Gregory

Continued from last entry.

His name was Greek, but his accent sounded English. Something about an upcoming project that I might be eligible for. A client desperately needed a model for exfoliate advertising. My first gig! This sounded promising, but what was the catch?

On account of his accent and not holding the phone over his mouth, I could only pick up one out of every three words. There was, however, no mistaking these two: “drag queen.” Alarm bells. I had to get dolled up and exfoliated for my first shoot? A queen to break into the scene?

But if the client approved of my look, for my pains Gregory would give me a handsome discount on my portfolio book and prints. I was torn between giddy excitement at the sheer lunacy of a first assignment, and the doubts of drag. Still, the client had the final say, so I put the ball in his court and offered my services.

Gregory asked me to e-mail him with sample photos. “As many as you can is fine,” I heard him say. So, I stayed up into the wee hours rooting around my digital photo library for flattering and creative snapshots. In a late-night delirium, I attached 14.

I called him that morning as he was off to an Internet café to check my pictures. How many had I sent? “Good god,” he cried. Apparently I misheard “five” as “fine.” We agreed to meet the following day.

Expecting a dapper, professional photographer, I winced when a short, round balding man in cargo shorts zoomed into sight clutching a cell phone. He was walking and talking in different directions. “Sorry lae, I bookstre reading I jus los track ime.”

His piercing hazel eyes were perhaps the only vestige of youthful beauty before time and strippers took their toll. Now in his 30s, he had lost hair on the top of his head, and gained it in less desirable parts, like peeking out of the neck of his t-shirt.

“I’ve got to apologise, mate, my studio is a mess.” A mess? The place was a sty. He had trouble opening the front door there was so much crap on the floor. I took an uneasy seat in a tattered armchair facing a table groaning under the weight of books and papers piled high. He sat by a darkened computer screen smudged with fingerprints. A nearly empty bottle of extra virgin olive oil was at his feet.

Only a few clues hinted that this was a photography studio. Sagging black fabric covered fluorescent ceiling lights. A small army of spotlights stood neglected in a corner; a few wounded ones lay knocked on their side. Pink and white feathery costumes overflowed from boxes along the back wall. A few color prints were taped to the wall, including a bare-chested Samuel L. Jackson ringer. “I’m most proud of that shot.” I couldn’t imagine much success being snapped in a space like this and in a state like this.

Instead of getting down to business, he veered off topic. Without warning, tales of his strip club escapades spewed forth like we were old fraternity buddies. It sounded like he blew his every Yen on women of the night. In Tokyo, he tried luring lap dancers back to his home. Growing up, porno cinemas were good for cheap thrills when $5 blowjobs on the street were too expensive.

I couldn’t keep track of his lurid stories, starting from 14 years old. Something more recently about going to a brothel to get an hour with a girl for free in exchange for modeling shots. But when that plan failed – and five lines of coke later – he substituted a male stockbroker for “mind-blowing sex.”

“I’m sorry,” I interjected. “Come again?”

“Oh,” he stammered, realizing. “I’m straight. I have a girlfriend. But when I’m on drugs I can’t get off with a girl so I do guys. But I don’t really use drugs.”

Although I was sitting right next to it, the door suddenly felt very far away. My question seemed to snap him from a daze. It triggered an apology and an excuse for talking my ears off about his sexual depravity.

“I’m sorry, mate. I’ve just had a nervous breakdown. I’ve gone mad.” So I’ve noticed, I thought. He proceeded to explain how he rented out a room to, unbeknownst to him, a paranoid schizophrenic.

“Aww, man, that’s gotta be the worst fucking disease.” I stared back blankly.

For the past four days he undid property damage from his tenant, who ambitiously chopped away part of the door, tore up the floor, ripped out the cupboard, and injected the walls with sealing foam to scramble electronic bugs placed by the people who were following him. The sealant’s expansive qualities caused the walls to bulge. He undertook the repair work himself. He had to give up his lease, and was in the process of changing houses. In the meantime, he was living in the studio. Now it all made sense. Except for the brothel part.

“Are you Mediterranean? I am Greek, and people think I hate Turks or Arabs, but I consider them all my brothers. We all live near the same place, eat the same foods, and I don’t think we should spill blood because of religion and borders.”

“No, my heritage is Russian, Polish and Romanian,” I said.

“Are you Slavic?”

“Uhhh….”

“Muslim Russian?”

“Ehhh….Jewish.”

“Ah. Many Israelis have a weathered look. I don’t know why.”

“I’m not from Israel,” I said.

“And you are not weathered. You have young features, and a very masculine look. You aren’t the most gorgeous, but certainly aren’t the worst looking.”

“Thanks.”

“You have a USB, and I think – ”

“I beg your pardon?” He lost me again. How did we switch to electronics?

“A U-S-P, unique selling point. You don’t look like most people here. And you don’t have the blond hair, blue-eyed WASP look.”

“I’m Jewish.”

“I’m sorry, can I see your forearms? Are they are hairy? The client needs a hairy subject,” he added. “But also one with feminine features. Yours are too masculine, but I think you would work for the part. The client should be lucky to find someone willing to do this. He’s just not going to find a feminine-looking hairy man. Hairy men are masculine. I’m going to recommend to him that you do this.”

“I’m sorry,” I interjected. “Now what exactly is the assignment again?”

He explained the pitch for the exfoliate product. If it could remove hair on a transvestite, it would surely leave a real women’s skin gleaming. My picture would be put in a mail order catalogue, but not widely broadcast.

“Nobody will recognize you, except for some middle-aged woman in Kyushu who wants to remove hair on her ass. I love it when girls remove hair on their ass because it means they are trying to please a man, you know?”

Silence.

“Do you mind if I snap a picture of your forearms to send to the client?” he continued. “Would you mind if hair were waxed from your arms? I know, I hear it’s awfully painful.”

Listening to him had to be more so. Jesus, what was I getting myself into here?

As it turns out, aside from a migraine and sore eardrums, nothing. The client found a better candidate. My forearms and dignity remained intact.