Confessions Of A Calendar Model

It is the middle of June, 2007. I find myself in a park, on a bench, with no shirt on.

How did I find myself here, sustaining my body only on a diet of cigarettes and Diet Coke? The photographer stares at me through his lens, and as the cold glass touches upon each one of my nipples, I think without emotion, "When do I get to take these pants off?"

Families stroll by in this Las Vegas park, taking little notice of the physical specimen that perches himself next to the faux flowers and strategically placed lamppost. It's supposed to be "England", but the dead air betrays this lie.

I really wish someone would spitzer my abs with some water. I want to look like I just arrived out of the water, like some great lizard awakened from his millennial sleep out of the depths. Sadly, this is not to be so I battle the elements to give my fiercest gaze into the lens that attempts to penetrate my body.

It's windier than it should be, and as a result, my hair has been pomaded more than is necessary. I'm more Enrique than I am Johnny. Do I like it? Maybe. 

How did I get myself into this?

It all began with an email. Perceived to be a "Beautiful Mormon Man", I was solicited to share with the world the naughty goodness of my body, the delectable sweets of my 8-pack, and the mischief of my eyes. I thought about it. Briefly. 

Do I dare do that which is groundbreaking? Do I dare become a "beefcake"? What will my mother think? 

I accept. 

Today I find out that I am adored by few, reviled by fewer, and I have a sweet gig to my credit. Thus, I will answer your questions fully now:

Yes. I did.

No, it's not padded.

Often.

Why would I lie about that?

I find waxing to be quite relaxing, to be honest. 

Everyday. 

That would actually be Kurt Russell. Positive. 

I didn't bite her. She bit me.

Black.

Interviews roll in. An agency hires me. I can hear the voices of the proud, and the disenfranchised. Am I a villain? No, because I haven't got any henchman. Do I want some? Yes.

Honestly, I consider myself on the level with Willy Wonka. I shared with the world my chocolate factory. It partook. Does it want more? Depends how many golden tickets I have.

I'm back to June, 2007. The photographer is done adoring my body with his mechanical wonder. I've officially become a "beefcake". Soon I'll be known as Mr. April. MSNBC will introduce me to the world as such, and it ain't so bad. Well, not yet at least.

And one more thing: Oh yeah, it's real baby. 

NOTE: Some of the "facts" in this post are lies.