by Judson, Tom
As another stick of butter melted away in Paula’s skillet Tim shook an accusing finger in the direction of the computer which lay on the coffee table and asked, “Those, uh, those guys on that website… Do you think their lives are just perfect? Do you think they’ve just got everything they need and are happier than shit?” My knee-jerk response was to say, “No, they’re just a bunch of fucking assholes and are probably miserable,” but after what that poor Gary Coleman went through I was feeling a little more charitable than usual.
I pondered Tim’s question as I licked the orange cheese dust from my fingers.
Yeah, I suppose the really gorgeous, Adonis-like guys have a leg up on some things in life. They may get served first at a crowded bar. They’re invited to hang out with others of their ilk on the beach. The shirt that looks great on the mannequin will look just as good on them when they get it home from the store.
But are their lives better simply because they’ve been graced with good looks? I don’t think so. We assume the Chelsea Boys and the WeHo guys lead lives far more interesting and exciting than our own because we want to think they do. Believing the pretty boys not only have fabulous faces and bodies, they also have fabulous lives in which to display them gives us yet another reason to resent them, to beat ourselves up about it. We almost need them to live wonderful lives to help explain the normalness of our own. We’d be just as special if we were that beautiful, too. Right?
But the majority of the beauties we see everywhere lead average lives. Why? Simply because most people are average. (That is, after all, why it’s called “average.”) They have attainable ambitions which they muse on in Ikea apartments. They have uninspired opinions on forgettable movies and possess a small shelf of books, all of which, besides “The DaVinci Code”, are emblazoned with a large “O” on their covers.
There’s nothing wrong with a life like this. It’s a life—with subtle variations--not unlike that of most Americans. When it’s lived by a Beautiful Man, however, a man who we expect to be a superior being—as superior as his physical appearance—it seems banal and meaningless. “That isn’t how someone who looks like a movie star lives! That’s how I live!”
We go directly from hating these guys because they’re better than us simply because of their looks to hating them because they’re no better than us even with their looks. We wouldn’t feel contemptuous of a bland looking guy who leads a bland life because we probably wouldn’t think twice about him in the first place. A bland person can be bland anonymously while a beautiful man is bland in a spotlight. It’s that variable of “beauty” that makes them susceptible to increased scrutiny.
I’ve seen a similar phenomenon at work in the porn industry. My own anecdotal research suggests that the principal assumptions about guys in porn is that they’re dumb. I would have to concur; most of the men working in the adult film industry are not brilliant. Most of the kids in the chorus of “42nd Street” , in which I appeared (no, as a principal, darling) also were not brilliant. When I worked at Pizza Hut in high school none of my coworkers were sending rockets to the moon. Because (altogether now) most people are average.
But the guys in porn possess an even more volatile variable than the beautiful guys: we masturbate to them. For the ten or fifteen minutes (OK, the hour or so) we watch a porn flick we are so invested in the men in the scene that they actually serve as our sexual proxy. How could we lower ourselves to blow a load over someone who’s nothing but a big dope? In our minds we make these guys stupider than they really are to explain away our lust.
Are there good-looking, in-shape men who are intelligent and thoughtful, in happy, fulfilling relationships with jobs that further the welfare of mankind? Sure there are. And are there porn stars who are dumb as posts with nothing much to brag about other than a big dick and a flexible pelvis? Believe you me—they’re out there.
Tim clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and sighed. “But we shouldn’t assume anything about either of those groups because prejudging anyone about anything is unfair to them and counterproductive to our own self-esteem,” he sing-songed with the half-hearted enthusiasm of a teenager promising to have the car home by midnight.
“I guess so,” I shrugged.
“Oh great! Just as I was working up a really nasty punishment for ItalynMsclStud.
Sorry, Tim. Let’s assume from now on that the beautiful guys and the porn guys are just average fellows like us trying to get through the day in one piece. The beauty they’re cursed with really doesn’t make it any easier for them in the long run.
Those trust fund babies, on the other hand…
THE CHURCH OF ME
A lot of the guys I worked with in porn were ostensibly heterosexual. It’s something that has long puzzled me and, after reading a fascinating interview in the Dallas Voice with former porn star (and personal favorite, I hasten to add) Tom Katt, I’m even more confused. Katt, who now goes by David Papaleo (surely a name ripe for changing—who could remember that at the video rental counter?) is not only through with porn, he’s gone straight and—here’s the kicker—found Jesus. He’s even considering joining the clergy.
To give Mr. Popodopolous his due, he doesn’t seem to have a problem with homosexuals or bisexuals or the kind of sex those groups engage in, it’s just not for him. “’If you are naturally heterosexual and you’re having sex with men, well, first, you’re treating that guy unfairly,’ he says.” My friend Bradley, who enjoys being treated unfairly by straight men, would dispute that point, but I know what he’s getting at. As for Mr. Popinfresh’s current orientation, “I identify as heterosexual. There was a time I thought of myself as bisexual, and I never hide that fact.”
I suppose the process of coming to terms with one’s sexual orientation varies with the individual and sometimes can stretch over years. I personally had a “Eureka!” moment when I discovered I was able to fold a fitted sheet into a perfect square. That can’t be learned.
He goes on to say that gay marriage is “not wrong” and that he’s not ashamed of his work in videos. Pretty progressive thinking for a born-again type, all in all. While I myself am a staunch atheist and believe that organized religion is the root cause of most of the horrors the world has known, I fully support Mr. Penelopepitstop’s quest for personal fulfillment and understanding. I might differ with his (newly) negative views on gay porn but I’m going to cut him a little extra slack. And the fact that his nipples drive me insane has nothing to do with it and I resent the implication.
But this does raise a broader question: why does a “redeemed” soul, after a life of sex/drugs/crime or crime/drugs/sex or crime/crime/ drugs/politics or drugs/politics/sex/drugs/crime, always wind up at the feet of Jesus Christ? Why do J.C. and his Dad always get to be the Last Exit Before Toll on the Highway to Eternal Damnation? Born-agains praise the Lord for giving them a new chance at life; He is always given credit for the good things in the world while mankind seems content to take the blame for the bad. There’s an old show business saying, “If you believe the good reviews you also have to believe the bad reviews.” While you’re on your knees thanking God for clearing up that annoying rash remind him he kind of fucked up big-time with Hurricane Katrina.
No, I’d think twice before handing myself over to the aleatory whims of the Big Christian God.
Which begs the question, how come nobody--Sammy Davis, Jr. aside—converts to Judaism as the cleanser for a dissipated life? And why is religion—any religion—the default concept to “find” when pursuing redemption? Why not “find” something like--oh, I don’t know—something like… fudge. A pound-and-a-half of chocolate fudge with walnuts would set me on the straight and narrow for sure. Or how about praying to a Technics Dual Cassette Deck with Auto-Reverse? A gadget like that, with its ability to play forever without stopping, offers the acolyte a clear and true vision of infinity. But if it must be a personage, why not somebody like, say, Rickie Lee Jones? Now, there’s a deity that would keep you on your toes. You could nev
er be sure if she would offer you blessed salvation or try to steal twenty bucks from your wallet. You’d be so busy watching your back you wouldn’t have time to indulge in any vices.
I’m just not buying this Born Again business as an antidote to profligacy and corruption. I believe there are some things that are simply innate that even the Gospels can’t dispel. Years ago a good friend of mine who was an ex-everything addict (and a really big queen) started behaving mysteriously and eventually came out of the closet as a Mormon/heterosexual convert. As we left the restaurant after our farewell lunch before shedding his old life completely I asked about the crazy lady who lived next door. “I feel like I’m Olivia DeHavilland in ‘The Snake Pit,’” he complained. “Girl,” I said, draping a friendly arm on his shoulder, “there’s not a straight man in the history of the world who has ever referenced ‘The Snake Pit.’”
Like Mr. Papardelle, I have recently left the world of gay porn to pursue other interests. Unlike him I still hold the industry and the people in high regard. I’m not joining the clergy; I’m going back to the theater. But it’s funny, just like David Papaleo (the former Tom Katt,) Tom Judson (the former Gus Mattox) will be appearing before the multitudes, donning representative garb and declaiming from a sacred text.
Can my own church be far behind?
THE LONGEST MILE
The parking lot behind the theater in Provincetown is never quiet; the exhaust fan from the café runs 24/7 and there’s always either a vehicle or a bicycle entering or leaving.
But the image that has really tickled me over the summer is brought on by the surface of the lot itself; a medium-size gravel. It’s not my beloved Item 4, which eventually compacts into a solid mass. It’s a loose, gray stone roughly the size of Kraft Caramels. It shifts here and there based on the 3-, 4-, 5- and 6-point turns that vehicles must make to facilitate driving forward through the narrow alley rather than having to back precariously into the very busy street.
Sometimes, if I’m not really paying attention, I’m fooled into thinking there’s a light rain falling outside when the gravel is trod upon.
But beginning in the late-afternoon—every day—when I can often be found reading on my porch, I get to witness a lovely and unique procession: The Art House Drag Queens. Many of the acts booked here at The Art House are, in fact, drag acts. For that matter, a good percentage of the shows all over town feature male performers in fabulous female garb. Clearly, it’s one of the things visitors expect when they come to this last town on the Cape.
Since all of us performers have to promote our shows by handing out fliers on the street (“barking” is what we call it) the drag acts have to spend countless extra hours in makeup and costume. God bless ‘em, I say.
So ‘round about 5 o’clock, depending on the lineup that evening, the Ladies start to trickle out from the dressing rooms, which are behind my apartment near the stage door. And this is the part of which I’m so enamored: most of these gals sport precariously high heels for optimum dramatic effect. But high heels + gravel doth not a happy marriage make! So I drop my book to my lap and peer over my (2.00 strength) dollar store reading glasses and watch unseen as the queens traipse across the expanse of gravel to the brick paved sidewalk at the street end of the alley. It’s about 50 feet from the dressing room area to the bricks and depending on the heels (and the confidence of the Ladies) the voyage can be tricky or, well, trickier. I hear them as they march confidently up the concrete ramp from behind the theater and step onto the loose stones.
And at that point the pace slows to a crawl. They focus their gaze on the ground ahead. Weight is shifted from the heels to the balls of their feet. Ankles wobble. Hands are deployed to the side--highwire-like--to achieve balance. Some delicately arc one foot in front of the other like great plumed birds. Others glide their feet mere centimeters above the ground. But no matter their individual techniques, they are all Elizas on the ice crossing the river of gravel to the distant brick-paved shore.
And here is the glorious part: the instant those size 12 slippers hit solid ground, these wary creatures (that up to this moment very distinctly resembled nothing but men wearing dresses) swan out into the street as poised, regal, confident, fabulous Drag Queens.
And all’s right with the world.
A Million Men
A million is a vague concept to most people; one seldom encounters a tangible example of just what those seven digits represent. Dennis Bell, who recently acquired the complete assets of the Athletic Model Guild, understands all too well the scope of that number; he’s got about a million men in his storeroom, waiting to be counted.
AMG was (and is) the parent company of “Physique Pictorial,” the publication instantly recognizable for its sublimely artificial tableaux of young men in posing straps engaging in not-so-innocent horseplay. Cowboys and Roman Centurions made regular appearances in its pages, setting the stage—and standard—for gay sex fantasies for decades to come. Primarily a one-man operation (Bob Mizer, its founder, shot every one of the images and each of the thousands of 16mm films and videotapes), the catalog spans nearly sixty years and introduced many a young man to the beauty of the male body.
One of those young men was Wisconsin-born-and-bred Bell, who encountered a discarded stash of Physique Pictorials one afternoon in a ditch on his walk home from school. He, in turn, hid them away himself (presumably the preferred method of most collectors over the years) little imagining what a central role those pictures would come to play in his adult life.
Little Dennis grew up and became a photographer in his own right, making a living shooting, well, naked men. Working for such adult studios as Hot House, Titan and Falcon (which is where I first encountered him) he became adept at adjusting his own style to the needs of the different companies. This, in turn, paid off when producing his own work. Dennis was not only a devotee of Bob Mizer’s beefcake shots, he found he was able to mimic the look and style of those classic images on his own, continuing the tradition without actually trying to recreate what had already been done to perfection.
The success of Bell’s first physique-related website convinced him that interest in physique photos and the Athletic Model Guild had not dimmed in the years since Mizer’s death.
Learning of the availability of the AMG catalog, Bell decided the time was right to introduce this piece of history to a new generation. Surprisingly, the entire catalog—negatives, films, videos, magazines, even some recognizable props—was intact. Bell purchased the lot and found himself with a huge amount of material that needed to be moved somewhere.
The storeroom at the Athletic Model Guild offices resembles a Kodak warehouse: thousands of yellow boxes line scores of shelves containing just under one million negatives. The sheer number took the new owner somewhat by surprise. “As I unpacked the collection, I kept buying more shelving to hold the boxes.” Fortunately for history Bob Mizer was meticulously organized. “Today’s digital photography storage and cataloging systems are way beyond Bob’s system,” says Bell. “He used an alpha-numeric system, starting with A-1, A-2, A-3 etc. When he reached the end of Z, he continued at ZA1, ZA2, …ZB1, ZB2, and so forth. This gives a final image ID number of something like XV23-AS.”
So even though the system doesn’t describe the contents of each image, “the negatives are organized enough that if I have a model name or image number, I can go into the archive stack and find that image within a couple minutes. There is also a card catalog that was kept with every model who was shot, and [whatever images] that model made.”
Some of those models went on to become known in other avenues. Along with Andy Warhol superstar Joe D’Allesandro and Dennis Cole (future husband of Charlie’s Angel Jaclyn Smith), “Arnold (Schwarzenegger) posed for Bob in the AMG compound just about 2 years after the Pumping Iron movie was made in 1973…showing an incredible set of muscles in a leopard print swimsuit.”
Ideally, the AMG staff will eventually include a pair of archivists to catalog and digitize
the collection. “Only about three thousand have been digitized,” in the fourteen months since Bell acquired them, “enough for the new website member section. The entire process could take 3-5 years.” After converting every image, the original negatives will be stored under archival conditions, with the digital files used for prints and publishing.
Several of the 10,000+ models who posed for Bob Mizer have gotten in touch with Bell and the AMG--mostly through the internet—some of them decades after the original photo shoots. Dennis is actively pursuing more such contacts and meetings. In addition to providing the models with prints, he hopes to produce a video documentary in which the men recount their experiences posing for Physique Pictorial.