Title: Style and Perfection
Rating: PG-13 at the moment. Will go no higher than R, I promise. Contains adult themes, some language and minor slash (B & C)
Summary: Rico likes Torrie but not only does she not know he exists, she doesn't even know he's straight!
Disclaimer: I've met Torrie Wilson and she's as sweet and lovely as I try to write her in this fic. Rico is an absolute champ who stole the show at Global Warning. That said, I don't own either of them, the WWE does. I do, however, own a very annoying Rico muse who won't let me write slash but demanded to be the leading man in a het fic. Go figure. I don't own the song either, but it's by Tal Bachman…putrid poppy crap that my Rico muse just happens to love. Again, go figure.
A/N: Who the heck would be crazy enough to write this pairing? Me, that's who! Last night my brand new Rico muse would not shut up until I wrote this…we're talking midnight with my biggest day of lectures up ahead. So, having written it, I hope he's happy.
Rico: Oh, I am…or at least I would be, if only we could do something about your fashion sense.
Me: Look, just shut up, okay? I'm very tired and…hey, weren't you Rikishi's unwilling tag partner once? Do I sense a non-con slash fic?
Rico: (cringing) I'll be good!
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She calls to speak to me
I freeze immediately
'Cause what she says
Sounds so unreal.
But somehow I can't believe
That anything should happen.
I know where I belong
And nothing's gonna happen
'Cause she's so high,
High above me, she's so lovely.
She's so high, like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc or Aphrodite.
She's so high, high above me.
She is a vision, the most captivating creature on earth; a goddess, if you will, and she walks these halls with the most glorious innocence shining in aquamarine colored eyes that I drown in every time, as though they were truly the ocean. My life has been spent in pursuit of beauty, of falsifying appearances and concealing flaws in people who want to be better than they are, more beautiful than they are. But I can't touch her, because perfection can't be improved upon. It just is.
She would have no idea of the awe with which I look upon her. She, like nearly everyone else around here, probably thinks I'm gay. I'm not, you know. I mean, just because I prefer Barbra to Barkley, ballet to baseball, 'The Color Purple' to 'The Thin Red Line', it doesn't mean I sleep with other men. Though even my own mother wouldn't believe it if I told her, that's how I am. A closeted heterosexual.
My worship of her should not come as a complete surprise, however…Torrie, I mean, not my mother. After all, I have always had a thing for blondes. Just look at all the things I've managed to do for my two beautiful boys. Of course, Chuck has problem skin and Billy's age is finally starting to get the better of his hairline, but I work with these issues – that's what they pay me for. I make over the outside, ensure that their teeth are white and as glossy as correction fluid straight from the bottle, that their bodies are well oiled – that Billy's trunks perfectly accentuate the fact that, even at the dark side of forty, he has quite an ass and that Chuck's are sure to tell everyone the truth…that Billy is a lucky, lucky man. If only I was gay, life would be easy. My boys have often told me I can join the fun whenever I want and yet I'm still the one who spends night after night on my own, dreaming of her.
"Hey Rico."
Okay, so that nearly makes me crap my pants, which wouldn't exactly be the most shining example for me to set for all the sweaty, stinky lugs that inhabit the locker rooms. But I compose myself, slowly, and turn to flash her a winning smile.
"Torrie Wilson." And then I inwardly curse myself for not adjusting my clothes as I would normally when confronted with an opportunity such as this.
She seems perplexed, just the hint of a frown taking over her perpetual smile. "I just wanted to tell you…since you're a stylist and all…the collar of your jacket's standing up and it makes you look kinda like Elvis. I just wanted to know if you were doing it on purpose, if it's some kind of new fashion I don't know about."
I reach back and nearly die of embarrassment. Not only is my collar standing up, it's half up and half down, so there's absolutely no way of covering it. I'm supposed to be a stylist and here I am, a walking, talking faux pas. I have to change the subject, before I'm exposed as the fashion disaster of the new millennium.
"I'm so glad you noticed, Torrie. Developmental fashion. Tres Nouveau."
"Oh really?" she asks, giving a fascinated smile that forms the dimples I long ago decided I wanted to stick my tongue into. "I thought so…I mean, you always seem to have your finger on the pulse of the fashion world."
'That's not all I'd like to do with my fingers,' I think, grateful for my time in the Academy when I learned it's best not to always speak your mind.
"With a world so fascinating, how can anyone afford not to?" I postulate and she smiles again, giving a little nod.
"Oh, I know," she agrees. "I love fashion. And now Stacy's gone it's great that someone else understands. Well, see ya. I'll have to check out that developmental style. Bye Rico."
"Torrie." Spontaneity stops her, because I know it's not me. But stop she does and now I have to say something. "Your hair. If you're staying with platinum, you really should use a leave in treatment every day. Breakage would be an absolute tragedy."
"Yeah," she nods. "But don't worry. I've got extensions and I trust my hairdresser with my life. She's a goddess. Bye!"
'Yes, Torrie,' I think as she walks away, all style and grace in a body that must have been made in heaven. 'A goddess. That's what you are.'
I don't know why I even entertain the notion. It doesn't matter that we just spoke. The conversation only began because she was being the sweetheart she's always reputed to be, by helping to nip my own personal fashion disaster in the bud. It doesn't mean she's interested, or even that she particularly cares for my existence. For she's a goddess and me, a mere mortal. It would never work, no matter how I try to convince myself otherwise. But oh, she's lovely and a day like today, a day where she speaks to me, a day where she smiles and those dimples come into play, well, that's about as beautiful as a day can get.
* * * *
So, I lost. To Rey Mysterio, a fashion disaster in himself. And now, walking back to the locker room ready to tell the boys what I think of them for getting themselves thrown out in a most unstylish way, I realize that, if I had the chance, I would change a few things. Now, don't get me wrong, Rey Mysterio is not a bad-looking man. He has the kind of youthful features that won't change seriously over the years. It's just that he could do so much more! First of all, the pants. Yes, they work, adding much to his neo-hip hop personality, but the white ones he wore a few weeks ago really did nothing for me. Far, far too bland. At least he made an effort this week with the yellow. I don't have a problem with the mask itself, knowing that, underneath, the haircut is…well, face it. The boy has no hair. But if I was to cover all my hard work with a lucha mask, I'd choose a different one…one that sculpted more closely to my facial features and accentuated my cheekbones. And those hideous contact lenses - they have to go. Rey has beautiful chocolate brown eyes. He shouldn't hide them under lenses that could only possibly be there for shock value. Just a few minor improvements could go such a long way, in Rey's case. You see, it's not enough to "look good" in the ring. You have to look good. And true, I may not have won the match, but few people look better in a tight T-shirt than I do and I dare anyone to challenge that statement.
I push open the door to the locker room and there are my illustrious tag team, all over each other like white on rice…or like Chuck on Billy as the case may be. One of these days I guess I'll learn to knock. Like I said, I love my beautiful boys, but if I wanted gay porn, I'd rent it. I say nothing as I walk over to collect my towel, change of clothes and all important beauty case, ready for my shower - first five minutes on warm, last five ice cold - does wonders for both skin and hair. My boys don't even notice me and I'm gone before they realize I've been there at all.
After a thorough session with the exfoliating body scrub (looks and smells divine) and the moisturizing shower gel, with a separate pH balanced facial cleanser, of course, and being careful not to let any residual water come in contact with my hair, I shut off the jets and towel dry carefully before toning and dressing in my streetwear, ready for the night ahead, wherever that may take me. Usually it takes me, Billy and Chuck to a gay club or bar, which I realize is not the best way to meet women, but they are my friends and, unfortunately, I'm outvoted, two to one. Still, gay clubs know how to throw a good party, they play good music and they're always serving up the most gorgeous cocktails. Even so, I'm wondering what my boys would say if I tell them that tonight, just for once, I want to go to a normal bar, with normal people and listen to normal, ghastly classic rock. They'd probably tell me what I already know - that second hand smoke in such a confined area does just as much damage to the skin as if I was actually smoking. I've taught them too well. Both proud and depressed by this realization, I head out of the shower block, preparing to wait outside the locker room until my boys are ready to go.
And that's when I see her, my goddess, something that would normally put the goofiest of smiles on my face. Except that this time, she's not alone…and the person she's with has his arm around her…
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A/N: So, what do you think? Should I go on? I dig it, but then, I dig Rico so perhaps that makes me more bizarre than most. Please review me!!!
