The Mammoth Book of Gorgeous Guys (ed. Barbara Cardy)

Posted: April 6, 2015 in nonfiction
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So, Clarksville Tennessee seemed like a good halfway point on a long trip last weekend, so I pulled off the highway. I intended to walk around Walmart for a while before getting back on the road, but I was in the wrong lane at that intersection, so I went on up a little way, got over into the right lane, and then there was a Books-A-Million. I hadn’t seen one of those in ages; their stores in my North Carolina towns closed some years ago. So I went in to get some exercise, get out of the car for an hour or so, and as I was wandering about I saw this book with an underwear model on the front, and he’s all wet and happy and his underpants are nearly transparent . . . of course I picked it up. Inside, there are even more guys experiencing a variety of emotion and various states of undress, so I decided to get it. The spine is broken like any well-loved paperback, but BAM doesn’t have a used section, so I imagine that someone in Clarksville liked to go in, thumb through, and then put it back on the shelf. Judging from the book’s condition, I’d say either one person liked to do this a lot, or several people liked to do this. I used to do that when I was in the closet, get just enough of a look to excite me but never bringing it home. As I was waiting in line to check out, I couldn’t decide if I was being a selfish bitch for taking this resource out of the store or if I was a Good Samaritan removing temptation from people who clearly regarded it as such. But really, I’ve been in the mood for some fresh material for private time, and that’s what I got it for.

Once I got it home, I realized I had made a mistake. This isn’t really a book for masturbating to. It’s like trying to get turned on by the Belvedere torso, or the works of Michelangelo. The photographs are beautiful, no doubt, but not always sexy. There’s a difference between art and pornography. Porn is all about muscled bodies, hard dicks and tight asses, but art is about beauty, not fucking. Yes, most of the men in these pictures are nude or mostly so, and most of them are obviously very strong, but the effect is not to promote sexual interest. I realize this may be a gay thing; the editor claims that this is one of the first collection of nude male photographs that is targeted to straight women instead of gay men. I enjoy it, but I don’t get off on it.

It would have been too easy to have compiled a selection of typical body-builder or calendar-boy images. Beautiful as these are, such a collection would have been only a limited representation of the male form.

These pictures are taken by what they call leading photographers, but I don’t know enough about photography to agree with that. The pictures are beautiful; not all of the men are. Some are quite plain, but given the right lighting and posing, given the right work by the photographer, they can all take beautiful pictures. The book is organized by photographer, so it feels a little like a collection of advertisements for the artists, a quick mini-portfolio of each one, and that’s a little distracting for those of us who are not cognoscenti. I’m flipping through, enjoying the pictures, and then suddenly there’s a woman smiling straight into the camera next to her biography and it breaks my concentration. One of the photographers wrote a short introduction; it’s completely biased in favor of his personal friends. Some of the artists don’t get more than a sentence, or half a sentence. Others get whole paragraphs.

My favorite group is the section by Robert Flynt, clearly the most artistically stylized. I was also quite pleased with Conrad Hechter’s pictures, and those of David Vance, and Dennis Dean’s hitchhikers, and Michael Palladino’s dusty athletes. While every picture in the book is lovely, my favorite shot is on page 153. Photographer is David Gray; the subject is nude in the semi-lotus position, on a big rock with blue sky behind him. It’s peaceful.

The important thing, though, the reason I’m writing about this book here instead of moving onto the Eco novel I started this week, is what it says about me. I don’t need reminding that I’m a lonely gay man desperate to be touched; I do need to be reminded that I’m attractive. Looking through this book, the guys are all at different levels of muscle, of desirability, of the size of various organs, but all the pictures are good. Even the ugliest dude can be perceived as beautiful. I’m not the ugliest, and when I look at these pictures I don’t just see beauty, I feel beautiful myself. I am a gorgeous guy too.

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