Keep Fishin'

In a true sign that my career in the gay adult entertainment industry is slowly climbing the alphabetic ladder (I've gone from Z-list to D-List in only a matter of months. Huzzah!), Dominic Ford is coming up to Montreal in a couple weeks for a vacation/film shoot and they asked me to help them scout models. I'm not entirely sure what they were thinking asking me of all people to scout for models, but the idea of finally being given a big break was enough to get me to shut my big stupid facehole and get crackin'.

As it turns out, handing out once in a lifetime opportunities is nowhere near as easy as you'd think. On top of the fact that asking random hot guys on the street if they ever though about fucking another guy is generally frowned upon, most guys tend to act just a teensy bit skeptical when some scrawney little thing comes up saying he's scouting for one of the biggest names in porn today. Why is that?

Anyway, I devised a plan: I would create a spiffy little flyer on MS Paint (since I have zero talent and have no idea how to use photoshop), print it out and hand it out to gay strip clubs in the hope that the five actually gay strippers in all of Montreal would see it.

This made perfect sense to me for some reason.

So after banging out a pretty decent flyer that even Michael Lucas would tip his $15,000 Marc Jacobs hat too (Marc Jacobs makes hats, right?), I ran off to work to print out a couple copies of the flyer on the company's time. It was only after commuting 50 blocks to the restaurant and getting onto the decade old computer that I realized the one mistake in my whole plan: They had absolutely no program on which to open it.

I had diligently worked to ensure that absolutely NOTHING could go wrong, and the only thing I overlooked was that they wouldn't have so much as a pirated copy of Microsoft Office. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

It was at this point that I realized God hated me.

It was 8:30 on a Sunday night already, and I had about as much a chance of finding an open Kinkos in Montreal (in walking distance no less) as Ricky Sinz had of becoming a Catholic Priest. I walked into a drug-store with a photo printing booth only to be told pretty much exactly what I just said in the last sentence.

It took every ounce of willpower I had not to grab the pimply teenaged mimimum-wage lackey, slap him across the face and ask him to lie to me. To tell me that I could find a place to print this and that I could find models and that I wasn't a complete schmuck. That the fact that my abs didn't stick out like rocks wasn't a personal indictment, that the ulcer eating its way through my stomach lining was just some bad Mexican food, that the stress of my ineptitude was doing wonders for my blood pressure and that I wouldn't keel over before I outlived my teens.

As it turns out I don't handle stress well. Who knew?

I walked forlornly back to my apartment, pretty much convinced that I had managed to fuck up the most un-fuck-up-able project ever when I saw it: A 24 hour internet cafe with a working printer. This was the equivalent of Jesus himself coming down in a chariot of fire with a robot that could vacuum my apartment, balance my checkbook and crap general tao chicken.

But lo, for if there's one thin you should have realized by now it's that even when I'm handed a golden opportunity on a silver platter, I can and for all intents and purposes will find a way to bust ass-first in my hurry to get to it. So of course, the first computer I would log onto wouldn't open the damn thing until I tried to shut it off, only then opening up about ten copies of the flyer while I frantically clicked them closed while people wondered who the hell tweaked-out twinky was and why the hell he felt the need to open ten different documents with Matthew Rush's face on it.

Needless to say, by the time I actually managed to print out enough copies I had reached the end of my proverbial rope. I hated the flyer, I hated Matthew Rush's gorgeous stupid face and I hated me, who's success had previously been hindered by studios not wanting to give me a chance to show myself and in a cruel twist of irony, was now hindered by the fact that no one in Montreal wanted the chance to prove themselves.

As you can see, self-loathing is like an extreme sport for me.

I handed out to the two major strip joints, talked the managers into a porn-dream induced giddy frenzy and shook hands with anyone with biceps and a pulse, promising fame, fortune and cocks in 3-D that looked like they were jutting out of the computer monitor. It was at this point that I realized that porn scouting agents are the most overlooked and underrated people in the business, because sweet holy Jesus this shit is impossible.