PAUL’S PHOTOS || The Sadist

He’s 19. He was raised in the Bay Area, the oldest son of an upper-middle class family. I was immediately struck not only by how beautiful he is but also by how complex a presence he carries.

You might think that after all these years, and these men, I’d be inured to male beauty. But in this man there was something deep underneath the surface. For a long while I had him move in simple, rote poses. I was keeping my distance. I kept setting up the usual shots–silhouettes for example. And we chatted, of course. He’s in college, studying art history.


In high school he was a star athlete. His favorite sport was pole vaulting. I had Trevor fetch a long pole. He laughed at it when he saw it. The shoot went on much longer than they usually do. I was fascinated by him. For this shot I placed my hand on his taut, lean belly and had him press out against it. It’s one of my favorite things to do—usually, I have no idea why. But in the case of this young man I felt a need to prove that he could look imperfect, human, mortal. He’s straight, but in his case this means something finessed, complex. His interests, he told me, are art, business and power. “Not necessarily in that order.”


Long into the shoot I finally said “You’re very beautiful, you know.” Almost impassively he responded, “I know. It makes me powerful. I use it to control men.” I knew what he meant, but I asked anyway. “I allow men to worship me. I hurt them. I use them. They’re insects.” I left the room—we’d been shooting for several hours and I was exhausted. When I came back he was squatting and pressing his face against the pole. He has immense power, yet he’s 19. I looked at him and felt a complex reaction. Compassion for him, fear of him, anger at his power and his knowledge of it. The root of sadism is the ability to draw the masochist into a powerless state of adoration, of compassion. I realized that I would likely be able to worship this young vulnerable sadist. And I would be grateful for the opportunity.

I said something like “Ok, we’re done for now.” And his dark mood instantly disappeared. He laughed, stood, stretched, absolutely young, perfect, healthy, beautiful. “Who are these men who worship you?” I asked. He grinned at me, gracious and sweet and strong and said “They’re the luckiest faggots in the world.”


  1. If he needs one more faggot to worship him, count me in… I’d be happy to be among those who he counts on for ca$h and other stuff that he needs & wants.

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