WORK ETHICS


A million years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, I worked for a time as a Clothes Stylist with a photographer named Christopher Makos. Actually it was 1986.

I never thought CM was a very good photographer but he’d managed to turn ass-kissing Andy Warhol into a career and had his own page of photos at the end of Interview magazine every month. The pics were basically black and white “portraits” of It People and It People Wannabes shot in his “studio”/one bedroom apartment in Chelsea across from Barneys. I, of course, had read Interview for years because I was gay and thought it made me Sophisticated. Whatever.

CM made some deal with Barney’s to use their clothes (Interview/Warhol/blah blah blah) so all I needed to do was walk across the street and pull what I wanted. At that time Barneys wasn’t BARNEYS and Chelsea wasn’t CHELSEA but the store was considered an oasis on the frontier of the West Side and carried every designer.

Christopher got a “job” to shoot a spread for a new “woman’s magazine” whose goal was to compete with Playgirl. Yeah, real classy stuff. He asked me to style the shoot (?) and somehow got them to pay me. The “premise” was Hunky CEO in his office one day decides to shed his suit and roll about nude on his leather sofa. Of course. I had to pull a business suit from Barneys, meet the model and the two of us would cab to the set (which was actually an office of the magazine).

The model turned out to be a Gay Porn Star whose, uh, work I was familiar with. Again, dinosaurs were loitering everywhere and Gay Porn Stars weren’t the Supermodels they’ve become in the community today. Still, I was a little intrigued since we were rolling around in the back of a speeding taxi. Around Herald Square, GPS turns to me and says “I have a little problem”. Uh oh. “I have this thing on my dick I’m worried about them shooting.” Jesus Christ. Just look out the window, look out the window.

“Oh really?” I replied nonchalantly, hoping this was Porn Star Small Talk so I shouldn’t over-react. Don’t move and for God’s sake don’t think about what “thing” means. “Look” he quickly says as our cab stops and millions of tourists surround us on the street while he pulls out his dick.

I scooted away a bit and looked up to see if the cab driver was paying attention. Maybe he doesn’t understand English. Maybe this kind of thing happens in his country all the time. Just act like I was used to my companions flashing me constantly.

“See here,” GPS continued as he pulled back the skin,”these red spots. I was all coked out last week and jerked off for six hours.” Six hours? I’d had sex high on coke but after about ten minutes I’d rather stop and talk. Six hours wasn’t fun, it was Commitment and Work.

“You need to get some Cover-up but don’t ask make-up because then they’ll suspect something.” Somehow this was so not like a Spy Movie yet I’d just been given a MIssion In Porn. Fortunately he tucked away the evidence before it self destructed.

The mood at the magazine office was rather giddy. This was apparently the first shoot ever and there was even a fruit plate in the conference room where we set up camp. While all the Women Editors kissed Christopher’s ass, I ran down to the lobby drugstore. No Penis Concealer. Damn you Maybelline! The closest I could find was “flesh colored” Clearasil which looked like Pink Silly-Putty.

I returned, put the GPS in the suit and shooting began. First he was behind his desk. Then he stood in front. Then he undoes his tie. Yeah, it’s been a long hard day crunching numbers here in the office. Hell, I took off my tie why not just strip nude? Secretaries and copy writers from down the hall started popping up for a glimpse of apparently their first Naked Man Ever. It came time for the Full Monty.

“WAIT”, GPS announces, “I need to talk with Hugh.”

Everyone turns to me, wondering (as I was) what GPS needed to talk about. He gets off the couch and grabs me by the wrist and drags me in the Conference Room. “Did you get the stuff?” he whispers loudly. I pull out the plain brown wrapper as he drops his pants and looks to me.

“Well... put it on.”

He was serious. I can hear hundreds of people in the hallway starting to get restless so I pull over a chair and look at what needs to be done. GPS was polite enough to Grab and Extend so my canvas was wrinkle free.

Now I know this sounds like possibly the Grossest Thing Ever but thankfully it wasn’t as bad as I’d envisioned. Some redness but nothing involving broken skin or oozing sores or... well you get the idea. I put a small dab of Clearasil on the very tip of one finger and leaning back far as possible I attempted to apply it without actually touching him. Like pointillism.

Unfortunately Pink Silly Putty doesn’t dab. There was a light knocking on the door and a voice asking “Is everything all right in there?” Other than my total revulsion, extreme discomfort, possibly deviant appearance as a Fluffer, yeah sure, Peachy! It was all over in a matter of centuries. “Whatta ya think?” he asked like we were talking about a newly reupholstered chair. It looked like every Penis Painted Flesh-colored I’d ever seen. “Great” I added quickly before any of his other body defects came up. Another knock and “Hello? Is there anything you need?” A gun. And a drink. And about ten gallons of disinfectant.

“COMING!” he shouted and I jumped about ten feet. He pulls up his pants and runs to open the door. Outside are dozens of wide-eyed workers looking in to find me sitting on a chair covertly wiping my hands all over the cushion under me.

10:59:00 AM    sro home /