By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
I was most certainly feeling bothered by all the awkward poses—and the buzzing mosquitoes—but the hot part of the equation was somehow missing: myself. Truth be told, since I was a kid, I've never been comfortable in front of the camera. For as long as I can remember, as soon as the photographer says "Cheese," I freeze, grimacing.
And this day was no exception: as I smirked through my teeth, I thought I must look like Eddie Munster. Although I have no problem with being objectified, I find it difficult to objectify myself. Questions like "Do I make the grade?" and answers like "I don't belong here" swirled through my head. When would I start feeling beautiful?So you probably want me to ditch this "itwas oh so work-like and un-sexy" line and dish the dirty glamour and sleaze. I will. But before I do, let me tell you something about the dirt—literally. I had a close encounter of the klutzy kind with the dark, rich Palisades soil. Having finally gotten the hang of the hammock, I became a little too nonchalant—while attempting to stand on it and climb the tree above, I fell face-first into the dirt and got a nasty graze on my elbow and back.
At this point, Rosie and Richard began to look a little worried—I heard them mumbling something about "legal matters"—but I promised not to sue. Weirdly enough, something about this act of literally coming down to earth made me relax into the shoot, and I finally began to feel at home and enjoy myself. Lucky for me because now that I was no longer tense and stiff, it was time for me to get stiff.
I can hear the readers breathe a collective sigh of relief.
Rosie diplomatically left to make out with her girlfriend when it came to this moment of truth—the boner shots (which, for those with a fetish for facts out there, take up approximately a third of the shoot time). Conjuring an erection whilst naked, outdoors, in winter, is no easy feat. Maintaining said boner whilst remembering not to blink and whilst the photographer changes rolls of film or smokes a cigarette is even harder. I began to have deep regrets about not taking that tantric-sex workshop.
If I do say so myself, I don't usually have a big problem when it comes to getting aroused and have done so in the past under the most onerous circumstances. But I was finding this a little tricky. I tried to picture the legions of men who would be fantasizing about me in the months to come—the readers who, in the photographer's words, "all want what you've got"—but I couldn't buy into this fantasy of adoration; too abstract. Although I've been blessed with a vivid imagination, I'm basically a flesh-and-blood, meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.
Lucky for me there was another flesh-and-blood kind of guy standing around for me to focus on—the photographer. Nothing can beat the erotic sparks set off by two bodies in close range to each other. It's ancient, and nothing virtual will ever exceed its power. There is a very particular intimacy created for a short time between the photographer and the model. Even though he wasn't really my type and even though I didn't have sex with him (my boyfriend should take particular note of this), there was definitely something going on between us. The soft touch of his fingers brushing against me, untucking my T-shirt, pulling my boxers down my hips so they sat just right. The cool feel of his light meter reading the depth of light against my cheek. Finally, things were beginning to feel genuinely erotic, neither forced nor simulated, and I began to take real pleasure in my body. I felt authentically turned on that I was buck-naked, watched by this fully clothed man behind the camera. As the camera flashed, a memory flashed through me from when I was 12 years old. In the thrill of early puberty, as soon as I would have the house to myself, I would strip in front of my parents' white and gold gilded mirror. With my hands and eyes, I explored my body, taking utter visual and visceral pleasure in the discovery that there was this new way I could see myself. I wasn't quite sure what I was seeing or experiencing; this changing body with its recently acquired capacity to get hard looked kind of funny, but it felt amazing. I felt that boy, caught up in his heady discovery of a new self, close to me for a moment or two. Maybe it was purely physiological, but as the blood rushed and rushed from head to head, all those nagging doubts about my belonging here, all my crippled self-consciousness, went very quiet. I forgot about time, and before I knew it, Richard laid down his camera and the shoot—all 150-odd frames—was over. By the time I was well and truly ready for that closeup, it was time to call it a day.Whatever—I had gotten through it. Back atthe Deco ranch, dressed in my regular clothes, with only a hint of reluctance I handed the pajamas I had neatly folded over to Rosie. She asked Richard how the shoot went. He paused to take a sip of coffee, and in that pause, all my fears and doubts came rushing back. What if the photos turn out horrible and I don't get paid? What if I don't even look as cute as Eddie Munster—more like his dad, Herman? What if, what if? Having swallowed his coffee, Richard glanced at me with a look one part devious and two parts shy: "Fantastic. I kept on getting mixed up whose boner I was meant to be photographing." I breathed a sigh to end all sighs. I haven't seen the photos yet. I'll get toview them when everyone else does, when the issue I'm in comes out in four to six months. I'm curious, but I'm not holding my breath (I began breathing again when I got the check for $500). I'm as vain as the next man, but I'm no Dorian Gray—like I said, I'll sell my body but not my soul. I fear aging like everyone else, but maybe being a writer has helped me realize that those irritating beginnings of crow's-feet spinning out from the eyes are the lifelines to my stories. But I can't deny that it will be nice to have this document to look back at in years to come, of me naked at 27. Nor can I deny that I'm not a teensy-weensy bit proud to be seen as cute enough to be featured in those pages, pages that for some are profoundly sacred and for some deeply profane (me, I think it's a delicious mixture of both). So keep a lookout on the stands in the months to come for the boy in the pjs, and if you like what you see, enjoy. After you've lingered a moment or walked on by, maybe consider that behind all that flesh, there's a real boy with a story. Who knows—this could make the experience all the sexier. There's a lot going on behind that emerald-green guitar.