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Just  20 minutes prior we were complete strangers and now he was standing in my apartment stark naked in front of my camera. It all started when I got the notion to head out for a cup of coffee.

As I was trudging through the snow with my Starbucks in hand I spotted a dark figure emerge from the street corner ahead. Curious, I couldn’t resist the urge to go out of my way to walk past him. We made eye contact and he nodded. I walked on by.
Soon I heard the rustle of footsteps coming from behind and a deep voice muttered, 

“Yo, man, it’s cold out here, ain’t it?”

As bitter as the weather had become it was the perfect catalyst for two unfamiliar souls to acknowledge one another. Masculine and a little rough around the edges I couldn’t help but to oblige his conversation. But no sooner did he make the comment about the weather when he outright asked me if I was gay. I was a bit taken back by the forward nature of his question, but I’m not such a good liar so I told him the truth. It turns out it was the truth he wanted to hear. He said he could see it in my eyes.

“You got dem pretty eyes, man.”

He asked me what kind of work I did and when I told him I was a photographer he leaned in and said “Yo man, I’m packin’ some dick. Keep myself in real good shape too.”

Only the one who inflicts the pain can take it away

Saturday, June 1, 2008
I looked around the living room searching for that one spot I missed, or that one item out of place. But everything was perfect. I had mopped the bathroom floor, took out the garbage, cleaned the kitchen, and at last, tidied the living room. My Saturday afternoon chores were complete. It was at that moment I noticed the stillness in the apartment. At 32 and single, the stillness is often there, but on this day it set in and smothered me. The only sign of life filling this space was the sound of my own breath. I had fallen to the jilted lover’s kryptonite – loneliness.

I hadn’t felt that empty in such a long time, but it was all no strange emotion to me. And whenever I feel empty I long to hear a familiar voice. A voice that will somehow convince me that I am loved and I matter to someone. A voice that will tell me I am important to him. To his being. And his being was the one being I need not in my life, Tyro. I thought about making that phone call, but some years had past since we last spoke on the phone. And since I had revealed the bitter feelings I harbored towards the whole situation, an out-of-the-blue phone call would clearly expose my vulnerability.

Picture Perfect Dreams From Costa Rica

I received a call from my Latin Lover last Friday. I don't think I had heard his voice in over a year. It was such a sweet sensation to my ear. On Saturday he emailed me some pics of his beautiful, smiling, endearing self along with scenes from the backdrop of his life in Costa Rica (above).

My response:

Hi sweetie,

Look at you, beautiful. It was so wonderful to hear your voice the other night. I want you to know that you are always in my thoughts. I'm sorry I haven't come to visit you. I've been procrastinating on getting my passport. I'm not sure why, but I think it's because once I have my passport there's nothing to keep me from you. Which scares me because I fear that I may not be the same person you remember. Will you still feel the same way as you did back then? If not, I don't know that I could handle that kind of rejection.

The only way to avoid rejection is to avoid acceptance.

Remember the last time we saw each other? Do you remember our last kiss? It was the day before you left. Had I realized then how good you were for me, I would have never let you get on that plane. I know it's a selfish statement, but it's true. Four years have come and gone. Many Sweet Novembers have passed and I thought you would have been returned by now. Though, if time is any indication then I guess you are not coming back. And the notion that I have once again been abandoned by love has left a bitter sensation in my soul.

You asked me if there was someone else in my heart. Well, the answer is no. My heart is full of loneliness. I wonder if you know how much I need you here. I need you to take care of me. Because lately, I haven't been doing such a good job of taking care of myself.

I know you had to leave. I know there were no other choices. I know you are off, in a far away land, following your dreams. I only wonder if those dreams will ever include me.

Love,

Aaron

Life is never picture perfect. Some of us never end up with the one we love. Some of us never love the way things end up. All we can do is dream about the way it always should have been.

He belongs to the night

As day turns to dusk and the street lamps begin to flicker, these sidewalks are pounded by an invisible walk of life. He navigates the concrete maze with ferocious intensity, ducking in and out of alleyways, innocence stripped from his face, honesty drained from his soul. He's the one who deceives the naïve pedestrian and intimidates the urban sophisticate. His is the culture of night. It's a darkness that exists to intrigue my curiosity and defy my comprehension.

On occasion, he lets me get close enough to discover what it is that he wants, and exactly what it is that he needs. He hides in the doorway of an abandoned storefront and offers to sell me a chemical romance. He crosses the street to see if I might peddle a potion to feed his love. He approaches me in the bus shelter to offer himself up as the available merchandise. His essence is strangely charming under the cool blue glow of the moon. Yet his eyes are incredibly lonely and dark.

He takes on whatever persona he feels is necessary to make it through the next moment. He clings to a prayer that he’ll make it through the next hour. And he’s damned if he’s blessed to see the morning light, because he knows he must endure the survival of another night.

I always decline his promise of sweet deals and discounted prices. However, I often wonder if he'd let me walk alongside him so I can experience the ride. A carnival of instantaneous pleasure and insatiable misery. Could I emulate his style? Could I imitate his stride? His stance? Could I learn to speak his language and be able to use every unfamiliar word in the right context? Could I survive in his world long enough to gain his trust? Would he confide every joy, pain, and heartbreak? Recall those precious childhood memories that turned him into the shadowy man who mystifies me? Would he accept me as one of his own? Or would I be ousted as a fraud before I get the chance to tell his story with the compassion that exists in me?

Mystery of the Thug Model: Part II

editorial note: This story originally appeared on my now defunct e-zine in February of 2007. It's one of my favorites so I've decided to move it over to the blog for archiving purposes.

Click here to read Part I

And now, the conclusion of "Mystery of the Thug Model"

The photoshoot with Romell finally happened tonight. We made arrangements to meet at 7 p.m. at the corner of 22nd and Prospect, right in front of the halfway house where he was living.  When I got him back to my studio he took in his surroundings as I gave him a brief tour.  He asked if he could smoke a cigarette inside, but he was respectful when I asked him if he minded doing it outside on the deck.  Afterwards, he asked for some juice, but as I opened the refrigerator I realized I had nothing to offer but liquor and water.  I knew any alcoholic beverage was out of the question since he was a recovering substance abuser.

He browsed through the refrigerator and helped himself to a jar of my roommate’s canned hot vegetables.  I felt a bit guilty for pouring myself a glass of wine.  But I was probably more nervous than him about the shoot, and I needed it to loosen me up. 

“You got me until 10:30,” Romell remarked. “But you’re going to have to take me to McDonald’s and buy me a pack of smokes when we get done takin’ these pictures. Oh, and you should know that I charge by the half-hour, and my time started the moment I got in the car,” he said in a serious demanding tone. I chuckled and tried to let the comment roll off.  But this alarmed me because I wasn’t quite sure if he was serious.  I recalled a time at the gym when I overheard him talking to one of the older men in the weight room.

“For  $500 I’ll let you do what ever you want.”  That was the only snippet of the conversation I heard. So they really could have been talking about anything.  But then again, this was the downtown Cleveland YMCA which has an underground reputation of being the closest thing to a bath house without actually being a bath house. It was such a blatant statement that I could only speculate what was being negotiated in between sets of preacher curls.  Was I really  dealing with a hustler here?

Mystery of the Thug Model: Part I

editorial note: This story originally appeared on my now defunct e-zine in February of 2007. It's one of my favorites so I've decided to move it over to the blog for archiving purposes.

I first met Romell in the summer of 2002 at the YMCA where we both were members.  And let me just say, this brother was absolutely fine.  He stood at 6’2” and a solid 220lbs.  Although I would later learn his age, I couldn’t quite figure out if he was in his early twenties or mid-30s.  His chiseled, taught face indicated a young man bursting with ambition; yet his eyes reflected the maturity that only comes from experiencing many years of love and pain.  His caramel complexion glowed with the radiance of a 22 year old boy, but his solid 220lbs muscled frame suggested the well-trained and slower metabolism of a 32 year old man.  His thick black hair was neatly cornrolled, and the tattoos up and down his arms told stories of their own.  He was a thug to the core, and he often worked out in nothing more than a wife beater and a pair beggy sweat pants—which only made it obvious that he was working with some heavy machinery in the dick department, because it would “jingle jangle” with the swagger of his step (occassionally he’d reach down with his hand and pull on it through his pants as if he were making a fine-tuning adjustment). I could feel my heart flutter and my knees grow weak whenever Romell came near me. And I wouldn’t dare make eye contact with him for fear that he would see me blush. Yes, brother was fine, and I’m sure the object of adoration of many of the women and men in the gym.

Sex and Love

In celebration of the St. Valentine's Holiday, I've chosen to write about an aspect of my personal life that I hardly ever share with anyone, let alone discuss here on the blog. Yes, on this day of romance I shall spill the intimate details of my sex life and drop a few random thoughts about love. So why have I dodged discussing my romantic life on my personal weblog? Well, the answer is simple. Both my sex life and love life are practically non-existent. Thus, these are the days and nights of a desperate artist.

Today there will be no box of chocolates nor dozen roses for me. I will send no singing telegrams nor hand out candy hearts with cutsie phrases on them. No knight in shining armor will appear at my door to whisk me away to a candle lit dinner. And I won't be turning down the bed to take a steamy lover at the end of the night. Yes, today will be just another ordinary day in my ordinary life.

There's no mistaking that as a physique photographer I get to see a lot of sensual men in the buff up close and personal. And I would be lying if I didn't admit that these guys present me with a fervent temptation from time to time. So it's easy to see why so many people mistakingly assume that my sex life is popping. Well, that couldn't be further from the truth. The truth is... The truth is I'm actually quite conservative when it comes to sex. Now I don't mean in a bible thumping, evangelistic, right-winged way. As you know, I'm a very liberal minded person. I believe that everyone should be allowed to do whoever they want, be whoever they want, and express themselves in the bedroom any way they want. But for me, personally, I'm just not comfortable with casual sex. I wish I were, because then I would actually get it once in awhile. But I'm just not too keen on hooking up with random men and getting it on. This is partially because I'm somewhat of a hypochondriac, and in this day of age who can blame me? But the bigger picture here is that I am a bit of an old-fashioned romantic. Sex is just so much more satisfying when it's with someone that I actually feel deep sentiments toward.

For me, 2007 was about mourning the loss of a love.

It's Sunday evening and I'm just now getting around to posting on the blog. It's been a busy day of running errands and getting things ready for my trip to Chicago, but I took a little time out this afternoon to do one of my favorite things --that is my Sunday afternoon nap. What I love about the Sunday afternoon nap is that it's not really a time for me to catch up on my sleep, but rather a time for me to sort my thoughts. It's a kind of meditation for me.

While I don't do a Sunday afternoon nap every week it's something that I do on frequent occasions. Sundays just seem to be a good day because it's that lazy day when I find myself winding down from the weekend and getting ready for the week ahead. To prepare for my Sunday afternoon nap I like to go around the house and make sure everything is turned off. No cell phones, no tv, no iPods. As soon as I am certain that anything that makes a noise is either shut off or muted I then climb into bed, curl up in my blankies, lay still, and just listen. Yes, that's right. I just listen. I listen to what the world is really telling me. I hear the bustle of traffic on the street. I hear the opening and closing of doors. I hear my neighbors' arguments. I hear my neighbors make-up (sometimes I can even hear them having "make-up" love in the middle of the afternoon). And just as I'm taking it all in I hear what I need to listen to most, and that is my thoughts. Sunday afternoon naps are a time for me to process what's on my mind and sort out where I'm at emotionally. I may close my eyes, but I'm anything but asleep. I'm totally tuned in, I'm totally aware, and I'm listening to what's really on my mind.

Today's Sunday afternoon nap took me to a really deep emotional place. In fact, I only intended to lay down for an hour, but my emotions told me I needed to spend more time with them today. I ended up meditating for two hours. I think this is because we're about to enter a new year and I'm in a spot where I'm reflecting on what's happened to me over the past 12 months. There have been highs and lows, and today I had one of the lows on my mind. I realized that for most of the year I've been in a process of mourning. I said goodbye to a friend and a great love this year and I'm in the process of letting go. No, no one has died. You see, I literally told someone that I loved deeply that he was no longer good for me and I needed him out of my life once and for all. I'm grieving because I'm not certain that I made the right choice. Will my broken heart finally mend now that I've pushed him out? Or, will this be a decision I'll regret the rest of my life?

A desperate Saturday night

As you may have noticed, the tag line for this blog is "The Days and Nights of a Desperate Artist." And on this blog I actually talk a lot about my days, and my photography, but rarely do I post anything about my nights. So let me take this opportunity to clear up a few misperceptions of what my "nights" must be like.

Many people think that being a physique photographer means living a glamorous life in the fast lane. Surely I must get to sip appletinis in the VIP lounge of the poshest night clubs, sleep with the hottest men, and as for money - it grows on the tree outside my bedroom window. In reality, this couldn't be any further from the truth.

It's Saturday afternoon and I'm already contemplating what I will do to entertain myself this evening. I don't have a date -- well, I haven't actually had a date in two years. I won't be hanging out with any friends. All of them have found good jobs and have moved the hell up out of Cleveland (most of them are in the Chicago, Atlanta, and D.C. areas - big surprise there). And if I choose to stay up late tonight it won't be because I'm out cutting a rug at some club. I will most likely be up to 2 a.m. working on retouching one of the several photo shoots in which I've fallen behind.

I could go to a movie like I did last night. I saw Charlie Wilson's War. It was interesting and I learned a few things that I didn't know about the Cold War. On the other hand, it was also Tom Hanks' and Julia Roberts' portrayal of a Hollywood interpretation of what happened in Afghanistan in the 80s, so who knows how much of the movie was accurate. Also on my movie list is 27 Dresses, but that won't be released until January 11. So I guess I won't be going out to the cinema tonight.

This morning I flipped on the television and tuned it to the Oxygen Network for a little background noise as I work here in my studio. Appearantly they're running a Bad Girls Club marathon so I'm feeling really guilty as I take delight in watching these chicks get drunk and bitch slap each other every five minutes. What has t.v. come to these days? Anyways, back to the subject at hand - my desperate Saturday night. I got all excited when a preview just flashed on the screen for a viewing of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, which will be playing on Oxygen this evening at 8 p.m. So there you have it. It looks as though I have a steamy date with a hot, young, Sydney Poitier tonight!

Tough Love

Yep, it was him alright. The air was blistery cold and my eyes were a bit watery from the snow hitting my face, but I didn’t need to do a double take to recognize him. Though he had become hardly recognizable. He was stepping off the number six as I was crossing the street with my hot Starbucks in hand.

My vocal chords began to tense up as I prepared to call out his name. But, no matter how much I wanted him to see me standing there, no matter how much I wanted to ask how he was doing, I knew a chance run-in was not in our best interest. So I pulled my scarf around my face and flipped the collar on my wool coat and walked past him without so much as a word. I know he didn’t see me because he would have been inclined to call my name too.

Our friendship was a strange one at best. At times it was fun. At times it was deep. And it was always flirtatious. Over the years I heard every excuse in the book. The stories rose from his lips and flowed into my ears like an aria filling an opera house. I went from holding him close in my heart to holding him within an arms length to eventually letting him go. I could no longer be his enabler, and I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for us.

Saturday Afternoon

It's 3 o'clock on a Saturday afternoon and I know what I must do.  My body is asking for it. My body wants it. My body needs it. And no matter how hard I try to resist, my body must have it. I haven't had it in weeks, not to mention I really haven't been consistent in the partaking of it all year. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know that once I've had it I'm going to feel so good. I'm going to thank myself. But my frame of mind has been resisting this urge. My frame of mind has been occupied with excuses, like: I'm too tired, I need a break, I have more important things to do, it's too cold outside, it's too late, it's too dark.

Have I lost my motivation? Is there just no mo-jo left? Have I no desire? It will be just a brisk 10-minute walk for me to get to that spot. That spot I so desperately need to be in. Yes, it's 3 o'clock in the afternoon and I know I must do it now. Off to the gym I go!