Narcissus

I wrote this short … entry to provide a window into the current gay, young community. There is an issue here because our current goals do not align with what we can achieve. We need to start producing visible leaders in our community that provide hope and inspire growth beyond the pants. They should be sexy too so that even though they are schooling life, they inspire growth in the pants.

So here it is:

Narcisuss

“I just moved here from San Francisco.” Brad tells me as he’s chomping on a huge wad of blue, cotton candy flavored gum.

We are both in our underwear shoving limes down the garbage disposal. We just spent the beautiful August afternoon grilling wienies and serving alcohol at a private gay party in Silverlake.

“Oh yea. Did you just graduate college as well, then?” I say, acting on my own narcissistic habit of projecting my experiences onto others.

“I’m twenty-six.” Brad says. “So that’s a no. There just aren’t any more Daddy dicks left in that city.”

“Oh.” I say with a hint of shock, jealousy, naivety, and judgement. I realize that this is some sexually fueled nimrod with no pride or shame for his own identity. That’s where the jealousy came in.

We each have different ways, different realities we live in. Brad lives in that Venn Diagram of smut and sexuality, the one community in our world that tip toes the line between white trash and high society.

I am jealous that Brad does not possess any pride or shame. (Yes, I am aware that this is coming from a boy in his underwear shoving limes down the garbage disposal-shut up.) I am jealous that he can live his life with no ambition other than becoming a model to invalidate his insecurities and find a man rich enough to spoil him, regardless of attraction.

“I’m going to run this town, bitch. Just stick with me, and I’ll show you how it’s done.” Brad told me as we counted our tips.

$75 for the day, but a very generous tip for those who do a good job. The ad said.

I guess $25 could be considered generous, just not compared to the $300 tip at my last party.

I hear what Brad has to say and just let his queenliness roll of my shoulders: I needed friendship in this huge city and he was offering.

A couple days later we are texting:

He wants daddy’s D

As I grow closer with Brad, I see he is in fact NOT running shit.

He is 26 with no education, car, or money. Plus he lives in Koreatown.

but he is a model!

…

….

No, his roommate owns a DSLR/wants to be a photographer/worships him (aka sees him as a meal ticket to success)

After a couple times hanging out, we don’t mesh. Hanging out with Brad is like hanging out with Regina George. He wants to compliment himself. He wants you to compliment  himself.  He wants to call you bitch, skank, and slut because he’s trying to compensate for his intellectual and emotional inferiority.

(You know, sometimes when I give these complexes to real life characters, I feel I might be giving too much credit.. could it be possible some people are actually just dumb?)

Brad is the modern Narcisus. The modern narcissus does not need his reflection, he only needs instagram.

Brad loves instagram:

#smize #model #blueeyes #me #cover #malemodel #gay #gaymodel #instagay #instadaily #photographer #pose #represent

By the way, all the above? One picture’s worth of hashtags.

Later Brad finds his way in Los Angeles. He is signed by an agency and does legit work.

Then he claims to be signed as a runway model at one of the top modeling agencies in the world.

This agency? Well, I happen to be dating one of their sexiest agents.

So I call up said agent when I notice this. (If we are honest, it’s this jealousy, shock, and judgement that keeps us instagram friends. We are both of us pathetic-yes I look at his instagram to feel more secure…it’s a vicious cycle.)

“Do you know a kid named Brad ******?” I ask my agent with a slight hint of fear and trepidation. Do I want to know the answer?

“That kid has never been in the agency. Not once. Ask him who his booker is.”

Forgetting the name of your booker/agent when  you’re a model is like saying  you don’t know your boss’s name. It was clear Brad was not signed with the agency.

Brad now hangs out with the local party crowd: porn stars, gogo dancers, daddy’s and models. Characters in this community are the equivalent (generalization here NOT always accurate/true) of dogs. They come when called and ain’t too proud to beg.

Characters like Brad or Pedro, the Gogo Dancer you see every week at the Abbey, these kids are at their prime. For a good ten years, their lives will be amazing. They will live at the clubs drinking and dancing. They will be invited to the pool parties, sometimes with celebrities.

Then the metabolism will slow.

The alcohol will catch up.

The constant smoke and sun will age their skin prematurely.

No longer will Brad be a “model” on instagram and no longer will men want to tip Pedro: the next batch of young, greedy kids looking for sponsors will arrive in town and replace these two parts of the community.

The roller coaster of vanity never ends, it only crashes. You don’t want to be that out of work thirty-five year old model with no education, experience, or wit. You just don’t.

Trust me, spend your 20’s investing in yourself. Your 20’s are not the time to waste away sleeping around and partying. You are collapsing the rest of your life that way.

Work hard and you’ll find you still get to play hard. You’ll be invited to the same exclusive parties, but not because you’re a brainless piece of meat, because you are feared and intimidate people.

A few things to learn: Beauty is only skin deep and jumping from daddy dick to daddy dick is like picking apples: eventually you’re gonna find a bad one with something hidden, something inside that’s not going to be what you ordered. In the case of picking apples? A Worm. In the case of Brad’s dick jumping? Gonorrhea.