Laid Bare: Essays and Observations (4 page)

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 never 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.

But, under Dennis Bell’s watchful eye, the Athletic Model Guild is looking to the future as much as it is preserving its own storied past. His plans for the company and its assets were instrumental in convincing the Mizer estate to sell him the materials. In addition to re-issuing the existing images and films, Dennis is drawing on his own experience in the adult film industry to carry-on and expand the AMG brand. “Although Bob tried to film hardcore in the 1970s, he wasn’t extremely successful at it. The difference between me and Bob is our experience working with hardcore. With my experience, AMG will now be able to produce full sexual situations that Bob couldn’t do.”

While the reincarnated Athletic Model Guild has all the tools of the digital age at its disposal it is, essentially, still the dreamchild of one man. The symmetry of such a collection passing from the hands of photographer and pioneer Bob Mizer into those of photographer and entrepreneur Dennis Bell has its romantic aspects, but, “right now it is all I do, my social life is gone. But I know that soon we’ll be back in production, and I’ll start shooting again.”

Until then Dennis Bell spends his solitary days in the company of a million men.

Little Miss Indian Giver

The first birthday party I recall with any clarity occurred when I was in kindergarten. Perhaps the reason I remember this one is that it would have been my first party where the attendees were children other than my sisters and cousins. The guest list was most likely comprised of my friends from school, in addition to my family.

But, the real reason the party on my 5th birthday has stuck in my mind all these years can be summed up in two words: Theresa Duurloo. She was my best friend in kindergarten. We'd pal around on the playground and share a cot for our nap. If Terry didn't want her second graham cracker, I was the lucky recipient--no one else even bothered to ask. I guess she was my first girlfriend.

So, when my mother asked whom I wanted at my party, Theresa was, naturally, at the top of the list. I invited one or two other little friends from school and my sisters and cousins rounded out the guest list.

We hadn't built the addition on our house at this point, so the extra leaf was put in the kitchen table and the whole thing was dragged into the living room. We all had party hats and noisemakers and the paper plates matched the napkins.