Читать книгу Boston Boys Club - Johnny Diaz - Страница 8

“I was represented by Model Citizens Inc. in New York last year and I’ve been featured in editorials for Details and GQ as well as print ads in Paris. See, right there in my portfolio. Those are the ads and catalogs,” I explain to a trio of casting agents for a modeling job that could bolster my notoriety. There’s a buzz about this hot, up-and-coming eighteen-year-old designer from Miami, and he’s been getting good press all over the trade and entertainment magazines. If I score this modeling gig, I will be the face of his line of Spanish couture called Papito Clothes Inc. It could be huge! Stores are being planned in all the major metropolises: New York, Chicago, San Francisco, L.A., and even Boston. Billboards and a national television ad campaign are part of the deal. I deserve this job. It’s what I’ve been dreaming of forever!

Thing is, I’m as Latino as Nicole Kidman. Truth be told, I’m as Anglo as the lineup in a typical Friends rerun. I don’t even speak the español. But I have to try. The potential payoff is too great. Exposure. Acting jobs. More fame. Stardom. You know it!

I have to work it, flip it, and reverse it. Get myself out there. The Battle of the Genders has been airing new episodes featuring moi. Perfect timing for maximum exposure. That’s why I keep bugging Tommy to write a story about me in The Boston Daily. That article would run all over New England and get picked up on the news wires and probably get published around the country. I could even include that in my portfolio, if they send their own photographer to shoot me. I really need to get Tommy to write that story. This ad campaign would be a perfect timely peg for an article. Just perfect.

“Mr. Kyle Andrews, your photographs are quite striking,” the stern, gray-haired woman tells me from the middle seat of this long white-clothed table. “The camera just loves you. You have a classic look. You photograph differently in every shot.” Two other men are perusing my modeling portfolio inside the lobby of the Hilton in Cambridge. It’s quite warm in here, so warm that it’s easy to forget that just outside is Memorial Drive and the icy Charles River.

The woman looks like a former ballerina with her slender build. She speaks with a slight Spanish accent. I’m guessing she’s probably Puerto Rican, like many Hispanic women in Beantown. The two other men seem like corporate types, with their dress shirts, ties and reading glasses, and their curly dark hair slicked back with lots of gel. They are obviously representing some of the investors as they assist in the search for the new face of this clothing line. But no worries. I can hold my own with anyone. This trio does not scare Kyle!

“Gracias,” I tell the woman, trying to win her over with some basic español I learned from my ex-boyfriend, José.

I right my posture, arching my back as I patiently watch them marvel at my pictures. I’m not the only one here, of course. There are rows of guys, also models, sitting behind me in fold-up chairs, waiting for their chance to show off their portfolios as well. They’re all coiffed, clean-shaven, with dabs of makeup to cover up their unexpected blemishes. They share similar jutting mandibles and too-good-looking faces to be part of this planet. They could easily star in a Benetton ad. Like me, they are all sitting upright, perfect posture, and with elegant statuesque demeanors that silently scream, “I’m beautiful. Watch out. I’m getting this job. Booh-ya.”

I’m relieved as I scan the rows of heads behind me. I’m not the only white boy in the room. There are some red-haired guys, brunettes with dark tans, black sculpted models (They always have the best bodies, right?), and hunky Asian guys with their spiked-up black hair. So I’m not the only one trying to push the envelope to be the face of a Latino ad.

As the woman and the two men “Hmm” and “Ahhh” their way through my portfolio, they close my book of pictures, hand it back to me, and smile. Then the woman, whose thin, penciled eyebrows furrow a little, shoots me a quizzical squint, asks, “Mr. Andrews, um, were you on that show The Real Life? Jou look bery familiar.”

Yay! She recognizes me. I’m more famous that any super male model around these days. Not many people can name one right off the top of their heads, besides moi.

“Why yes!” I answer proudly, as my right eyebrow lifts a little. That’s my trademark “interested” look. “That’s how I was discovered as a model. It happened totally by accident. Destiny, you know.” I flash her a smile. This is so easy!

She glances down, nods, and shoots me another curious look like she just found the missing word to complete a crossword puzzle. “Sí, I know the show bery well,” she says, with an almost constipated face. “My teen daughters watch it. There was some crazy stuff in those episodes, especially one that was muy, how do I say, vulgar.”

Oh God! Just great! She must have seen my threesome episode, the one with the KY Jelly and the two other guys including José. This is going to torpedo my chances for representing Papito Clothes Inc. Who’d want a guy who got it on with his Puerto Rican boyfriend and a cute Brazilian barback from Club Café. Shit!

She takes off her black-framed glasses, holds them in her wrinkled hands, and says, “I remember it well. It’s something we will all have to consider. This is a new line and we don’t want to send the wrong message to young teen buyers, our targeted demographic. Mr. Andrews, thank jou for coming in and we will be in touch with jour agent shortly, either way.”

She graciously reaches out to shake my hand and the other two silent brooding corporate men do the same but they seem reluctant now to return my handshake since it was part of a former threesome episode. I grin, maintain eye contact with all six eyes, grab my portfolio, and push the chair back under the table.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to review my work. I look forward to hearing from you all very soon and, hopefully, to be working with your client. Adios!” I smile and walk away, showing them my runway walk. I pass by the aisles of male models; most are dabbing their faces with powder from their compacts as they wait for their names to be called. Good luck, suckers!

Once I’m out of the conference room, I take a seat in one of the so-cushy-your-ass-sinks-into-the-seats chairs in the lobby of the hotel, which overlooks the ash gray Charles River. Another soft snowfall sprinkles the water as people walk and cycle on the ribbon of concrete that hugs the river on both sides, Boston and Cambridge. The redbrick and brown Boston University buildings on the Boston side of the river are cloaked in white. It’s a gorgeous scene. This place is a winter wonderland. But I’m not really feeling it the way I want to. It’s just another winter afternoon with my chances of getting this job now falling with each snowflake.

That threesome episode is going to haunt me for the rest of my career, my life. What was I thinking when I brought José and Paulo back to The Real Life house and into the hot tub? We’d just met up at Club Café during Pride Week, and we all had too many Apple Martinis. What can I say? They’re always to blame. On that June night, the guys standing in line on Columbus Avenue wore pride beads (in rainbow colors, of course), tank tops, shorts, and sandals. It was hot! Because of The Real Life cameras, the crowd parted for us like the Red Sea did for Moses as we cut to the front of the line. José and I made a dash to the bar and ordered drinks. I was so in love with José then. We’d been dating for two months, and things were going well, but sometimes, we got a bit wasted at the bar and created a bit of drama, on and off camera. This night was no exception.

Alcohol brought out the weird aspects of our personalities. Sober José was a shy, mellow, easygoing guy who produced a nightly radio program for the nationwide public radio station. He was a perfectionist and proud of his Puerto Rican roots. He organizes the float for the annual Puerto Rican parade and he speaks English and Spanish fluently. I picked up some español from my Puerto Rican lover. Ay, Papi!

Everywhere we went, from the grocery store, to the mall and the movies, we held hands and kissed openly. We wanted people to see that it’s okay for a gay couple to be out and open. And with the cameras around, no one would dare pull a stunt or strike a punch because it would be recorded and possibly used in a court of law. The cameras were like our guardian angels, watching us.

After a few drinks, though, José transformed into a frisky, aggressive guy who was always looking to push his sexual boundaries. By this I mean the guy wanted to have acrobatic sex, hanging upside down while I stood upright or using objects like coat hangers and lots and lots of feathers. I’m all for experimenting. It’s hot, but even I thought his ideas were, how shall we say, out there like Anne Heche.

For a few weeks, he had mentioned how great it would be to have a threesome. He thought it would bring us closer. Hmmm. I didn’t see how bringing a stranger into our bed would bring us closer, but José and I tended to see things differently sometimes.

I can be a bit loud and melodramatic and somewhat obnoxious but, hey, that’s me sober. When I drink, it’s Kyle squared, me to the second power. Don’t hold it against me. I’ve been known to flirt with other guys’ boyfriends, in front of them, just to cause trouble because I know I can. No one wants the most popular gay guy at the moment to be talking to his boyfriend. You know what they say, meet them in a bar, lose them in a bar, which I learned the hard way with José after the show ended.

So that Thursday, José and I were at Club Café, guzzling down the liquor as cameras surrounded us in this chaotic carnival of men celebrating our right to be gay and free. Around midnight, by the front bar, José noticed a young stud, a Brazilian guy (They’re everywhere in Boston. Who would have thunk it?) with his toned copper arms, black wavy hair, and eyes so dark that they reach deep. You couldn’t tell where the circles of his pupil began or ended. José in his drunken stupor grabbed the guy on the ass and pulled him over to us. He then whispered to Paulo if he wanted to go back to The Real Life house with us on Beacon Hill and hop in the hot tub. The guy, apparently intrigued by the cameras and the powers of my model looks, said he was about to get off work in a half hour and would meet us outside.

Jealousy consumed me as fast as I had consumed those three Apple Martinis. I told José, “Why? Am I not enough for you? Why have another guy with us? You always want more and more, sugarplum!”

José grabbed my face, caressed my cheeks with his olive-hued hands, and said in his slurred tropical voice, “Honey, I love you. This has nothing to do with me liking that guy. It’s about us, enjoying another man together, to make our union more alive. This does not change how I feel about you. Please, let me do this for us. You will love it, I promise, papito!”

I was just drunk enough to buy it. So stupid of me—and I totally forgot the cameras were taping all of it. Geez! Just my luck.

As soon as we stumbled into The Real Life house, the three of us stripped down to our birthday suits, tossing our clothes and jackets all over the wood floors. We then jumped into the steaming hot tub on the second floor. No one else seemed to be home; the other roommates were out. We had the house to ourselves: José, Mr. Brazil sex toy, and me. The camera crew, aka Big Brother, was watching us doing the dirty deed.

We wrestled in the hot tub, splashed water all around, and then out of nowhere, José pulled out a big jar of KY Jelly from a bag. He smeared it all over his ass as well as Paulo’s as if he were about to wax a car.

“José, what are you doing with that?” I asked, paranoid about what was to come.

“Watch, you’ll see, baby. You are going to looove this, papito! We will remember this for a long time,” he told me, with his intense smoldering stare. José could turn me on with just one look from his beautiful Caribbean-sun-kissed face that resembled a butcher Ricky Martin. But like Ricky Martin, we were about to live la vida loca. (That’s another new Spanish phrase I learned.)

Next thing I know, José, who is standing up like a sentinel, positions himself behind me and places Paulo in front of me. We’re like a manwich and I’m the meat. They both start grinding me from both ends, up and down. It was really hot. I was so turned on. I was slipping and sliding between both of them like a well-oiled car piston.

It was getting hot and heavy, with lots of heaving, breathing, and moaning, our bodies in sync, kind of like Madonna’s threesome photos from her Erotica video with Naomi Campbell. Lost in the ecstasy of it all, the rhythm of the body grinds, we completely forgot about the cameras mounted in the corner of the wall amid our drunken haze.

And then a voice interrupted.

“You disgusting faggot! GROSS! Que sucios!”

It was Giselle, my conservative, bitchy, hot-tempered Latina roommate from Los Angeles who aspires to be a politician. “What the hell are you guys doing in the hot tub? We all have to use this. Disgusting!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.

I was so embarrassed and shocked, I froze, unable to utter a word for the first time in my life. José managed to dash to the bedroom and then ran out into the cold. Paulo grabbed his clothes, slid down the former fireman’s pole to the first floor (the KY Jelly made it easier for him to go down), and ran out the door, too.

Amid the chaos, it turns out there was someone home, no, make that two other roommates, Rick and Flo, who awoke to see me in the buff full of KY front and back.

That episode, till this day, even with the blurred fuzzy cover-ups, has garnered the highest ratings of all time for The Real Life. Even now, people still call me KY behind my back.

Despite that embarrassing televised moment in my life, I need this job. When you are on a reality show, especially on a cable channel, you’re only paid a stipend because the rent is free, as well as the electric bill. By the end of the six months I lived in the Boston firehouse, the network paid me about $6,000. Since the show has a six-month delay, my modeling jobs poured in just as the show began airing two Januarys ago. I’ve been able to live off that money, by renting a room in a three-bedroom apartment in the South End where most of the gay guys (about 97.9 percent) in the city live.

I don’t have a car. I take the T everywhere with my monthly pass. I guard my savings and try not to use them too much. Because of the show and my fame, I’ve been asked by colleges and universities around the country to speak to their incoming freshman classes about my experience as a gay man in such a reality bubble. Those engagements pay about $1,500 a pop with travel expenses included.

So I’ve managed to live off my relatively short time in the spotlight. But I need to make it last. I don’t want to go back to Oklahoma and be a nobody. Just as I was looking to do something with my life, after graduating from Princeton with a degree in sociology (What can someone really do with that degree anyways?), there was an open casting call for the show on campus. I made an audition tape and stood in a line of hundreds of students for a shot to meet the casting directors. I was different, articulate and fun, and most of all, openly gay. The show hasn’t had many openly gay guys; and I know I am cute to boot, too. What else could they ask for?

Three weeks after that audition in September 2004, the producers called me back and flew me out to Los Angeles to interview me some more, but this time, they taped what I had to say. They asked me about my childhood and why I really wanted to be on the show.

I explained how constraining it was growing up in Oklahoma with the Catholic, Midwestern sensibilities instilled in you from conception. It didn’t help that my older brother was straight and butch with athletic prowess while I was a skinny, tall, gay kid who loved to act in school plays and pose for cameras wherever they popped up.

I told the casting directors that ever since I saw the first Real Life season based in New York with Ron, an openly gay guy, I felt like I wasn’t alone in the world. Here was a guy, gay and proud of it, which was, like, normal. And he had a boyfriend on the show! If he was a role model for me, perhaps I could be a role model to some other teenager struggling with his or her homosexuality and society’s views of us.

“I also want to be famous,” I bluntly told the producers. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t hold back. I make no apologies.”

I believe my sincerity scored points with the casting directors. In January 2005, I got word from the network. I’d made the final cut. I packed my bags and headed to Boston, to live with six other dysfunctional roommates in a former Boston firehouse in the city’s tony, historic Beacon Hill neighborhood.

Two years later, I find myself jobless. Money in my bank, while there, won’t last forever. More is going out than coming in. The account dwindles.

Now, I look out on the forlorn Charles River from the Hilton lobby as the snow continues to fall. That whole threesome episode and how it will cost me future jobs is weighing heavily on my mind. I almost wish I could somehow toss it into the Charles, where it could be swallowed up and forgotten forever. Then I feel a vibration in the pocket of my Levi’s. I pick up the phone with the gusto of a twelve-year-old girl.

“Hi, this is Kyle Andrews, may I help you?”

When I hear the other voice, I do mental cartwheels of joy. It’s my best friend Eric calling from San Francisco.

“Hey, Kyle. What’s going on?” he says. Hearing his voice reminds me of OK. (That’s Oklahoma, people!). We grew up together in OK City and his mother, Bella Sols, was always like MOM (my other mom) or that’s what I liked to call her. I came out to Bella first, even before my own parents, because she is so understanding and accepting. She happens to be the most fabulous radio psychologist in the Midwest. Eric is like my gay brother so I am always happy to hear from him. He also looks a lot like a butcher Ryan Seacrest from American Idol but with a better body and much taller, about six-feet-one.

“It’s so good to hear your voice, Eric. I’m here sitting in the lobby of a hotel feeling crappy about this potential modeling job,” I tell him as the snow dots the glass of the hotel’s aquarium-like windows. “I don’t think I’m gonna get it. I need the extra money. I need me some Benjamins.”

“Listen, Kyle, I have a publicist friend who is looking for a well-known gay celebrity to emcee a pool party at the White Fiesta early next year in Miami. Of course, I thought of you,” Eric says, always looking out for me. “They will fly you out and pay for your hotel room in South Beach. The job pays about $3,000. Not much, but hey, it’s a nonprofit and for a good cause. Interested?”

“Of course!” I blurt out, jumping up and down inside the hotel as all the other models eyeball me and wonder what’s going on with me. I can just see myself, the white boy surrounded by all those Latin lovers in Miami for the hottest circuit party on the East Coast. This is just what I need.

“Sign me up, pronto!” I holler into the phone.

“Cool, Kyle. I’ll have the woman call you with the details,” Eric says. “I know you’ll be a hit as always.”

Miami, here I come.