Is Max Too Cool For the Pool?

Recently, the question has been raised (again):

Is it Possible to know TOO MANY GAYS?


This time, the answer was "yes"


My tonsils had been removed just a week ago. Dad wanted to do it, said it's been awhile since he's been inside the mouth of someone under seventy and wanted to give it a shot.
I said "Fuck you father, you're a dentist. It hurts enough when I get my teeth cleaned!" I recalled the time getting them bleached in his office; hell, it's impossible to forget. I cant still hear my teeth screaming! It seems odd that my own father would forget that I am allergic to radiation.


The REAL doctor for the tonsilectomy used too much anesthetic for the procedure and didn't give me enough to bring down to Miami with which to recover. He said 500 ML of liquid hydrocodone would be plenty for my recovery, but upon waking after the surgery I found the bottle half empty! It was 3:00 in the afternoon, and my mother was at work. I couldn't bother her, and I felt rude waking my brother up to ask him if he had seen the other half of my prescription painkillers... so I ended up going without.

My roommate Nick sent me an invitation to a party via Facebook. One look at the guest list, and I think "fuck those faggots!". It was a "Back to School Pool Party" and I had more desire to see the cast of The View on a stripper pole together than I did to watch these twinky little fairies prance around a pool deck for four hours of my last free Friday afternoon. I RSVP with a polite "Maybe".

Nick messages me two hours later, telling me that I'm going to added as an administrator to the party and that I should invite people. "Uhh, Okay Nicky" I chirp as I accept the title and prepare to invite the School's football team. Upon closer inspection of the event, I learn that the party is being thrown at OUR APARTMENT. I groan so loud that my phantom tonsils hurt.

By Friday I was down to about three doses of painkillers, give or take an extra perkiset saved for a rainy day. Waking up after a twelve-hour coma-esque nap, Nick surprises me with good news: The party is postponed until Sunday. This is great.... Until Saturday night, when I wake up at 4am and realize that the little brown bottle of magic is finally at its end. The night turns into mourning as Will and Grace references, voices from Planet Unicorn, and gossip about Madonna's new tour terrorizes my brain. "Will I make it through this party?", "Will they think I'm not hip and tell their Daddy's to put a hit on me?", "Is there going to be unwanted sex in my bedroom?", "Am I going to commit a hate crime?...Is it a hate crime if I'm gay too?...Or is that domestic abuse?!

Nick convinces me to look at the possitive. Maybe I can get my hair styled, or someone will give me a massage... He makes appetizers that I can't eat and hands me the phone to give directions to one of his friends. The words don't come out clearly, the inside of my throat is essentially a chucky-doll of nerve endings. They ask me to repeat the directions... "Fruck Roff!" I gargle as I hand the phone back to Nick.

I camp-out, reading in a deck chair as the crowd begins to arrive. I find an attractive guy, but it turns out he simply lives in the building... with his wife... and was just out tanning on a whim (a pretty gay whim, in my opinion). Nick takes my book away and tells me not to be anti-social.

It becomes apparent that I'm not wearing enough bathing suits. In their own time, everyone at the party cat-walks out to the pool, puts down their sangria and strips off their first bathing suit to reveal some kind of banana hammock or another. Nick didn't take my phone, so I end up texting noteable quotes to my poor boyfriend back in New York City. NOTE: these are all very real quotes:


"Stop! I don't want to get these board shorts wet."

"Shut up! I broke a hundred pounds today... I feel like such a pig."

"Oh my God! I thought this was Presidente Light!"

"No, I'm a teacher. Are you a business major?"

"Nick, your bathing suit is see through! You're such a fag!"

"What's a bicep?"

"No! SPF means how much longer you can be out in the sun without getting burned. Like, if you normally get burned in 20 minutes, SPF 5 will keep you from getting burned for like, 100 minutes"

By the time my friend Ranier showed up the pool had turned a faded pinkish-brownish-color. Swimming was out for the day. "I'm not going in there" he said. He peeled off his outer bathing suit and again I felt alone. The highlight of the day was the massage he gave me. Unfortunately I had to reciprocate. It was in my best interest that I was unable to talk for the majority of the party. Instead, I worked Ranier's big black lumps to the best of my ability and tried to tune out the rest of the gawking crowd.

Judging by the quality of their hags, these homos were definitely C-list or below. My roommate dealt with his disappointment by drinking way too much sangria.


At one point I got too bored and sneezed some post-surgical blood into a Kleenex, purposefully leaving it beside my recliner in hopes that the event would surface on JuicyCampus.com

The party was to end at 4:00. Unfortunately, the South Beach Elite didn't arrive until 3:49. It turned out to be okay, since South Beach's Finest don't stay around one place for more than 30 minutes, and they most certainly DO NOT get their hair wet. The party was over by 5:00. I had the place cleaned and was napping by 6. Although the hosts thought the party a big ugly bust, the general review for our "Back to School, Butt-Buggger-Bash" was that the party was "FIERCE"

It wasn't until late Monday afternoon that I was able to obtain anymore pain killers, but the entire event has left me feeling raw and quite un-hip despite my current physical numbness.
On the bright side, the only queermo I made bleed was myself, and the only regret I have is that I didn't wash my sheets before taking my post-party nap.

Paul David models: Why no photo shoot is ever free

It is very well known that I have had my share of bad experiences with people in "The Biz". Some say it is because I attract the wrong kind of attention. Maybe it's the dancing on tables at work, the strip-teases-for-tips, the faggy blond highlights or maybe even the disturbingly accurate impressions I do of Zac Effron getting plowed by Perez Hilton.

People take an interest. These people come in the form of washed up industry-members-turned-social-parasites that prey on the innocence of the young and supposedly talented (although the talented part doesn't matter). These people slink between gay bars and politely wait for you to finish the night's 11 o'clock number... You get your knee from behind your neck and your head back on top of the rest of your body when they approach you with the usual pickup lines such as "Are you a model?", "You know Emporio Armani is looking for a new face for his cologne" and "Oh my God we finally get to meet THE ________" (While you're thinking..."How does his tongue reach the bottom of the glass like that?!") They hand over their business cards with victorious conclusion lines like "We'll see what we can do", "Give my secretary a call" and "You aren't allergic to dust, are you?"

His business card is out of date. It says the office is on south beach when he says they have relocated into the design district. When I Google him, the search returns a 60-year-old's Myspace, a model-hunter site I've never heard of (twinkshots.com???) and about fifteen sites that do background checks. There is a faint chuckle from the gnomes inside my computer who know you are in for it once again. 'No! This is progress,' I think, 'at least I'm not paying for pictures like some of those other "models" who "work"'.

His assistant calls. His voice is high pitched and feminine. Says it is urgent and that I need to bring a head shot and resume to the office ASAP. It's much easier to send an email. They inform that the head shot will simply not do and that THE Paul David has offered to shoot me for a reduced rate. The inclusion of the capitalized THE before his name is impressive, so I agree. "Hell, what've I got to lose?" I think... "You're dignity!!!" The gnomes' screams fall upon deaf ears as the iPod is already engaged and you are out the door to the train.

The landscape gets dark by the closest train stop. Maybe a Taxi is a better idea. "Hey, how much will it cost to take me to the design district?"
"What's the address"
"5040 NW 2nd Street"
"I don't go there. Hey Charlie! How much you charge to get this kid to little Havanna?"
-Oh shit.

Paul David's studio is hard to find. It is a small, grey, windowless storage space between a bail bondsman's office and a sort-of farmer's market that sells plastic hair. His doorman asks me for a dollar and I oblige, wanting to remain in possession of my iPod. The gnomes inside the little MP3 player are much more mean spirited than those inside of the computer. They make up words like "FailBait" and "Uberdouche"

It is sunset and Paul David wears motorcycle glasses inside his windowless apartment. His assistant is off for the evening, but when his phone rings he answers it with a high, feminine voice. He makes you feel special by disregarding his client just for you. He says "We've gotta go, the twink from Score is here" and he hangs up. I would feel bad for the caller, but in my opinion they are lucky that their call even got answered because I never heard the phone ring.

I act as PA when we set up the studio. Two flats turn upwards and move in front of a couple of old fashioned flashbulbs: the kind that smoke when they light up.

Paul David is very classy. He smokes hand-rolled cigarettes that smell like my uncle TearDrop. In fact, the whole studio/office/bedroom seems to smell like my uncle TearDrop. Before I could get lost in reminiscence of my dear old uncle, THE Paul David threw an Armani suit at me to wear for my first "Look". My eyes began to water, either it was the dust from the jacket or the intensity of wearing such a once-expensive piece of clothing. I wore the jacket with pride, but the pants didn't fit. They were a size 34 and I was a mere 30. Looking even more stupider, I found that my left arm was not in the sleeve at all, but in a hole torn into the armpit some time ago.

My pants fell down and I began to cry. I had been exposed as a fake. Not a real model at all! I couldn't even handle tiny discomforts like dust or a masturbating photographer!!! The flashing of the bulbs disoriented me. THE Paul David said this was a good thing, that I have a natural quality not possessed by anyone else in the world: ever. We did several looks that day in front of the flats normally used to keep his gigantic dogs from peeing on his bed. We did "Back to school", "Back to school- shirtless", "Back to school with a cap" and finally (for variation) "Sitting next to a motorcycle outside". I was told not to touch the motorcycle, and I didn't, but someone from the farmer's market yelled at me anyways and I started crying again.

When it was time to go, he threw my clothes at me and told me that he would be sending these pictures to Bruce Webber, Ferenc Esceki and Oscar Meyer! I was just that good! "The next big thing!" He gave me a CD of the pictures that day that made me feel otherwise.

Always the gentleman, Paul David offered to give me a ride home. He said we were friends now, "you don't have to call me THE Paul David unless we're around company". He tipped the doorman (or was it landlord?) and we sped off to I95. The a/c was broke but we didn't open the windows because it was going to rain and they don't close unless the car is stopped. The smell reminded me of uncle TearDrop again. The gnomes inside Paul David's car were cheering until we broke down about a mile from my home.

Paul David asked if I should rehearse my 11 O'clock number while we waited for AAA, but I insisted that I should be running, as he never called AAA and I had a previous engagement to pose nude for some on-line art class starting at 10:00.

Bionic Egg Web Design