It’s fairly often that I know absolutely nothing about the men before I photograph them. Part of the pleasure of the process is talking with them, getting to know them as they pose. I knew nothing about this man.
Even though I’ve been a pornographer most of my life, I avoid the “Industry” as much as possible. I have no interest in working with “porn stars” who’ve worked with other pornographers. Over the years I’ve learned that real and beautiful sex rarely–if ever–happens with these men.
As we chatted, he presented himself as a quiet, straight young man. And at first his seeming innocence felt real.
He seemed to be favoring seated poses. I asked why. “I hurt my ankle in New York last week with a client. Wild dancing after seeing a play on Broadway.”
And suddenly things became clear.
I realized why it had been nearly impossible to get spontaneous shots like this. “You’ve done porn?” I asked. “Tons. I’m bored with it.” “Gay or straight?” I asked. “Whatever they pay for. I can pretend to enjoy anything.”
That’s the moment I lost interest.
All my life I’ve loved male whores. So why did I lose interest in this one? I’ve thought a lot about this and the only answer I can come up with is this: His interest in sex came in a distant third to his interest in himself and money.
I stepped back and asked him if he’d ever actually enjoyed being fucked. “Maybe once, maybe the first or second time.” I asked him to describe the experience for me.
He used his hands to try to show me the mechanics of his single experience of enjoying having been fucked. It was as if he was diagramming a football play (He’d played football in high school, as it turns out). This experience that for me is at the heart of life’s meaning had for him the relative passion of fixing the kitchen sink.
I honestly admire the fact that he’s available to any man who wants him: you can rent him on several websites for $300 an hour. And I’m sure there are times and situations where the perfect neutrality he’d bring to the experience might be worth it, might be just what a man needed.
As for me, I had no interest in working with him again. I shook his big meaty hand, thanked him for his time and walked out.
Yours Truly – Paul Morris