The Narcissist

A gorgeous, but self-obsessed Los Angeles man prepares for a blind date with a woman he met online.

Beau Jean was agitated when traffic began to back up on his way home from the gym, knowing that he only had two hours to shower, shave, jerk off, and dress himself in preparation for his date tonight.  He arrived at the gym later than planned and got held up watching one of the other regulars -- a short, stocky guy around thirty that Beau took to calling Vane Biceps, because every time he saw Vane, Vane stood in front of the mirror obsessively absorbed in working his arms.  Standard curls, half curls, hammer curls -- the same routine everyday causing this odd looking creature to have disproportionately large upper arms.  Beau fought the urge to say something about the necessity of symmetry and proportion in muscle tone.  He felt something akin to nausea watching Vane today, and yet he couldn’t take his eyes off of him, hardly able to mask his contempt, or pity as he would call it, for this poor soul.  Beau couldn’t take much more.  For a moment he thought of confronting Vane, giving him some pointers, but decided against it.  Besides, he still needed to get his gym shower and squeeze eleven minutes in the tanning bed before venturing back to his apartment.

The gym shower took twenty five minutes and soon Beau was stripping down to slip into the tanning bed.  Getting a perfectly even tan from soles to scalp necessary, but knowing the dangers of exposing certain sensitive areas to excessive UV light, Beau remembered to slip a nylon sock over his dick and his balls for protection.  Eleven minutes in and out and he was on his way home.

At home Beau headed straight for the bathroom.  Though time was running short he took time to examine his newly acquired tan.  Nice.  Not as dark as he had hoped.  He would have to apply a light coat of some Norvell Pro Spray Tan to his body after his next shower, give him a look like he just came off the beach.

The hot, twenty-two minute shower felt good after the drive home and helped to relieve some of his anxiety.  He’d read in an issue of Valet Magazine a few months back about the dangers of inhaling heated chlorine and trihalomethanes over lengthy hot showers, which conflicted with another article he read online about how the hot shower was better for opening up the skin pores and killing and washing away bacteria and various contaminants that cause acne and other skin blemishes.  He made his choice.

He wiped the steam off the mirror so he could see himself as he shaved, not missing a hair from sideburns to neck.  While he was at it, noticing the hairs on his chest that he’d shaved off a few days ago were becoming visible again, he decided to put the razor to work on a quick, full-body mow, trimming the chest, down to the stomach -- which having had an amazing ab workout this afternoon was solid like a block of polished granite and easy to shave -- and finally taking care of the pubic region too.  

He smiled approvingly at himself as the steam faded from the mirror, revealing a figure of such profound and blinding beauty that he felt compelled to turn away at his own blushing, gasping coyly before looking back.  He spun around, peaking over his shoulder to get a look at his toned back and glutes -- tanned, chiseled, beautiful, just like the rest.  He dropped the towel and admired his body with swooning affection.  The only shame was that it wasn’t a full length mirror so all he could get were the knees up, but he liked what he saw.  He loved what he saw.  Loved it so much that he found himself gliding towards the face looking back at him in the steam smeared glass, his heart pounding at the prospect of that face being so close to his own in proximity and appearance.  His breath shot a stream of mist onto the mirror which he promptly wiped away, preparing the way for what would happen next, as if pulled by a gravitational force greater than the strength of any mortal man.  Closer and closer he leaned in and met the lips of his reflection, shattering the distance between them, joining in the flesh that could be felt even through the cool, moist glass.  My love, he thought, lost in the moment of almost indescribably ecstasy.  His lips remained pressed to the glass until the feeling had spread through his entire body like a current of electricity, which he sustained for as long he could before releasing it at the now disheartening thought of his date in forty-five minutes.  Until next time, he thought.  Until next time.

After applying his various moisturizers, having a quick pump of the arms with a pair on fifteen pound dumbbells, and a light coat of spray tan, he dressed in a loose-fitting, white button up shirt, buttoned only halfway up to tease his solid bronze pecs peeking from behind the fabric.  It was his favorite shirt.  He had four of them.  Just putting on the shirt gave him sensory buzz, a high that most people can’t imagine without the assistance of amphetamines.

When he got to the restaurant, a small Greek place on Wilshire, a few blocks from San Vincente Boulevard, he entered, peeled off his sunglasses and gazed around with an affected squint and pursed lips that he’d practiced like an actor who’s mastered a role.  He saw the girl sitting anxiously at a table by the window.  He approached her, every step, every swing of the arms thought out in advance, rehearsed over years to perfection that he felt, as he got closer to her and she locked onto him, that there was no way she couldn’t be astounded by the image of the figure approaching her.  Any bystander looking on would naturally share this feeling, that this was worth taking a look at, if not flat-out loving.

She looked at him, timidly perhaps, but not as timid or outwardly impressed as he would have liked.  Beau felt momentarily shaken at the lack of enthusiasm she showed, but a distant glimpse of himself in the mirrored wall at the back of the restaurant settled any nervous tremors.  Damn, he looked good, he thought.

“I’m Misty,” she said as she stood up to shake his hand and, he could tell, to check him out.

    “I know,” he said as he slowly lowered himself into the chair across from her.  He looked around, checking the place out.  “Nice place.”

“I’ve driven past here a bunch of times.  Always thought it looked good but I’ve never eaten here.”

Beau nodded along with her words.  Should have kept the sunglasses on, he thought.  The sun was making his eyes burn.  He threw his arm over the back the empty chair next to him, relaxed, cool, she noticed.

“Have you been here before?” she asked.

    “No.  Never.”

    “Where do you like to eat?”

    “Well, you know, Misty, I like the usual places.  La Scala, Il Cielo, the Polo Lounge, places like that.  This is all right though.”

“Do you live in Beverly Hills?”

    “On Doheny.  Near Sunset.”

    “Nice.”

    Of course it is, he thought.  “Thanks.”

    “Is that West Hollywood or Beverly Hills?”

    He paused and looked at her suspiciously.  “It’s on the border.”

    “What do you do?”

    “I’m a producer.”  Aren’t we all, he thought.

    “Of movies?”

    “A few TV pilots.  Some indies.  I’m working with some people at Sony Pictures on a movie.  We got Snoop Dogg for a role and to do the soundtrack.”  And like a jet firing its engines on the deck of a carrier, he was off and flying, expounding on himself as if he were his own newest, greatest discovery.  His gestures deliberately animated, his voice booming in the small space, causing others to look in his direction, which fed him even more.  He loved the attention, the spotlight, the sensation he could pick up through the spectator’s gaze of the magnificent specimen that he was.  He felt he could almost step outside himself in these moments and look upon himself as they saw him and it gave him a pleasurable flutter in his lower abdomen.

He told her about his name and how his parents named him Beau after Bucephalus, Alexander’s famous horse, and how his last name wasn’t Jean as he advertised but rather Carpenter which he thought bland so decided to do away with it and make his last name Jean, from his middle name Eugene -- Gene for short -- and to make it stand out he gave it the French spelling and pronunciation after the actor Jean Marais from his favorite film Orpheus, who he believed he bared more than a slight physical resemblance to.  Beau Jean he spoke melodiously to her with a hint of a non-specific accent.

He told her about his life from childhood to now in explicit detail for twenty-two minutes, waving the waiter away several times to ask for more time to order.  He explained his profession and how he got into it, beginning as an actor and eventually making the transition to producing films.  He ran through a list of six titles that he’d produced in the last five years, none released anywhere yet, all still in various stages of “near completion,” though he didn’t bother to tell her that.  She seemed impressed, he thought, as he watched her eyes go wide and her mouth hang slightly agape in wonder and interest, her head nodding along as a subconsciously driven motion of acceptance.

When his performance was over he wanted to talk more but felt it was time to ask her “What do you do?” with reluctant interest and enthusiasm, feeling the fire of his engines dimming with each second of having to listen to her in silence, anticipating his moment to speak again.

Misty launched into a monologue about her life and work as an actress, of course.  She might as well have said she’s a member of the human race, he thought.  New to L.A. from Kansas or Missouri or God knows where.  His eyes remained on her but his attention was not.  Beau shifted his center of gravity, changing his pose ever so slightly, that it wouldn’t appear that he was doing it out of anxiety or boredom, but rather mirroring her slightly to give the impression of interest with his arm still slung over the back of the chair, his head cocked at a seventy degree angle from his shoulders.  Irresistible.  The intensity of his ocular focus was maintained in its stillness by a decision to do some kegels while he feigned listening.  Contract muscle, hold for ten seconds, release.  

He watched her and thought about his first impression of her.  Five feet three inches always looks shorter in person than it does when you read it on an online profile, he thought.  It’s not exactly model height, Beau lamented.  Girls that short are usually a bit on the stocky side or sickeningly thin.  Though she had a nice face it was hard for him to tell what the rest looked like under the clothes.  She had somewhat stubby fingers with large knuckles, Beau noticed, though that might be preferable to the long, thin, arthritic looking fingers with their swelled, knotted knuckles.  He was doubtful of any lasting relationship with this girl.  She was the kind of girl he would have been obsessed with when he was in high school, back when he was a shameful five foot four inches himself at seventeen, before his metamorphosis, his emergence from his physical cocoon into his present form.  Maybe, he thought, if he was feeling generous enough later on, he’d give her the privilege of getting it on back at his place, give her something to take with her, something he could envision her bragging to her friends about before she went on her way.

She talked and talked, interminably he thought, while Beau looked on with fading interest, his eyes periodically glazing over into a dead, lifeless gaze, a trance that he had to pull himself out of.  He checked his watch.  All she does is talk about herself, he thought.  She'd been going on for about four minutes already.  He put on a crooked smile that he’d seen on a model in a billboard ad somewhere on Olympic Boulevard, and now spread across the face that sat on his solid shoulders like a perfect marble bust facing her, dominating her field of vision.  

He interjected, telling her about his BMW, going to UCLA, surfing in Hawaii, the time he went to a party at George Clooney’s house, what good friends he is with one of Clint Eastwood’s daughters, but Misty would snap the conversation back to herself, which he found impolite, questioning in his mind about her social manners.  The incessant talking must be her nervousness at being in his presence, he thought.  He wished he could see his reflection in the mirror at the back of the restaurant but it was too far away.  Or, if only he could see himself through her eyes, turn the “I” into “He,” enter into her head, and admire himself as she must admire him.

The waiter approached to take their orders.  Misty ordered a small Greek salad with no dressing.  The waiter had a broad chest and improbably symmetrical deltoids which made Beau suddenly sit up a little straighter, self-conscious, allowing his shirt to fall open to show off his pectoral definition, even flexing a little for show.  He knew that the waiter noticed, even if he tried to pretend he wasn’t looking.  Beau wondered what the waiter looked like without his shirt on, and tried to visualize the torso, get a sense of his body through the black vest and white shirt the waiter was wearing.  After sizing the waiter up in about 2.5 seconds Beau determined that the broad, hard upper body being projected was the naturally artificial, pumped up look that the common people get when trying to pull their gut in, which the waiter was obviously doing.  An abdominal deficiency.  There may be abs under there but they existed in some divine region as a Platonic ideal, something squandered by this earthbound mortal under three quarters of an inch, perhaps an inch, of stomach flab.  Too many bad carbs.  Poor guy.

Beau ran through a list of items that were not on the menu, consistently mentioning kale, buckwheat, wheat germ, alfalfa sprouts, and asking about gluten of course, because nobody with any self respect eats gluten anymore, to which the waiter countered with actual menu dishes that might accommodate him.  After some deliberation Beau ordered a Greek salad too, though also with no dressing and no gyro meat (too much sodium), no onions, tomatoes, or olives.  The waiter took all of this down, maintaining a pleasant demeanor and eye contact with Beau.  Beau thought he noticed several times the waiter’s eyes darting down, checking him out, admiring, a bit jealous probably, astounded even.  He felt there was an undeniable attraction that the waiter must have felt for him, and as the waiter turned to leave, smiling coyly at him, Beau felt the satisfaction of being observed and admired, surpassing an ideal standard of perfection.  He felt inspiring.

Dinner arrived and Misty and Beau resumed their conversation.  As she talked excitedly about things Beau would never remember, or care to, he felt in listening to her that it was a great opportunity to sit back, pose, smirk, grimace, chuckle, smile, laugh, wink, gasp at all she had to say, to perform for her eyes that he felt he could nearly see himself reflected in.  He could feel within himself what he knew she must feel.  And it felt good.

They finished their food, excluding desert, which Beau declined on the grounds of being full, when in fact he was far more concerned with his daily caloric intake and the effects this might have on his perfect physique.  Having left his log book at the apartment, he was unable to properly calculate, and so had to rely on memory, which when the oatmeal for breakfast, the eleven AM protein shake, the half a bag of dry roasted almonds with a cup of cottage cheese at two, that blueberry muffin that he knew he shouldn’t have had but ate anyway, shamefully -- a slip he would never cop to, even under torture -- plus another protein shake pre-workout were all added up, he felt he was close enough to his limit to not want to chance it.

When the check came he hesitated a few seconds to see if she would so much as glance at the bill folded up in the leather book.  She didn’t.  Which was okay with him, he thought, as he opened the book and tossed his card inside without looking at the cost.  She seemed to take note of the gesture without commenting on it, without so much as a thank you, to Beau’s chagrin.  He was starting to think about what he had to do to get the slightest rise in attention from this girl.  Sure, she may be having a good time, or seemed to be, but Beau felt somehow that she would have had a good time with anybody sitting across from her, so desperate for human contact and attention, that she would have happily shared some laughs and stories with a cardboard cutout.  She was so cool, so easy going, so not interested in what he had to say apparently.  Or pretended to be, he reassured himself.

The waiter brought the check back to the table, offering a “thank you, come back soon,” while sneaking one last peak at Beau’s forearm, conveniently flexed as he was signing the receipt.

    Misty pulled out some cash and left a ten on the table.  “I’ll get the tip,” she said.

Beau looked at the ten.  Awfully nice of her to offer.  Maybe I will see her again.  Sure, she’s lacking in looks and personality, the body is just so-so, not ideal for me, he thought, but whatever.   

Beau took out a five and dropped it on the table on top of her ten.  He watched her eyes as they stared down at the cash.  Yes, I’m a big tipper.  I believe that waiters have a hard enough job and that it is my duty to help good ones as much as I can, he thought, watching her gaze carefully.  I’m a man of the people, a generous, loving soul, helping out the common, working folks.

“What is that?” she asked.

    “Just a little something extra,” Beau said with a satisfied smirk.

“How much was the bill?”

    “Doesn’t matter.  What do you say we get out of here?”

    “Wasn’t my ten enough?”

    “Of course it was.”

    “Then why would you do that?”

    “I’m just a generous guy, I guess,” he said, leaning back in his seat.

    “I’m confused.”

    “About what?”

    She sighed and looked hurt for some strange reason, he thought.

    “I don’t even know what to say,” she said.

    “There’s no shame in tipping.  They need it.  Believe me.  I know a lot of waiters."

“No!  I mean you insulted me.  I was only trying to contribute to the dinner since you picked up the check, but apparently that wasn’t good enough.”

Was she being sarcastic, he wondered?  “Geez, okay, no need to make a criminal case out of it.  I get it.”  And Beau threw down another five.  “Is that better?”

    Misty scoffed and walked past him.  Beau rolled his eyes, utterly befuddled by what was happening.  What could she be so mad about?  Does she want him to put more money on the table?  That would be obscene at this point.  The waiter’s already looking at a nearly fifty percent tip.  Besides, I’m not liking this sort of game playing this Misty girl is doing.  After all, I paid for the check, he reminded himself.

He met her outside waiting on the sidewalk, her arms folded across her chest.

    “I’m sorry for whatever happened in there.  Okay.”

    “Do you mean it?” she asked.

    “Of course.”  Smooth.  He put on his sunglasses, flashed her some teeth, just enough to let her know that I know, you know, he thought.

She looked at him.  Speechless.  Which didn’t surprise him.  The sun was starting to go down and the lighting out here on the street is perfect for highlighting his tanned, toned body, he thought.  He gazed from his periphery at their reflection in the window of the restaurant, looking at the two of them standing face to face; watching her look at him, and watching himself look like a Greek god.  He still wasn’t sure about this girl but he felt he was performing exceptionally well.

She looked at him curiously, like she wanted to ask a question but seemed hesitant.  I can only imagine what that question is, thought Beau: My place or yours?  Or, if she’s one of those girls who are prudish about getting it on on the first date she may ask to see me again tomorrow or in the next few days, he thought.  In that case, better to end things here.  It was hard enough cutting my gym routine short and having to take a frantic couple of showers and alter my other daily routines, just to squeeze her in tonight.

“What exactly are you sorry for?” she asked.

    Forgiven.  Perfect.  I don’t even know why she was mad, he thought.  Watch this: “For everything.”  Cover all my bases but remain vague enough to endear myself to her even more, he thought.  God, I am good.

She stared at Beau with her mouth hanging open slightly.  Kind of a sexy look, thought Beau.  He started to become aroused.  He flashed his teeth again.  She didn’t react.

    “Now, should we go back to my place or are we going to stand out here on the street all night,” he asked coyly, sauntering in close to her.

Her head dropped and she took half a step back, looking at him incredulously.

    “What did you have in mind exactly?”

    He smiled.  There is clearly an attraction here, he thought.  Granted, it is more from her side than mine, but she seems like a nice girl and I think she likes what she sees.  Maybe I could like this girl, he thought.  “You’re a smart, beautiful, and imaginative person, as am I, so I’m sure there’s no lack of possibilities that can be thought up for out immediate future.”

“You think I want to sleep with you?”

    Naturally, thought Beau.

    “Look, I usually don’t do this,” he began to tell her (make her feel exceptional) as he stepped closer to her, “but I would like to take you back to my apartment and --”

“Are you saying you had a good time with me?  Really?” she asked.

    “Yeah.  Uh, didn’t you?”

    “No.”

    Liar, he thought.

    “What do you think is going to happen here?  Do you really want to see me again?”

Beau tried to keep a straight face but a grin cracked through and he began to chuckle spasmodically.  

“Honestly, I think you’re a nice girl and I wouldn’t mind making you an offer --”

Her mouth hung agape.  “Oh, I see.  So you’re doing me a favor.  A self-less act.  Charity basically for me.”

Duh, he thought.  “Well, let’s be honest.  I’m a bit out of your league.  A little.  You have to admit that.  You don’t have to feel ashamed.  I get it.  You want this.  It’s okay.  The offer’s good for one night only though,” he said, winking.  Had he said all that out loud, he wondered?  He wasn’t sure.

He couldn’t tell if the red face staring back at him was blushing or infuriated.  If he were to bet, he’d think she was blushing at his directness but she wouldn’t dare pass up an opportunity like this.  Who would?  Women love me.  They desire me.  They want me.  I am irresistible.  It’s my cross to bear, my burden, he proudly lamented to himself.  I can empathize.  I pity.

“I think you’re a pig.  You’re a disgusting human being.  I don’t know how you live with yourself.  I will never go to your apartment.  I will never sleep with you.  I will never see you again.”  And with that she turned and walked away.

Her loss, he thought.  How do I live with myself, she asks.  By loving myself.  This is me.  Am I supposed to make myself less attractive, to deny all that I have to offer, to deny myself, my being?  Well, there she goes, on her way home.  To what?  A roommate, a yapping Chihuahua maybe, a stack of sides for a bunch of upcoming auditions?  Maybe nothing.  Maybe she’s even a virgin, he thought.  

I know what I have waiting for me at home, he reassured himself.  The He to his I that had eluded him on the outside but that he was always found within his own small world.  He smiled at this realization.  It always made him smile.  He was invulnerable to the pangs of lesser mortals.  Resilient against any external forces the world could throw at him.  

And Beau went home, back to the only one who truly knew him, the only one who understood him, the only one who could see him for what he really is.  And he knew, as sure as he knew what love was, that this person would be waiting for him too.

Reviews

[icelandicblue]

What a fabulous update to the tale. Your Beau Jean was truly cringe worthy. You brought us into his thoughts and the most I could do is tiptoe around them. I loved the girl's evisceration of him...we never did catch her name did we? She cut him to the core and found it hollow. He truly was as shallow as the pool he was destined to stare in for eternity. This was a perfectly captivating story.

[icelandicblue]

You are right...Misty...I was so caught up in Beau being so caught up in Beau that I totally forgot her name!

[Rob Santana]

First thing that came to my mind "American Psycho" movie. This dude is ridiculous!!! hahaha, well written Wayne. The first two lines hooked me. To think that there are actual people like this, wow...

[Samuel Dickens]

I've known a few "I-love-me" types in my life, but none as twisted as this one. Boy, this guy is some piece of work. Really excellent writing, my friend.

[Mark]

OMG… are there really people out there like Beau? I found the character as intriguing as I did disturbingly funny, I saw his insecurities too… and I did feel for him … especially when age takes its toll on this misguided man… when his pecks become breasts and abs turn to flab… and as much as he is a joke to me… I don’t think I would find it funny… so… your writing… I disliked the character… but I read till the end… why? Your words flowed… felt like poetry in parts… the imagery and detail was impressive and the main character so believable in his irrationality… thank you for sharing this story, I don’t think I will look in the mirror tonight… nope… I think I’m going to close my eyes :)

[AprilRN1210]

I have to say, I really enjoyed your story.. You did a great job with the vivid imagery, the character development (he was likable, even though I dislike him.. if that makes sense), the plot, the ending--were all very nicely done.. I will say the conversation part in the restaurant felt a little "off", couldn't tell you exactly why, but it made me stumble over it and have to reread a few parts.. I think we have all had to deal with someone like this at one time or another.. I think you depicted this eerily well.. The inner thoughts, the actions, the reactions, were so spot-on... Scary... and... I have to say that I love the date's character--you did a good job with her... She was very likeable, feisty, and not afraid to speak her mind.. The interaction with the waiter and the internal dialogue there was just plain hilarious.. I was giggling a good bit of the way through it. Another scene that had me giggling was the shower scene.. Oh my goodness, I had to read that part twice because it made me think wow.. then it had me laughing thinking--yep he went there.. That is seriously some mental illness going on there... He has fallen off his rocker and been completely knocked off kilter... Battling low self-esteem most of my life-- when everyone thinks I am a high maintenance diva has often made me wonder what thoughts go through their heads and why people think I am that way.. I think you just cleared that up for me, and reaffirms my beliefs that I am no where near that end of the spectrum.. I am impressed with your writing.. I sincerely enjoyed and look forward to reading more...

[Jack Cassidy]

Second story of yours I've read and it's another home run. I've had a few friends over the years that acted similarly to this... it was as funny now as it was back then. Men tend to hide in their egos a lot, and unfortunately lose the real person buried inside. Although, without his giant interest in himself, I wouldn't have found this guy fascinating either... Loved the story. K.

[Woody]

Gee! what a story! I suppose this caricature of a man does exist in real life. your story doesn't lack humour either, Wayne. it made me chuckle a few times.
the narration and the description are good. the character's inner thoughts are interesting and amusing.

[Tyra]

Woah! See you said my story wasn't crap... this is like on the absolutely other end of the crap spectrum! It's fantastic, loved, loved, loved it just as much as I love to look in the mirror. ;) Haha, get it, it was a joke..... I loved this because it feels satirical but I did find little things Beau does that I can't deny, I do myself, made me come to the realization that everyone has a bit of Beau inside them.
Also, loved your character. He was very invested in his vapid shallowness.

[Marie]

This is a much longer work that I usually read, but it was fascinating from the start. You painted a perfect picture of an obnoxious, yet strangely sad human being.

Two mistakes: ""scrapping" when it shuld have been "scraping" and "waste" when it should have been "waist".


I wouldn't even mention these small things except that the rest of the story was so good.