He told me exactly what I could and couldn’t reveal about him. I can tell everything except for his real name–he chose “Fausto”, the name of a family friend–and the city where he lives. Everything else is accurate. He lives in a city that’s closer to Sacramento than San Francisco–it took him nearly two hours to drive to the studio. When I asked what his work was, he turned his hand over to show me the callouses and the slice on his wrist. He’s a “receiving clerk” at a Costco.
He’d never posed nude before and was more than a little nervous. I asked if he would pull his foreskin down over the glans of his cock. He hesitated for just a moment, did it, and then put his hand back where it had been.
He’s 28 years old. He was married when he was younger and has two young sons. “I’ve made more, though,” he said. “At least three by other women.” I asked if they were boys or girls. “As far as I know, I’ve only made boys. But there could be others I don’t know about.”
When he showed up at the studio, he was wearing non-descript baggy clothes: khaki pants, Costco polo shirt. How astonishing it is to think of all the people who see him and are unaware of what’s underneath those cheap baggy clothes.
I asked about the biohazard tattoo. He said that he and a woman he was seeing got drunk one night and both had it tattooed on their arms. I ask if he knew what it meant to gay men. He had no idea what I was talking about.
He was a fascinating man, but I kept finding myself drawn back to his virility. He told me that all his life he’d been a fighter, always competing with other males. He’d fathered more children than he knew of. And at 28 he’d done me the enormous favor of allowing me to photograph and to worship him.
– PAUL MORRIS