Laid Bare: Essays and Observations

by Judson, Tom

  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.

  The cake had been made special: Mom had a little booklet put out by Baker's Coconut that had directions to create festive-shaped cakes by cutting round and square cake layers and piecing them together. Patterns were included and all of the cakes had coconut sprinkled on top of the frosting. There were plans for a bunny, a locomotive and a clown, among many others, but I asked Mom to make the sailboat cake for me.

  A square cake was cut on an angle in two unequal halves to create the sails. The hull of the boat featured coconut dyed blue, with Life Saver portholes and a licorice whip mast. The sails billowed with a snowy coconut covering and five candles were placed along the bottom edge of the cake.

  After cake and ice cream came the opening of the presents. I have forgotten everything I received that day except for one very special present: Theresa Duurloo gave me a blue Tonka Toys Jeep. I loved it! It was my favorite of all my presents.

  When the other kids mother's came to pick them up and the party started winding down, I went to find my new Jeep so I could hold it while saying goodbye to my guests. But, it was nowhere to be found! I looked everywhere for my Jeep, but it had vanished. I ran into the hall, panic-stricken, just as Mrs. Duurloo arrived to pick up Terry. Alarmed by the look on my face, my mother asked what was wrong. "I can't find my blue Jeep," I cried.

  The mothers looked at each other, then they looked at Theresa, who stood at the door looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

  "Theresa, what's under your coat?” asked Mrs. Duurloo. Terry went on to explain that she had merely brought the Jeep for me to play with and fully intended to bring it back home with her. Her attitude implied that it was clearly a quality item and she surely couldn't be expected to leave it here with a... boy.

  The mothers started to laugh, the children began to cry and Mrs. Duurloo left the party with her daughter and without the Jeep. I have it to this day, in fact.

  Twelve years later, Theresa Duurloo and I found ourselves the only two members of our kindergarten class who were still in the same school district and graduating together. We met in the parking lot of the school after the ceremony. With our robes billowing in the soft June breeze we hugged each other, holding on to our caps as they knocked into each other as we embraced.

  She put her mouth next to my ear and whispered, "Y'know, I never did forgive you for keeping that Jeep." And with that, we pulled apart and said our final goodbyes before going off to separate parties and separate lives.

  RIGATONI WITH SAUSAGE AND FENNEL

  1 lb. rigatoni

  5 Italian sausages

  2 fennel bulbs, stalks removed, feathery ends set aside.

  chicken stock

  olive oil, salt & pepper to taste, handful fresh dill (chopped together with the feathery ends of the fennel), grated parmigiano reggiano

  1 bottle good champagne

  1. Heat a large, heavy skillet on medium-high heat and place sausages in it. Split the sausages with a knife and, using a wooden spoon, force the meat out of the casings. I use turkey sausage for this recipe because it's ostensibly less awful for you. Also, I get naked in front of a camera from time to time, so any place I can save on my fat intake is good. Besides, I saw this documentary called "American Dream" about the Hormel packing plant strike and, jeez, what goes on in meat processing plants is gross.

  2. Contemplate the sad fate of cattle and the like as you pour a glass (preferably a flute) of champagne and drink to the turkeys that have found their ground-up way into your pan.

  3. When the sausage is browned and cooked through, transfer it to a bowl and set aside. Cut the fennel bulbs in half and cut out the core. Slice them from top to bottom (or side to side if you're feeling contrary; you're certainly not going to hurt my feelings if you do) and throw them into the hot pan, where you've placed a couple of tablespoons of olive oil. Take a piece of fennel from the pan and marvel at how well it goes with champagne as you take another sip.

  4. Once the fennel is caramelized add the sausage and keep cooking. Throw in half the dill and add a cup or so of the stock. When the stock reduces add some more. When the champagne in your glass reduces, add some more to that, too.

  5. Let out a yelp as the twice-risen bread dough falls to the floor and the dish shatters. Curse the god-damn bad luck of it all and say, "Oh, well, good thing I didn't put the pasta in yet". See if everyone needs a refill and announce that you're not going to let a minor setback like this ruin your dinner party and that you'll make a fresh batch stat! Ignore the protestations of your guests and open a second bottle of champagne.

  6. When the dough is ready to go into the oven put the pasta into the boiling water. Add some more chicken stock to the pan and let reduce as the pasta cooks. For that matter, go ahead and throw a ladle of the pasta water into the pan as well. I don't know why, but they do it on TV and it makes it look like you know what you're doing.

  7. Drain the cooked pasta and put it back into the pot along with the sauce, the rest of the dill and the grated cheese. Give it a good stir and transfer to a serving bowl. Place on the table and shrug modestly as your guests ooh and ahh. "Oh, I just threw it together", goes nicely with this dish, along with a green salad.

  8. Jump up from the table when you realize the bread is burning in the oven and tell your guests they've been eating too many carbs, anyway.

  9. Sit back down and finish the meal.

  HIM AND HIS SHADOW

  The phone rang twice before I could answer it. Could I do an overnight? In Pennsylvania?

  I’m not fond of overnight jobs. They’re inherently risky, for one thing. If you and the client don’t click and decide to call it off, you’re forced into an uncomfortable renegotiation for the time you
’ve spent together. If the client doesn’t appeal to you, you’ve got to put on the act for hours longer than normal. But, the real reason I try to avoid overnight gigs is that I don’t like morning sex. I jump out of bed upon waking. I want my coffee and I want to read the paper. I don’t want to kiss anybody before I’ve brushed my teeth.

  But, there’s this arts-and-crafts sideboard I’ve had my eye on and a quick thousand bucks would somewhat alleviate my guilt if I were to buy it.

  Oh, okay. Sure, I’ll do it.

  The client wanted to chat a bit before our date. I hate feeling like I’m giving it away over the phone, but for a thousand dollars you get a little extra. We arranged to meet two days later and he told me about where he lived; he was a college professor in Pennsylvania, just a little older then me, and lived near the university in a house he had just had built. He lived there with his brother.

  And did his brother know why I would be coming? “He thinks we met through a personal ad and this is our first date.” What does your brother do? He’s a professor, too? Computer science, both of you? Interesting.

  That Friday was gray and rainy. As I drove from Manhattan into the wilds of Pennsylvania I tried to put a positive light on things. I had never been to this part of the state before, and the guy had to be intelligent, at least, if he was a professor at the university there.

  After leaving the Turnpike I drove across the state towards, and then through town. The directions my client had provided soon found me in an area that was strangely barren; the wooded suburbs of the picturesque college town seemed to end abruptly and left me driving through a flat, treeless district. The rain had let up and the late-afternoon sun sent frail rays through the greasy gray clouds, coating the oil-slicked road with a weak film of autumnal light. In the distance I saw four houses--two on either side of the road--lined up perfectly flat with the street on which they sat. The street sign told me this was my destination.

  As I drew closer I saw these weren’t just houses; these were mansions. Brand new, immaculately finished behemoths that sat close enough to one another to expose the underlying plans for each house as identical. Only the exterior details provided enough distinction to keep the occupants from entering the wrong domicile on a foggy evening. There were spindly young trees with twin upright supports planted here and there in the yards. Seams still showed between the strips of new sod.

  I turned into the arcing blacktopped driveway and pulled up to the front door under the twin-columned portico. My two-door vintage convertible suddenly felt Lilliputian in front of this monumental edifice. I turned off the ignition, got out and walked around the front of the car and up the two broad front steps. Within moments of ringing the bell, one half of the wide, double door silently swung open.

  There stood my date. He wore brown loafers, khaki pants and a pink button-down collar shirt as well as a very obvious blond toupee. That’ll be a challenge I thought, as I planned my strategy of never touching his head. But it was his skin that made the strongest impression. It was translucent as alabaster. I couldn’t quite call him an albino, but his white skin and blue eyes, pale as dead hydrangea, gave him an eerie, ethereal quality that reminded me of the evil children in the movie Village of the Damned. I tried desperately to remember how that film ended as I reached out my hand and introduced myself.

  “Hi, Scott. I’m Gus.”

  “You found it okay, I see.”

  I looked at the floor to keep my gaze from drifting upward to his hair and saw a shadow flicker behind the door. Scott must have noticed my glance.

  “Oh. This is my brother, Mark.”

  From behind the other half of the front door stepped a carbon copy of my client. Everything was identical except that he wore a blue Oxford cloth shirt, not the same pink as his brother.

  “I… guess you guys are twins,” I offered with a chuckle to cover my surprise, as I confirmed with a quick look that even the toupees were the same. “Nice to meet you, Mark. Are you joining us for dinner?”

  I’ve always had a fantasy of having sex with twin brothers, but, now that the pieces were falling into place for that possibility, I was having doubts that this was the pair. It was going to be a job keeping interest in just one of these guys; two would tax my abilities beyond endurance.

  “No, I’m staying in tonight,” answered Mark as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and sneezed into it.

  “Well, Scott, should we get going,” I asked as Mark hovered in the vestibule.

  “I thought I’d show you around the house before we go, if that’s okay.”

  Scott and Mark then proceeded to give me a guided tour of their house. There was a billiard room downstairs complete with a double green glass-shaded lamp hanging above the felt surface of the table and cues lined up perfectly in their holder on the wall.

  “Do you guys play?”

  They answered “no” in unison.

  There was a music room upstairs. The ivory-colored Wurlitzer sat peacefully in a corner, snug on the white carpet. I noticed there were no indentations in the broadloom where the feet of the bench would have rested were a player sitting on it. There was also no piano music to be seen anywhere.

  “Do you guys play?”

  They looked at one another and then at me.

  “No,” answered Scott. “No, neither of us play,” echoed Mark.

  My eye traveled to a marble chess set atop a reproduction Chippendale mahogany game table placed artfully in front of the picture window. Two identical kings stared at each other across the board. The chairs were set at an inviting angle, as if to say, “Come, spend an afternoon contemplating the intrigues of this ancient game.”

  “Do you guys…” I looked in Scott’s eyes and, seeing nothing, continued, “…want to show me the upstairs?”

  Returning from dinner the windshield wipers of the sedan maintained a steady thup-thup… thup-thup. We pulled into the driveway of the house and around to the side, where I had re-parked my car at Scott’s request before leaving for the restaurant.

  During dinner the talk had flowed effortlessly. The double martini had inspired me and the conversational ball never dropped. Perhaps I was trying to postpone the inevitable by keeping up an endless banter. The pale blond man across the table looked directly at me for most of the meal, and never seemed to blink. Scott was perfectly pleasant, but I was not looking forward to climbing into bed with him. As the tires of the car hummed along the damp pavement my hand felt for the comforting outline of the diamond-shaped blue pill in my pocket.

  The automatic garage door closed behind us. After stepping out of the car onto the immaculate cement floor we met in front of the three-pronged medallion on the hood and stood facing each other. I smiled uncomfortably as Scott leaned toward me and placed a tentative kiss on my closed mouth. As he pulled away I felt the cool snap of wetness where his lips had left a trace of saliva.

  The dishwasher was running as we entered the house through the dark kitchen. The flickering blue light of a television and the soft murmur of a laugh track emanated from the “media room” across the hall. Scott took my hand and led me in that direction. His palm felt moist and his grasp timid. We stopped in the doorway and Mark looked up from his program. Holding up an index finger he drew in several quick short breaths and then sneezed into his handkerchief.

  “Sorry. How was dinner?”

  “Terrific. Your brother’s a fun date.”

  “We’ll see you in the morning, Mark,” said Scott. He nodded to his brother and once again took my hand and led me to the wide, carpeted stairs.

  In the bathroom I swallowed the Viagra before showering. With my head bowed under the hot spray I reminded myself of the sideboard this night would allow me to buy. I wrapped a towel around my waist and opened the door. Scott was waiting just on the other side, still fully dressed, and, averting his gaze, slid by me into the bathroom as I passed him and headed down the hall.

  The sheets were cool and fresh and I looked around the room as I wait
ed for Scott to come back from the bathroom. The chintz wallpaper matched the fabric that covered the round table in the corner of the room. Several gilt picture frames sat on the table, and I noticed the pictures they held were the stock images of happy families and couples used to display the frames in the store. Nothing in the room gave any clue to either the sex or age of its occupant. I imagined Scott walking in to a furniture store and saying I’ll take the whole room, thanks.