Free What Men Want by Deborah Blumenthal

subjected, as is every other passenger, to a security check that makes me fixate on the potential dangers of getting into an aircraft with dozens of strangers.
    Don’t think I fit the terrorist profile. Not a blue-eyed blonde in Donna Karan slacks and a cashmere sweater from Express, right? Oh, and yes, don’t forget the delicate heels. But, hey, you never know, I could be a designer decoy.
    I’m pulled apart from the other passengers and a handheld metal detector that reminds me of a billy club is run smoothly over my arms, legs and torso, and unless it can detect pockets of cellulite, and the fact that I’m the only one of my friends who hasn’t gone on a low-carb diet, I think I’m clear to go. As usual, of course, I’m thinking of some smart-ass remark to make, but then realize that I had better shut my mouth. These days no one working airport security has a sense of humor.
    Following the lead of the person before me, I take off my jacket, then my shoes, put them back on, and get the green light to go. I glance at my watch and take off for the exit gate, arriving just as the doors are about to close.
    â€œWAAAAIIIIITTT,” I yell, and it’s obvious thatthere’s a benevolent God because the attendant waves me through. Moments later, I haul my suitcase into the overhead compartment. Then I sit down, belt myself in, and in minutes we’re airborne. I close my eyes and then open them in relief when we’re soaring above the city.
    Only then do I allow myself to think about what Chris told me that morning. He had an appointment with the client and the casting director of his agency to discuss the profile of the girl that they wanted to represent Model Thin. Over the course of the next few days, they were going to start casting calls.
    Am I secure, convinced that the man loves me, and unconcerned about the possibility of him being attracted to one of the candidates because he’s always been faithful? Get real. I may be reasonably good-looking, and fairly accomplished, but so what?
    Do I have alabaster skin?
    Am I six feet tall?
    Am I model thin?
    Do I have perfect cheekbones?
    Big pouty lips?
    Perfectly straight white teeth, or rather perfect white veneers?
    No, and you can be sure that the woman they’d pick would be someone out of his deepest fantasies, not the kind of woman that ordinary guys meet in bars or at their jobs or even see walking on the streets. No, this creature would be some rarefiedbeauty who spent her days in front of cameras for Vogue, Bazaar and Allure. This would be a visionary creature who would convince average American women, overweight or not, that they had to head for the supermarket for a drink that would radically change their lives, inviting the kind of happiness and satisfaction that until now they had only dreamed about.
    So for no reason other than the fact that she was born with the right face and body, the woman that they picked would be paid enough to retire, for life, after a couple of years of standing in front of cameras and endorsing the useless drink.
    How did I feel about that? Cool, accepting, nonchalant? Are you out of your mind? I’m consumed with angst. Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut? Why, of all names, did I come up with one that used the word MODEL! Couldn’t I just have suggested “Makeover Magic” or “Magic Malted”? Then Chris could use cartoon characters or magicians, or any fanciful characters that illustrators could create on the page and then animate. It was a good thing that I was a print journalist rather than a trial lawyer. I’d probably blurt out something that would condemn my client to a life behind bars.
    While it wasn’t Chris’s job to get involved in the casting, I had no doubt that he would. If you were a straight guy and the office was going to be filled with top models between the ages of eighteen andtwenty-five from the city’s most prominent modeling