Monologue, Tad Bloom

I got into modeling as revenge.

One day, I was the kind of homo bound to end up the victim of a hate crime before any of you called those crimes “hateful.” Next day, I was either an international sensation or a scandal, depending on who you asked. Point was, I replaced one headline, “Dead gay boy found in park” with “Male model slays the fashion world with underwear ads.” I was a homo with notoriety and money. I was in demand. Jet setting. Walking runways in Milan and New York. I appeared on magazine covers. Appeared in fashion magazine editorials. Best of all, millions of heterosexual men all over the world wanted to look just like me. I set the beauty standard for men.

Let me ask you a question. Who does the patriarchy hate more? Women or homosexuals?

I know. Tough question.

Look. What you see here was no “overnight sensation.” I put in at least forty days and nights in the desert. Sure, Naomi Campbell still earns more than I do, because when it comes to objectification in the Land of Commerce, women always reign supreme. Why? Because the patriarchy remains in charge, and what does the patriarchy want?

Power.

Control.

Jerk off fodder.

Objects.

Imagine a feminist revolt. Haha. I know. Your balls just shriveled. Protect your nuts at all cost.

Their cost. Not yours.

Point is, my first year as a male model was a year I spent as a chair for Naomi Campbell. She earned up to ten thousand dollars a day, and I earned half (if I was lucky.) Actually, I earned half of half, if I was lucky. A million years ago, the fashion industry (plus the media) figured out they could dictate beauty standards to women. Hence, fashion shows, fashion magazines, and the industries’ first super models; depending on who you asked, they were either Janice Dickinson and Gia Carangi, Carol Alt and Christie Brinkley, or Naomi Campbell and Cindy Crawford.

When I first got into the business, Naomi Campbell and Cindy Crawford, among a handful of gilded others, appeared on all the magazine covers, landed all the cosmetic contracts and ad campaigns, appeared in television commercials, TV shows, even movies. Cindy Crawford became the first fashion model to pose for Playboy.

Enter, Victoria’s Secret, a “catalog for women.” Haha.

A billion women kissed their self-esteem goodbye. That was the point. The consumed became the consumer. Under the thumb of the patriarchy forever, or however long was convenient. If you’re over fifty, you’re done: throw yourself off a cliff. The patriarchy doesn’t appreciate “maturity” or “life experience.” In fact, they’re all but terrified of it. Step aside so they can gawk at all those malleable twenty-something girls behind you.

“Old bat.”

“Hag.”

“Crone.”

Meanwhile, a billion teenaged boys rubbed themselves raw gazing upon those “catalog” images then felt duped. Wait. What? Real women have pores and personalities? You have to talk to them? How emotionally taxing. Too much pressure. What the hell?

Haha.

Enter what the patriarchy liked to call the “golden age of pornography.” Enter, Chasey Laine and Jenna Jameson. Enter, Pamela Anderson Lee. Enter, the celebrity sex tape. Enter, shamelessness. Enter, nothing was sacred anymore, especially not sex, nevermind love.

Seriously. Love? Who has the time not to mention the energy anymore? Who possesses that kind of emotional fortitude? The gumption? We are a culture of instant gratification. Love isn’t in style anymore. No one is in it for the long haul. We are into lust, the jerk off.

Burning-burning-burning.

Porn went “mainstream,” and so did all those so-called “gentlemen’s” clubs.

Enter, a massive plastic surgery boom. Boob jobs, especially. Enter, exploding implants, leaking implants, silicone poisoning. Enter health problems the medical professionals haven’t even discovered yet. Enter, eating disorders, starving, binging then purging then maybe choking to death on your own vomit or dying of a heart attack at thirty.

Enter, spray-on tans and tanning booths.

Enter, hair extensions. Colored contacts.

Enter labia plasty and bleached assholes.

Enter, women self-destructing trying to look like what the men they love jerk off to.

When I think of all the hours women spend trying to keep the patriarchy sexually interested rather than writing a massive manifesto in preparation to cook your asses, Jesus sobs.

Seriously. You hear him?

God? Haven’t heard a peep from him in ages.

Seriously. God checked out eons ago. Daydreams earthquakes and tsunamis. Gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, the good Lord would like to wipe your asses out. It’s only thanks to his son, Jesus Christ, kid with a bleeding heart and unwavering hope, you’re still here.

But you’re the last bunch of assholes who would admit as much.

By the way, Jesus was a feminist. Hahahaha.

Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, you declared a war on women eons ago, around the beginning of time, soon as you realized you were slaves to the pussy, and you started with Eve, when all those uptight heterosexual male assholes who wrote the Bible blamed Eve for Adam’s fall. The patriarchy was born. You declared your war on women. So far, you’re winning.

Congratulations.

You’re also winning your war against homosexuals.

Good for you.

Can’t wait until we turn the tables then have your balls for breakfast. As shish-kabobs.

Back to objectification in the Land of Capitalism and Commerce.

While female fashion models enjoyed their “hey-day” as cash cows and celebrities, male models remained second-class citizens. We were less than mannequins, nothing but background and props. Female models draped themselves across us like furniture. Nobody considered us cash cows, believed we had any celebrity potential in this Land of Objectification as Commerce, because nobody had figured out yet that the fashion industry (plus the media) could dictate beauty standards to men.

Enter, Calvin Klein, who decided to use male models to sell boxer briefs.

Enter, Marky Mark.

Enter, Marcus Schenkenberg.

Enter, me. Tad Bloom. For the record, I gave both those guys a run for their money. I sold more underwear than the two of them combined. Haha. At long last . . . men were products, too.

Enter, male models on runways and magazine covers.

Enter, male models as the stars of editorials and television commercials.

Enter, a population of men who finally felt inadequate by comparison. Welcome, assholes. How’s your beauty standard now? Take a look.

I have thick, lustrous hair, bright, turquoise-blue eyes, and a lightly whiskered, square jaw. I have straight, blinding-white teeth. I have chiseled pecs, ripped abs, and a tight ass.

Seriously. Get a load of my bulge. Now, quick. Buy into the nearest “penile enlargement” scam. Get your spray-on tan. Get your hair plugs for men. Get your plastic surgery.

Behold millions of dudes, especially the middle-aged ones, lifting, cutting, then fasting themselves to the point of exhaustion, depression, and erectile dysfunction.

Haha.

Behold all the twenty-something babes you jerk off to laughing at you behind your back.

You know you’re a cliché, right? Take your Viagra then die from a heart attack already. Haha. What? I’m supposed to have sympathy for a bunch of assholes? Behold. My golden ticket. An outline of dick visible behind my tight briefs. My hand beneath the band.

Sublime.

Perverse.

Ethereal.

I AM THE FALSE IDOL YOU ALL WORSHIP.

Covet, suckers. I revel in my revenge.

The day my billboard went up in Times Square, a riot ensued. Cab drivers plowed into the back of each other. Media was all over the place. People blocked the sidewalks gazing upward, mouths agape. Was this a step too far? This was pornographic. This was nothing.

This was just the start.

Haha.

Check out current porn stats if you don’t believe me.

What’s popular? Everything you can imagine. And some you can’t. But teenagers, mostly. Middle-aged men jerk off to teenaged girls. Never anyone over thirty. Novelty. Novelty. Novelty. Babes. Babes. Babies. Men are never satisfied. More. More. More. You’ve fetishized youth and demonized aging. Not your own, of course. Spread your seed. Where? Into your palm, mostly. Haha. Can’t wait until you end up with nothing but you’re palm for eternity. Hahahahahaha.

Love?

Like I said, went out of style a long time ago.

Emotional investment? Effort? You’re kidding, right? Haha.

For the record, homosexuals are no better when it comes to turning human beings into jerk off fodder, of course not. They cannot take the higher ground here. Middle-aged queens like nothing better than jerking off to teenaged boys. Nobody over thirty. Throw yourself off a cliff at thirty-five. Gay porn features two kinds of objects for the insatiable homo’s viewing pleasure. The first one, the “twink,” also known as the “bottom,” also known as the “bottom bitch” fairs no better in gay porn than women do in straight porn. Pound them like veal! They’ll squeal! Twinks always look three seconds from bawling. The second one, the “top,” also known as the “bear,” also known as the “brute” fairs about as well in gay porn as men do in straight porn. They sweat and sneer and dole out insults. You dumb little come shoot. You stupid little spunk dumpster.

Twinks are thin, sweet, and hairless, like most women in straight porn.

Bears are big, mean, and covered with hair, like most the men in straight porn.

Want to know what’s really twisted? All the sweet-faced straight boys who go “gay for pay” in pornography now. Little by little. Gaining in popularity. These twinks take it in either orifice for money. Nevermind every dime they earn goes into drugs to numb their pain and blur their dysfunction. Trauma feeds the sex industry. The patriarchy built its palace on the backs of the disempowered. Do you care? I didn’t think so. Two things larger than the patriarchy’s heart.

Say it with me. Their stomach and their cock.

Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, rub your hands together; hear that giant never-ending conveyor belt coming around the bend with the next batch of traumatized boys and girls for your viewing pleasure? Get your cocks out, assholes. Hahahahahaha. You’ve finally objectified human beings past any point of compassion. Hell, what’s human?

Behold, this empty shell.

 

©Alana Noël Voth

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