Champs Sports.

Filmed in Jersey. Surprised?



I've stopped blogging (and writing in general) for quite a while now, failing to realize the point of it all. But then I remembered that most artists are appreciated years after they've spattered their brains against a wall or choked on their own vomit at the age of 27... and for some reason that inspired me to continue. So here goes:

The flight departed Milwaukee at 7pm. I was in town shooting for the Kohl’s catalogue Monday and Tuesday, August 22-23, 2011. I was in Miami for four days before then, New york for a week before, and Costa Rica for the 6 days previous. Supposedly I’m living in New York these days, but it certainly doesn’t feel like I live anywhere. The entire purpose of this journey is to meet my Arian ex-boyfriend Philip in London, attend a concert near Liverpool and head back to Hamburg with him. The tickets are all one-way. There was a stopover in Chicago and the following red-eye flight took me into London Heathrow at 11am. It took a little while to find my way to Bundy’s place. London is one of those older cities where nothing in its infrastructure makes any sense.

Bundy opened the door and greeted me as friendly as any posh-boy would, with a backhanded compliment about my shoes. I dropped off my bags, confirmed agency appointments for the morning and we set off to the south shore for lunch. Bundy insisted we have a beer at lunch and then go row-boating on the serpentine in Hyde Park. He bought wine on the way and snuck it onboard. He lounged at the stern of the boat and took pictures as I rowed shirtless around the little area designated, loudly challenging every little rowboat full of tourists to race. Whenever the patrol boat zoomed by with its 10 HP outboard we had to hide the wine and pretend that we were sober. He got scared as we drifted into a pile of swans that looked like they were going to attack, and warned me very seriously how well-protected the queen’s bird was in this city.

Afterward we walked into Soho, which is like the hardcore version of Chelsea in New York or WeHo in LA. I told Bundy that with agency appointments tomorrow, I should take it easy. Bundy shrugged and walked on down the street literally filled with homos in suits downing endless amounts of booze. Apparently the national pastime is drinking and talking shit. We started out at a posh bar and then Bundy announced that since we were sufficiently 'Leathered' it was time for him to take me to a trashier place across the street called G-A-Y. 'It's a right of passage for any gay boy in London' It wasn’t even dark out when a crew of boys walked in wearing leather and rubber and collars (Oh My!) I felt compelled to be a tourist to borrow the man holding the leash’s whip and take a picture with the gang.

Bundy came downstairs around noon the next day and announced that he was feeling 'absolutely wretched'. He had a glass of water in his hand and nearly spilled it on me when he fell asleep sitting on the end of the couch that was my bed. At two I went to a a large agency called Storm. A thin, pale, non-smiling man told me I was the wrong type for their agency and sent me on my way within ten minutes. My next appointment was with a smaller agency called Nevs who represents my friend Mich. Their men’s booker wasn’t in town, but a very official Kenyan woman with big upper lip took my polaroids and told me they’d let me know. I went over to Mich’s afterwards and we had lunch before playing ninja in a park near his house. Bundy begrudgingly took us to Shoreditch House (think soho house) that evening for $20 personal pizzas and $15 drinks by the rooftop pool. His mates brought us to the Playboy club afterwards for free booze. Bundy and I slipped off when the group went to a club called Bungalow 8 where they knew a guy providing more free booze.

I was up bright and early at 11am on Friday. I had two more appointments with London’s top men’s agencies. The first was on Drury Lane, and I was disappointed to find not a single muffin man, or muffin shop. Not even a shite Starbucks muffin! Both agencies were very nice. They took my portfolio back for their colleagues to see (some of whom came out and greeted me). Both regrettably told me that I was simply too tan, muscular and commercial for the London market. The booker from Models 1 pointed to a picture on the wall of a skinny pale boy with tattoos and told me how that is the look this season. Both agencies offered to represent me in February-April when clients shoot Spring and Summer stuff. I left their offices with my ego between my legs, wondering how much heroin I wold have to do to become that type of model.

Mich came by Bundy’s place that evening and we went to have dinner with another posh friend who told us all about the new airline he was planing to open. The meal was over seventy bucks a person, and Mich was pissed when we had to pay for ourselves. The posh boys bowed out as Mich and I left to meet up with his promoter friends at a bar before hitting a club with a questionable reputation called Jalous (think Jealous, but pronounced in a really snooty way). Bundy said he’d leave a key under the flower pot and then mentioned that his roommate would be up early so I should sleep in his bed with him that night.

Phillip and his close friend Antonia flew in at 7pm and met us at the bar around 10. When they arrived, I ran over to Phil and gave him a huge hug. He awkwardly patted me on the back and looked around. Antonia gave me a real hug. Mich came over and within minutes of meeting them bragged that he acquired MDMA from a friend and wanted to try it for the first time. Drugs tend to sketch me out, so I stayed quiet. Phil announced that he and Antonia had some as well and were already soaring. The whole conversation made my stomach lurch. We got to Jalous and dropped our jackets in VIP (yeah, jackets... London’s fucking freezing in August). Phil and Mich ducked out for a line and I followed along to make sure they didn’t get arrested. They were drunk and bumbling in the process and I was about to lose it as they racked up their rails on the street behind a quiet construction site. They made one for me and I tried it. My eyes were watering as we re-entered the club. The big bald bouncer at VIP was an asshole and pretended to not remember Phil and I when we tried to get back in. Mich and Antonia brought us drinks and we hung out in the main area until the bald bouncer left his post to drag a drunk outside by the throat.

The rest of the night was a blur... we were joined by a pair of Asian girls that liked to jump on us, shots, some guy who looked like Jack Sparrow, outside cigarette breaks, large group photo, Jack Sparrow’s girlfriend accusing me of giving away her champaign, Antonia asking to have a threesome, more shots. The club closed around 4 and Phil jumped into a strangers car headed for an after party.

A spanish-speaking guy in a track suit tried to pick a fight with me as Antonia and I walked to get a cab to hit the same party. He was beating the crap out of a drunk when we passed back by them in the cab. The after party got too crowded and Jack Sparrow kicked everyone except his close friends out. Phil, Antonia and I ditched the Asian girls on the street, found a cab and snuck into the hostel at which they only booked on bed. It was dark and cold and I slept in Phil’s twin bed. It was the first affectionate moment he’d given me so far. He asked is we could fuck, but I said no since their were about 12 other people sleeping in the room.

It took us several hours to get back to Bundy’s for my stuff the next day. A group of four Asian men in suits took Phil’s picture for a few minutes as he laid on a bench waiting for the bus. I got my bags and we had lunch with some friends of mine from college before heading to Heathrow to pick up the rental car.

All day and in the car I felt like a guilty, brain-damaged toxic waste dump with no purpose in life. London had thoroughly kicked my ass.