At various points in my life I have been in problematic financial situations. As I’ve previously stated, when I first moved out to Los Angeles I had a rent-free apartment for about six months. When that changed I was forced to take a long, hard look at the possibility of actually getting a regular job. Suffice it to say, I didn’t like looking at that.
My friend Michael was working as part of the graphic design team that worked on a group of magazines, mostly gay-themed. Among those was a gay themed food erotica publication called “Bone Appetite.” It was filled with recipes, and photo spreads showing mostly clean shaven, neat young men in various states of undress, posing with food. Michael wasn’t gay, but he was let’s say “sympathetic” to the gay point of view, and had a cold, discerning eye when it came to the physical qualities of others.
“God, Ricky, you’ve got amazing lips,” he told me often.
“Thanks, Michael,” I said, uncomfortably.
“I mean it. They’re like big fluffy pillows. Sometimes I just sit and daydream about being as tiny as an insect, and bouncing off them.” He made bouncing sound effects that, owing to a charming speech impediment, sounded like churchbells.
“Okay,” I said, more uncomfortable.
“The editors of the magazines I work for are always looking for guys who look like you. With full, pouty lips.” Because of the aforementioned speech impediment, it sounded like “aural ways looking for,” and “fullp outy lips.”
When I said nothing in response, he suggested I should contact one of the editors of “Bone Appetite,” and see about getting a meeting so that said editor could look at me and see if they could use me in any photo shoots.
“Do they use straight people in those magazines? Because I’m straight, you know,” I added, unnecessarily.
“Oh, I know, you’re as straight as I am,” he said. (“straightas Iyam”) “But you need the money. You don’t want to stay in this poverty rut all your life, do you?” (“stain this poverty rut”)
Dubious, but having nothing better to do, I agreed to meet with the editor of the magazine. He was about what I expected; thin, good-looking, clean-cut. He eyed me hungrily. “You look like a dessert,” he told me.
“How do you mean?” I played dumb, because I was dumb.
“We’re putting together a spread on desserts. I want you for one of the shoots.” He turned away from me and shouted out the door of his office, “We’ve got our chocolate ice cream!”
I was ushered down the hall to the studio, where I was given a large cone of chocolate ice cream.
“Eat it like you mean it!” the photographer exclaimed.
I began eating.
“No, no, eat it like you’re making loooove to it!” he said, slightly annoyed.
“Okay,” I said, eating it like I was making love to it.
“Is that how you make love?” he said, incredulously.
“Um, sorta,” I admitted. I'd actually never made love to an ice cream cone before, but I didn't want to admit that; I worried it might end the deal.
“Well, I just lost all interest in you.” He took the cone from my hand and showed me what he wanted. I have to admit, the way he nibbled the cone, the way he licked and sucked at the ice cream, the way it dribbled down his chin, the way it stained his shirt, the way he removed said shirt; it was all surprisingly erotic.
Needless to say, I could not duplicate his actions, and my career as a gay-themed food fetish model was over before it began. But the editor was gracious enough to allow me to keep what I was assured were my best erotic ice cream cone shots, six total, one of which I share with you here in this post.
In this case, the regret isn’t mine—looking at this photo it’s obvious that the editor must regret not using my photos for that “erotice cream cone” spread!