“Why don’t you help him off with his pants? Yeah, and make sure the blindfold is tight. Oh, that’s so hot. Get the lint off his nipple! Good, good. Now stand back a couple of feet and make sure he doesn’t get hit by traffic.”
Sigh. Just another day on the Instinct photo shoot chain gang. We’re in the crosswalk at Crescent Heights and Santa Monica Boulevard, and Dave Bailey, the photographer, is prancing around on the corner snapping shot after shot. Matt, the brave and handsome model du jour, is standing in the middle of the intersection wearing grey CK bikini briefs, a red blindfold and a smile. A wavering smile. Me? I’m standing two feet to the left, willing the traffic light to remain red and idly wondering what actually counts as indecent exposure in West Hollywood. Mostly, though, I’m thinking that life takes some awfully unexpected turns.
Howdy. My name Patrick, and I’m straight. Hell, I’m not just straight, I’m a redneck from the swamps of Michigan. I own Nascar themed clothing. Cowboy boots. A Pabst Blue Ribbon belt buckle, for God’s sake. I enjoy the music of Ted Nugent for the aesthetic pleasure it provides me. And, at least for one afternoon, I’m the art director on a photo shoot for the world’s greatest gay magazine.
What’s going on? Why am I here? I blame it all on Dave. He’s a good friend of mine, and as our lives get busier, we see less and less of one another. So, when on a Friday morning he called and asked if I wanted to hang out with him on a photo shoot, I readily agreed. Dave’s shoots are always adventures. He’s a great photographer, but more than that, he has the ability to talk models into anything. Anything. I look forward to those days. Visions of busty, morality-impaired lingerie models frolicked in my head. However, when he arrived to pick me up this day, he waited until I was in the car and we were heading down the street before speaking. “Oh, by the way, I’m shooting for Instinct today, and you’re my art director.”
Oh.
So much for the busty lingerie models, and we’re going too fast for me to leap out of the car. Damn. Instinct? Gay boys in their underwear? Do I really want to do this?
Alright, I suppose here’s where I should have my Archie Bunker moment. I do like gays. Some of my best friends are of the pansy persuasion. No, really! I live near West Hollywood. My roommate is gay. There is a pink triangle magnet on my refrigerator. I could pick Ryan Idol out of a lineup (although, to be perfectly honest, I’d rather have a drink with Ron Jeremy). I’ve been a stage actor and director for 17 years, and one doesn’t get far in that world without rubbing elbows with a homosexual or twelve. I’ve met screaming queens, leather daddies, pre-ops and log cabin republicans. I once knew two men who found one another through a personal ad in American Bear. They had the ad enlarged and framed in their bedroom, right next to the Tom of Finland print. I’ve stood drunk in the toilet stall at 2:00am and heard that seductive phrase, “Just close your eyes, you’ll never know the difference.” Er, um…
Have I made my point that I’m not a homophobe? I’m just a slightly hungover redneck who isn’t altogether sure that I want to spend my afternoon observing a man more beautiful than some of my ex-girlfriends as he lounges around the pool in a thong. But, I gave my word to Dave, the sun is coming out after a few days of rain, and we’re almost to the model’s place. The pressure is increased when he offers me an autographed Ben Rogers 8x10 and a fistful of glow-in-the-dark Instinct condoms. I cave. I guess that I’m an art director.
Matt turns out to be a very nice guy, and he offers us refreshments and introduces us to his Siamese. N’Sync croons on the stereo. As Dave sets up his equipment, Matt and I discover all that we have in common. We like doughnuts and porn. We appreciate the efforts of Erin Brokovich in her fight against the Man. We’re both from the Midwest (he’s from Wisconsin), and we discuss the joys of road-side cheese stands and brewery tours with free samples. There is a bond building between two men. Before either of us can blurt out those words that will forever damn us and ratchet the patented Instinct photo shoot chain gang sexual tension even higher, the photographer is ready. Time to go to work!
The theme of the article is “blind dates,” and in Instinct’s typically understated fashion, it involves a hot boy walking around in his underwear wearing a blindfold. Being artistic director, I find myself helping Matt out of his clothes and tying a silk scarf over his eyes. As we share our tender moment, Dave looks at us and utters the magic words. “What if we did this out in the middle of the street?”
The model laughs. Of course the wacky photographer is joking. No one in his right mind would drag a helpless underwear model blindfolded into the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard just to feed the ravenous maw of some sleazy magazine! Matt turns to me, the fear creeping into his eyes. He is just joking, isn’t he?
Sigh. Art director. Model fluffer. Crossing guard. Well, I can’t say that life in the Instinct family is boring…
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