“Well, it could mean you’re trying to scare me away from him. You’ve got to have figured out that he and I are sleeping together.” I was on a roll and lights were going on all over the place. “And that’s probably why you were on the beach that day. Checking us out. And tracking Macha down at the gym. Am I on the right track or what? What’s the story here, Ken?”
By this time one sailor was sitting backward on another sailor’s cock and sucking Glenn Elliott, who was standing on the bed in front of him. There were some close-ups. It was definitely Glenn Elliott.
He looked at me in a kind of admiring way. “You’re a smart kid, aren’t you, Hugo? Very smart. You got this all figured just like that. One, two, three.” He wasn’t being sarcastic. “Yeah, we were together in Philadelphia. Before he came down here.”
cold christmas
While I was pondering Ken’s porn video, Mom was planning to go to Key West for Christmas. “Let’s invite Glenn to go with us,” she said.
Not, not, not.
Fortunately she was too late. Everything was already booked. I don’t know why anyone would want to go to Key West anyway. Unless you drank so much you wanted to go somewhere that people drank even more than you did. Beaches? Zero. Architecture? Two on a one-to-ten if you like dinky little frame cottages. People? Please. There is no beauty in Key West. Only torn off jeans shorts. I think Mom thinks it’s more relaxed. I’ll give her that. If a coma is your idea of relaxation.
I was very happy to stay in Miami Beach. And besides, what would the sleeping accomodations be in Key West? A motel room with two double beds? A cottage with two bedrooms? There could be no good solution.
And then it turned cold. I kind of love it when we have a kind of winter here for a few days. Everyone gets hysterical that they have to wear a cardigan sweater. They run around saying things like “It’s 65 degrees!”
This Christmas will be a special time because of the chill. There’s a cold wind blowing in the night, right through the cracks of the louvred windows. Glenn has been staying with us every night so he went out and got a big roll of plastic and stretched it over the screens in the bedrooms to cut out the wind. The bedrooms are all on the back in the direction of the beach, so they were getting the most wind. Mom dug out blankets from the cedar-lined closet, so we can all huddle under our heaps of wool at night.
In the morning the sidewalks have a kind of glaze from the fog having frozen in the night, and the air is silvery. No clouds, just this silvery air going up and up and up.
Actually, I hate Christmas. All these Moms and Dads trying to fake feelings they don’t really have for each other, and probably hardly have for their children. And certainly don’t have for their own parents, the old doddering farts. It’s all that sort of “Let’s Pretend” kind of stuff that people run out at Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July carried to the maximum. And the children are all excited about the things they’re going to get for nothing. Stuff, stuff, stuff. And it’s all for free, free, free. Do I go too far?
Mom and I always try to make it as real as possible. Since we’re in the tropics we don’t have a Christmas tree but try to do something festive in a Christmassy way. Last year we bought a lot of red lights and wound the entire trunk of the royal palm tree in our front yard with them. So the trunk was this glittering kind of pillar rising as high as the house. I had to climb the ladder and do the top part. Mom held it at the bottom. It was fun.
This year we’re going to make miniature palm trees of the pillars on the front porch and use the red lights to wind around the pillars. I cut fake palm leaves out of green cardboard and taped them around the top of the pillars. There are only four of them and not so terribly high. Tomorrow I’ll start winding the lights. We’ll probably have to buy some more.
It’s all right that it’s cold. Let’s just hope it doesn’t rain. And melt my cardboard palm leaves. And electrocute us all when we put on the lights.
We’ll have Christmas dinner at The Strand. Neither Mom or I like the kind of food people eat at Christmas. Turkey really isn’t very tasty. And all those mashed potatoes and yams and things. I do like stuffing, but it seems kind of silly to eat something just to get at what’s inside. And then there are those broccoli sprouts. Where did anyone get the idea that they were food?
We’ll have a nice supper at home on Christmas Eve and then we’ll exchange our presents. I’ve been shilly-shallying around trying to decide what to get Mom and decided I’d get her an old silver Hermes bracelet I saw in one of the Deco antique stores. It’s made like miniature horse bits I guess, but each link is a different design. It’s cool, with a very secure kind of little clasp so it can’t fall off. I want to get her something that won’t wear out, like a cashmere sweater. And I’m certainly not going to get her something practical like a new ironing board. She needs one but she can get that for herself. I want her to have something that she can look at years from now and remember how I was, how we were, what our lives were like way back then, that Christmas long ago when I gave her a silver bracelet.
I don’t know what to get Glenn. Maybe a cashmere sweater. I can afford it. Navy blue. That will eventually wear out.
Yesterday we went for a walk down on the beach. The three of us. The seas are very high. Pale green and silvery, piling in and crashing high. Glenn went in but I was afraid to. Mom and I stood and hugged each other while he tore in and dove over a wave and then gestured to us to come in. We just huddled and shook our heads. I had this feeling that the sea was like my life. I wasn’t sure but what it was too strong for me. That it might just sweep me away. I’ve never been in such stormy, strong seas, and maybe right now isn’t the time to try it out. I wondered what would happen to us, Mom and me, if Glenn was swept away and we never saw him again. It’s too much of a chance, tearing lives apart just by jumping in the ocean.
When he came running out, water running down his body, his hair slicked down over his eyes, that beautiful body rushing towards us, shivering, reaching for the towel with its arms outstretched, it was sort of like Jesus running towards us. Our savior. Is there a crucifixion waiting down the line? For which one of us I wonder?
hugo models
And then I grew. It was really strange. Suddenly I was getting taller. My legs were getting longer. I felt like Alice in Wonderland in that part when she’s eating bits from the mushroom. The boys at the Bomber Club noticed it right away. “Hugo is finally growing up,” Coco Rico said one night when we were standing beside each other in front of the mirrors, adjusting our jockstraps. “You used to be just a little taller than I am. But look, I’m only up to your ear. Where will this all end? Our baby is growing up and is going to leave home.”
Maximum Shell came over and stood beside me. It was true. Really big. I wasn’t as big as he was but I was getting there. And my chest and shoulders were filling out, too. I felt like an impostor. It was still me inside.
I decided to work up a new act. All the guys were doing it. The manager encouraged us to develop different stuff to hang on to our regulars. I got the idea to do a bicycle messenger thing. We don’t have messengers in Miami Beach but I’ve seen lots of pictures of them and they’re a big fashion item. Getting out of those Lycra shorts was kind of a problem, but I rode in on my bike, which made a big hit. And there’s lots of gear to take off, what with the helmet and the goggles and the gloves and the sneakers. I went down to a bikini but I kept my socks on. That little creative touch. Then put all my clothes in the bike basket and rode off. It was a pretty good act if I do say so.
Maximum was doing his swimming bit then. He didn’t really strip but came on soaking wet with one of those rubber caps and goggles and a big towel and worked with the towel. He was good, Maximum. For a big guy, he could really move.
Coco Rico was doing his number on skates. Tricky. Roller blades. He wore all that real outsize stuff so he could get it off over the skates. He went down to one of those Brazilian buttbarers and kept his cap on. He was always a big favorite since he
has such a good time doing his act. He loves the attention.
Myrtle Beach was in trouble with his Top Model number because Linda Evangelista and Christy Turlington and that bunch were going out of style and all those little waifs were coming in. So he threw the whole thing over and did a Carmen Miranda bit. He made all his own costumes and he got a look going that was excellent. Myrtle is a biggish guy and when he put on those wedgies he was big. The MC introduced him as the Towering Inferno. It was true. With that turban with all the fruit on it he could hardly get onstage. He put a real banana in the headdress, which he took out and ate during the act. Kind of obvious but the crowd loved it. He told me he got the inspiration seeing an Andy Warhol retrospective over at the Alliance on Lincoln Road. They had a short with a drag queen called Mario Montez on a couch, eating a banana. It was called “Normal Love.” Great, right?
I kind of thought my little bicycle act got lost in the shuffle with all the other acts, but one night there was this guy waiting backstage who wanted to talk to me. He said, “Hi, I’m Mike Merkin. I’d like to talk to you.” Yes, Merkin was the name. Can you imagine being called Merkin? Wouldn’t you change it to anything? Even Jerkin? Anyway. He said he represented Sophie-Louise Models in Miami Beach. I’d heard of them. He had been a model himself I was sure. He still had kind of ruined good looks. Soft and crumbling. You know he had to be just like his looks. His face wouldn’t look that way if he wasn’t soft and crumbling himself. “I want you to come see me,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re wasting your time. These other guys have nothing going for them.”
“I’m just doing it for the money,” I told him.
“Everybody’s just doing it for the money. Even the ones who are giving sailors blowjobs for fifty cents. What kind of money is the question. At least if you were modeling you could tell your mother.”
How much does this guy know about me, I wondered. “Why do you say that about my mother?” I asked him. He looked at me. How old was Mr. Merkin? Thirty-five, forty?
“Does she know?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“No one who works in a place like this tells their mother. What are you going to tell her? That you take your clothes off in front of a bunch of gay guys? This is not show business, Hugo, my dear. This is not show business.” He added, “Come over to Sophie-Louise sometime this week and we’ll talk. You’re the right size to fit clothes. You’ve got a good look. You’re blond, which isn’t that common. And you’ve got a nice body but you’re not too muscly. I think Gianni Versace would like you. And we’re doing a lot of stuff with him right now. Where are you in school?” This guy knows something. How does he know I’m in school?
“I’ve got one more year to go, after this one,” I told him.
“You might have to quit school.” He saw my face. “No? Well, we can always work something out. There are those classes you do at home.”
“I’m planning to go to college,” I told him.
“Jodie Foster did it so I guess you could. But she was already a big star. Let’s not worry about things like that yet. Can I give you a lift home?”
Everybody had cleared out by now and we were all alone backstage. I could hear all the noise out front. Coco must have just gotten there. “You don’t have to mingle, do you?” Mr. Merkin said.
“No,” I said. “Nobody has to. The rest of the guys like to. But I’m too young.”
“How old are you, Hugo?” Mr. Merkin asked.
“Sixteen, I’ll be seventeen in June,” I told him. “I guess if you’re big enough, you’re old enough,” he said. “That’s from a Judy Holliday movie,” he added.
“Yeah,” I said. “It Should Happen to You.” He nodded his head at me.
“Very good, Hugo. Very good.”
“Thank you, Mr. Merkin,” I said. I shook his hand. “I have my bike so I don’t need a lift. And I will come see you this week.”
“I’m there all day,” he said. “You know where it is probably. We have our own building.” I knew exactly where it was.
“I’ll come down. I’d be glad to,” I said, and Mr. Merkin left. Not back into the bar but out the door.
I rode my bike downtown and saw Mike Merkin the next afternoon. They had a big office upstairs over a cafe on Ocean Drive, the walls covered with pictures of models. Many of them, most of them, I came to find out, were not in Miami Beach and rarely came there. But it looked great. Lots of the faces you saw in the magazines everywhere were there on the walls.
Mike Merkin showed me the portfolios and the composites of some male models who were actually in Miami Beach working. Not to be vain, but I thought I looked as good as most of them. He gave me a list of photographers to call. “You have to have pictures done. We have to put a portfolio together for you. I want you to call these people and see if they’ll do tests with you. Most of them are going to if you tell them I asked you to call. Some of them are straight, and the ones who aren’t are going to come on to you, obviously. What you do about that is up to you. But you don’t have to put out. Anybody that has to put out isn’t going to make it as a model. Do you think Cindy Crawford put out to get started? Give me a break. If you’ve got it, you’ve got it. Putting out can get you into a couple of magazines, but it isn’t going to make a career. Hollywood? That’s a different story. I’m talking modeling. Nobody puts out for Bruce Weber, believe me. A, he wouldn’t have it. B, it’s not on the schedule. All he’s interested in is the look. So get out there, and let’s see how you do. I’ve got a cattle call for Versace Friday. He wants a whole bunch of guys and you don’t need a portfolio. Can you be here about three?” I thought I’d have to skip phys. ed. but what the hell. That wouldn’t affect any grades. So I said I’d be there.
And that started the whole rigmarole. Versace took me for one of his ads. You can just see my pectorals in the back in the yellow shirt. Macha was thrilled. For being so anti-modeling, she certainly got off on her best friend being a model. Mom wasn’t so sure it was such a good idea. Of course she had been a model and knew what the story was with most male models. “If it’s only to make money to go to college it’s okay, Hugo,” she said. “But I don’t want you to think about it seriously. You’re too smart for it. You’ve been brought up in a nice home. It’s not as though it’s a big step up from feeding chickens in Oklahoma. But if you miss out on your education, you’ll miss out on spending the rest of your life with people who are smart enough so you won’t be bored with them. It’s not being rich, it’s the boredom of spending your time with stupid people that’s the big trap of not being educated.” My good mom. Excellent woman.
And Glenn Elliott, about whom nothing should surprise me by now, turns out to know some major photographer and said he’d call them and see about setting up tests. How major? Like Richard Avedon, although he did say, “I’m sure I could never get a test for you with him, but he does do some of the Versace ads so it probably wouldn’t hurt to talk to him about you. Let’s wait until you’ve got some pictures from somebody else and see what he thinks. I know Richard Noble out on the coast, Frank Scavullo, and Harry Monteverde.” I knew Harry Monteverde because he had just done this big section in “Details” on Jean-Claude Van Damme. Very cool. So he called Monteverde, who said he was coming down to Miami to do a shooting in a couple of weeks and would definitely do some pictures of me. How did Glenn Elliott know Monteverde? Best not to ask. But he told me. “We were in the Marines together. Kind of crude. But a very okay guy. Very talented. Started out doing photographs on reconnaissance flights. You’ll see. Funny, too.” What was happening here? Suddenly lots of things were happening that I couldn’t tell whether I should be excited about or not. I went upstairs to study chemistry.
I did a couple of those Versace ads and even did a PR thing where they photographed Mr. Versace surrounded by his boys. It was interesting being with some of the famous male models they brought in for the occasion. Most of us were local Miami guys, or at least the models that have located here. But t
hey did bring in some names, like Dack Cardozo and Billy DeWere and Gunther. Very interesting how careful everybody is to not be too sexy. Not at all like the boys at the Bomber Club. They handle their bodies as though there is a camera somewhere all the time. Always making good poses. And talk about very masculine things like baseball or television. Though they do talk about clothes a bit. Because they’ve worn all the famous designers’ things. And they talk about their girlfriends a lot. What it is, I think they’re all in training to become movie stars. They’re living their pasts right now. So later nobody can talk about them, like they do about James Dean and Rock Hudson. Of course, when it comes to sleeping with somebody in order to get a part in a movie, that’s another story altogether.
It’s really weird. They’ve seen people like Kim Basinger and Sharon Stone make it big from modeling to movies, now with the Baldwin brothers it looks like men can do the same thing, so they’re being careful right from the start. So strange. Nobody gets to know who they really are or what they’re really like. It’s not even of any interest. They’re just busy making themselves into a product that the movie business will be interested in. I can’t really be like that. Of course, I can flex my pecs when the camera starts clicking, but this business of being careful, careful, careful all the time. No way.
deceit in the bathroom
As Glenn came down the hall I reached out and pulled him into the powder room.
We were very face-to-face in the tiny room. I undid Glenn’s belt, unzipped his fly, and pushed his trousers down as well as his jockey shorts. He had a look of resignation on his face although he was already very erect.
My Worst Date Page 8