 A.M., it’s barely sixty degrees outside and overcast. I’m here waiting for the results of my job interview.
The light-industrial business park O’Neal’s company inhabits apparently isn’t meant for the public. Consisting of two floors, the ground floor is one huge garage area for bus maintenance and repair, with offices on the second floor. The place is surrounded by other small businesses such as welding, self-storage, manufacturing and so on. I’ve never seen so many blue-collar workers in my life. I’ve never wanted to, either. My father was one of them, and one is more than enough.
O’Neal has staff to service the buses, but Lucille, the Human Resources lady, told me “the boss” likes to tinker down there. Squirming, I press my legs together. I know all too well how much he loves to tinker “down there” alright. After spreading me wide, the mechanic devoured the slick flesh between my legs. With eager devotion he sucked, and kissed, and licked me to blissful oblivion.
Firmly forcing these thoughts out of my mind, I sit with my arms across my chest in the waiting room. An ancient wall clock ticks loudly on the opposite wall. O’Neal seems to be going for the al la drab motif. The tan carpet is worn and dull, while the fluorescent lighting puts a greenish complexion on everyone’s faces. Yeah, I know I sound hypercritical, but seriously. A dentist office in Calcutta might have more appeal.
I flew through the initial interview with Mrs. Hayes, liking her instantly. “Call me Lucille, dear,” she had told me. Quiet, intellectual, and old enough to be a grandmother, she was a real sweetheart. I suspect she was extra nice due to my scary, off-putting features.
Growing up as Tina Kirkner within the acting world, I learned how to pretend to be someone else before I knew who I was myself. I found out early that the face a person shows the world isn’t always the real one. Everyone has a story, and few want to share—especially me.
Right now, I’m Tina Buckley, the starlet in this play and it’s so much fun! Sure, my protruding overbite is uncomfortable as hell, but the effect is well worth it. My “wart” looks real, thanks to make-up artists I’ve worked with. Include black horn-rimmed glasses, my soft silicone middle torso, clunky “sensible” shoes, and short, polish-free nails.
I wear a navy dress with white piping and a long matching jacket. My highly conservative outfit is quality. I may scare small children with my face, but I refuse to wear crap clothes. Add pearl earrings and a slim choker, my thick brunette hair is pulled into a tight, prim bun. Sitting in this dumpy waiting area, I’m forced to suppress a grin. Why? Because I’m so damned unattractive!
Hell, my own mother wouldn’t recognize me (not that I’ve seen her for years). The idea was to look like I’ve never, ever had sex. Pretty sure I achieved that.
My God, the freedom I feel in this get up! Hiding in plain sight. It’s safe to say and do what I want. Here, I’m invisible. Discounted. Unimportant.
I have an unearned advantage—the blessing and curse of being born beautiful. With my rich brunette hair, sea green eyes, high cheekbones, symmetrical face, and tall, perfect figure, I won the good looks lottery.
It’s a blessing as being physically attractive gives you a step up in the world. A handsome politician is considered more trustworthy. The good-looking CEO makes a higher wage. Beautiful people are perceived to be more competent, friendly, and likable. Statistically, they’re healthier, socially dominant, and they enjoy a higher income. They are hired in preference to the average looking applicant.
I’m proof of that.
I’ve met people beautiful on the outside who were ugly on the inside and vice versa. I’ve known unattractive men with such shining personalities they were spectacular.
While stunning a man speechless with my beauty is fun, there are pitfalls. At first, I enjoyed the power I had over men, but with the gift of universal attraction comes doubt. Do people like you for you, or do they want something? My own parents wanted me to make them rich.
Good looks can be a threat to any relationship. How can I have female friends if they are jealous of my looks, or anxious I may steal their man? Husbands don’t trust even their best friends with a gorgeous spouse. Boyfriends don’t trust their girlfriends. With your good-looking partner constantly being hit on, how can you be sure your other half will be faithful?
During my interview with the Orgasm King, in addition to being unattractive, I was intentionally bitchy. The other applicant going for the temp position was bubbly, blonde, and beautiful. That’s how I know there’s zero chance O’Neal will give me the job.
A pang of disappointment shoots through me with that thought.
That interview....
I’d seen pictures. He looked as expected. Not my type at all, but certainly compelling. I would have guessed he had once been a soldier from the hardness of his body, his aura of readiness, and the guarded suspicion in his eyes.
Dressed casually in jeans and a gray heavy-metal band T-shirt. He had large hands with broad palms, functional and calloused. Square-tipped fingers. Closely cut nails with what looked like built in grime under his fingernails. Machine grunge of some sort. Maybe oil.
Those hands had sent me to heaven.
Quiet certainly had rolled off him in waves, while keen intelligence shone from his eyes. The man seemed far too perceptive. Like he could see right through my disguise.
Yet what struck me most wasn’t his expressive brown eyes, his self-assurance, his hands or even his powerfully built body. It was his soft rumbling voice and gentle tone, combined with his deep well of reserve. He had hardly said a word, even while I gave him a piece of my mind. Why had he been so restrained? The man hadn’t held back when giving pleasure, and he sure as hell hadn’t held back when dispensing punishment.
Making love to every inch of my body.
