MY HUMPS, MY HUMPS, MY PERFECT MANLY BUMPS

This unfinished story just re-surfaced during a perusal of old forgotten files. I forget where I was going with this tale, but if I get enough encouragement, I will attempt to finish it…..

The end came faster than I wanted, but not as fast as I needed. Like a once-brightly shining nova, my luster dimmed until I was just another star in the night sky. I speak, of course, about the crazy years, the lost years spent in the studios of the best photographers, the crazy parties that lasted until we were dragged from the trendiest clubs in the most Now locales. The money that flowed through my hands, never reaching my pocket or bank account. But what did I care? I could always make more; I was a star, a commodity, my assets were a gold mine without apparent end, such was….

My Life As An Ass-Model

Never heard of an ass-model? Neither had I. Oh, hand models made a small splash in the fashion world, and there was more work for a hand model, it’s true. Look how many products need an attractive hand to hold them; not too many advertised items benefit from being clenched between buns, no matter how fine. And mine were fine, that’s not bragging, just fact.

No, ass models were more like stand-ins, substitute butts for the actors and actresses who leveraged their brand by appearing in ads for their own perfume, or line of clothing. Many actors and actresses can emote on cue, but surprisingly few have rear ends that can display arrogance, friskiness, sublime sensuality, or insouciance at the drop of a director’s megaphone. Mine could do this, and more, all within the space of a 1-minute intro for the latest exercise-machine infomercial.

My ass had attitude, was how Phillippe put it. Phillippe was my agent; he discovered my ass, and saw its potential right away. “Zose bun-muffins, in my hands, zey weel become legend.” This was not the kind of talk one looks forward to hearing in the shower room of a Detroit jail, where I was facing nine months and a day for stealing a pizza. I would have gotten away from the cops, I was a competitive runner and broad-jumper in high school, But the pizza-box was an aerodynamic drag. I could have thrown the pie away and made a clean getaway, but I wanted that damn pizza, a double-pepperoni with olives and onions, and some rookie cop managed to catch me as I scrambled over an alley fence that, sans 16-inch box, I could have sailed right over. Damn cops ate the evidence right in front of me as we drove back to the station house.

“How about I make you a legend right now?” I said as I whirled one hundred eighty degrees, fists out, ready to defend my as yet unsullied honor. Phillippe blinked, but I stopped my fist just short of his hawklike nose; he wore his towel over his shoulder, and I saw immediately that his interest was not prurient.

“Magnifique, tres bon.” He stepped back, made a square with his hands, through which he looked at me. “Can you you do zat again, zis time right-to-left?” By zis, I mean this time, the men under the other shower heads were watching our interaction. One suggested that not hitting the little Frenchman would be a sign of weakness, though he put it in less delicate terms. I knew he was right, but Phillippe was talking fast now. “Le fighting move. Can you do eet from either direction?”

“What is your game, man?” I was thinking the guy maybe liked rough trade, and that was definitely not my game.

“Phillippe, I am called”, He stuck out his hand, which I declined to shake, mindful that some bad characters were waiting to see how this was going to play out.

Then realization dawned on him. “Perhaps ees not best place to discuss rump” he says. “Szhust meet me in cafeteria, later. What’s to lose?”

He had me there, I had 270 more days staring me in the face; might as well hear him out. “Okay.” I said. “We’ll do lunch. but you had better leave with me, or it’ll be your ass that gets talked about.

Over soggy fish sticks and mushy broccoli, Phillippe explained himself. He had been caught trying to take a jay of Kind-Bud on the 9:40 Air France Flight to Montreal, and given ten days in the hoosegow. He had been eyeing my backside for the last three days without my being aware of the surveillance.

“I am sorry eef I was too forward, but I did not want to get out before offering you a zhob, no, a career.”

“As what?”, I asked around a mouthful of stale biscuit.

And he made the pitch for work that would be my ticket off the mean streets. I never thought that listening to another man describe my rear end would get me excited, but I had never before heard of ass-modeling, either.

“From every angle ees ass of yours perfect. Needs tan, but zat ees all.” He asked me to describe my exercise regimen.

“Shit, I just survive, you know. I live in a 10th floor walk-up no elevator, but that gig is over now, me being  a week late with the rent.”

He was writing on a pad. I read pretty good upside down, and saw the word ‘stairmaster’. “I snatch purses, do dash-and-grabs at department stores with a couple of black guys I know. He wrote “treadmill” after a 2 surrounded by parentheses.

“And you eat…”, Phillippe paused…

“Yes dumb-ass, I do!”, I started to say before realizing he was asking me what I eat.

“The stores throw their old veggies around midnight Tuesday, before the trucks bring in the weeks fresh produce.”

“You cook zese? You fry, saute, bake…”

“Raw, mostly”. He dutifully jotted that down on his pad. Then looked up at me. “How about bread, pasta, rice.”

“I like brown rice sometimes, never liked sandwiches, I just eat the patty out of a hamburger, Dad told me that noodles were made from worms, and that ruined me for any pasta.

“Starch goes straight to make ass bumpy like cheap white cheese. No salt, water retained go straight to derriere.” Ees good, you stay on low-carb diet”, he said, as he took my roll from its place on my tray.

“You go before judge tomorrow afternoon, non? I get out in morning. I make phone talk, you agree work for me, is places we go like never you dream of.”

And he went on and on, until the guards chased us out. He was a scout for a modeling agency, several, in fact. he freelanced. He wanted to be an agent, and he felt that I, part of me, would be the one to make his name in the hoity-toity world of high-fashion.

“We start little. Model for art classes. We get portfolio started, is little job on movie set. no, not porn movie. Is lead actor let himself go a bit, cottage fromage on cheeks, lack definition. Say yes.”

I did. Phillippe was true to his word. A lawyer I could not afford came to get me in the morning; he brought me a suit of clothes that smelled expensive. They fit me like they were tailored. Phillippe had a good eye.

In court, the lawyer testified as to my good character, although he had trouble remembering my name. Phillippe showed the judge the contract I had signed on the walk from the jail to the courthouse. The judge motioned me forward; when Phillippe started to follow me, she stopped him with a glare and a growled “Mr. Nivennes, you may not approach the bench!”

In a whisper that I could barely hear, the lady judge asked me, “Did you read this document before you signed it?”

“No, your honor.”

Well, you should have, that man is not lawyering on your behalf, son.” She handed me the agreement. ” But I’ve seen your record, and I don’t care what bad business deals you make, as long as you make them out of town town, and don’t come in front of me again.”

I started to thank her. “Don’t thank me, just turn around slowly, nice and slowly. Walk back to your seat, slowly, not too slowly, though, and flaunt what you got on the way.”

I felt cheap, used, but I complied. I head her mutter a ‘damnfine’ under her breath.

“Time served”, she banged her gavel. “Court dismissed” , And Phillippe and the nameless lawyer escorted me out the side door, and down the hall to  the ‘processing:out’ window.

______________

II. Kobe Beefcake

“Kobe Reindeer? Ow!”
“Yah”, Arnë Tsuchiya replied as he manipulated my left butt cheek with fingers akin to an eagle’s talons.
“Grandfather and Pappy tried to interest some swedish reindeer ranchers in introducing the populace to an artisan, high -quality meat product comparable to what our family in Japan was known for. You bane tensing up.”
“Try not tensing when a freaking Sumo-Swede tries lifting you by the glutes!”
Arnë relaxed his grip. “Okay, Im done now.”
I relaxed, let out a sigh of relief.
And the eagle struck again. “Hah, I got you now!” And his fingers went to work.
I should probably point out this isn’t some kinky encounter. We had come to Gotebörg for a shoot, a magazine ad for some expensive watch that was made to look cheap. Go figure.
During the session, the photographer told René that my ass had great potential, but that he had to play with the lighting, and shoot only from certain angles, in order to hide a certain stiffness in my poses.
The ultra-chic massage parlor that Arnë’s father and grandfather opened after their dream of rubbing reindeer butt was already on Rene’s radar. So he took half of my pay for the shoot, bought an afternoon of specialized, body-part-specific massage therapy. Consequently, there I laid, enduring the tender mercies of a swedish accented, half- Japanese flesh tenderizer.
Arnë began a gentle rhythmic pounding on my buttocks, from the base of my spine down to mid-thigh. For this part of the ritual, I imagined the cows returned to the barn on their own.
“Is this shiatsu?”
“Could be, I dunno, I’m Swedish.”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” I lifted my head and looked at him in disbelief. He pushed me back flat on the table. “Your last name is Tsuchiya.”
The pounding increased in intensity, the blows coming faster, harder.
“Whats your last name, Jett?”
“Blue, you know that.”
“Yah, yet you aint blue, I bane know that.”
He had a point, I conceded as the blows turned into slaps, quite rhythmic slaps. Really vigorous, rhythmic slaps. Cripes! I was missing his fists.
“You playing In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida back there?”
“Almost done, Braveheart.”
Arnë’s hand suddenly switched from bad cop to good cop mode, gently yet firmly rubbing my withers. I swallowed most of a groan of pleasure.
Arnë laughed. “Groan away, bud. Don’t worry about encouraging me, I’ve got a dozen numbers in my wallet, ladies you would give a nut for just looking at them for 15 minutes. I don’t have time to be gay, I’m booked!”
“I ain’t gay.”
“Denial ees first step too accepting eet.” I hadn’t noticed Phillippe enter the studio.
“Don’t you start, Phillippe, oh my god-ddd!”
Arnë chuckled. “I’m not accepting marriage proposals at this time.” Arnë had stopped rubbing me the right way, and was wiping his hands.
“That was intense!” I said as pushed my head and chest off the table, swung a leg over the side.
Arnë slapped my leg back on the table, and pushed me back down with his right hand.
“Another twenty minutes, then you bane free man.”
“Twenty more minutes of that?” Dogs liked their butts rubbed too, right? They aren’t gay, I reasoned.
But my logic was wasted, as Arnë replied in the negative. “No, that bane over. Now is time for hot stones rub.”

“Sit down, enjoy beer I bought you.”
” I can’t sit down, Philippe. It hurts to sit down. I may never sit down again.”
I notice you walk stiff here,” Phillippe said sympathetically as he gestured at our surroundings.
Draughted was an open- air bar on a pedestrian walkway alongside one of Gotebörg’s canals. The stone walls and flooring gave the place a timeless, exotic ambience that the duo doing injustice to a Jimmy Buffett tune destroyed
“I’m tellin’ ya, I got 3rd degree burns on my ass.”
“Oui, you have a hot derriére.” He pinched my cheek when I tried to hide a smile behind a sour look.
C’mon! Is to look happy so hard? I make joke for you.”
“Jokes are supposed to be funny, you eater of frogs.” “You would eat frogs, and snails too, if zey were covered in ketchup, you uncultured Yankee! You would not be here, and getting paid at that, if not for mean Mr. Moi.”
Phillippe stretched his left hand out toward the canal. “Zis city was old when Columbus came on America.”
“Came to.”
“Eh?”
“Came TO America.”
“Yes, he did. Do you not appreciate how lucky you are? Beauty here,” he turned in his seat, pointed with his right hand to the interior of the 500 year old one-time dwelling of Grieg’s first clavinet teacher. “And in here, the beauty ees een …well, Hello ma Cherie!”
I turned to look, and saw that one of the gals who had been eyeing me from a table nearby had approached the bar. She was about 30, professional-looking, something about the way she held herself told me she was an American and one who ate right and exercised vigorously.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to intrude, although I guess I have!” She said with a nervous laugh.
I was leaning on the bar sideways to her, and I saw her look down, then back up from south of my belt area to meet my gaze. “My friends and I have a bet that you can settle for us. Oh, gosh this is silly I’m sorry.”
“No,” I said. “Go for it.”
She took a short breath, paused, and asked timidly,
“Are you the guy in the Goth Jeans commercial, the one leaning on the fence, looking at Leonardo?”
“Yeah, thats me.” It was my first shoot, actually. Phillippe had gotten me a fifty-dollars to be part of a insousciance-overdosed crowd of bored, malevolent-looking teenagers, most of whom, including my twenty-three year old self, couldnt be bothered to look at the camera, and…
“You can’t see my face in that ad!” The lady blushed, Phillippe winked. “You recognized my…you knew it was me, because my…?”
“This is embarrassing, I’m so sorry!” Again, her eyes wandered. I felt like a piece of meat, but I was a contented cow.
“Don’t go, I said. “Let us buy you a drink. Whats your name? I’m Jett. ”
“Lucy. My friends, … I should leave and your friend and…”
“Actuallee, ma cherie, I have zee pressing business affaire. ” To me, he said, “Here, buy ze ladies a round for me.” as he handed me several bills that he had pulled from his wallet.
Lucy accepted my arm, and we walked over to her friends’ table. All three seemed disappointed that
I wasnt walking backwards.
From behind me, I heard Phillippe say, “Limo leave for airport sex in morning, be thair, Assanova, haha!”

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4 responses to this post.

  1. Damn! You are mean, Greg.
    Rare and Unique world, never heard of, this story needs to be told. I’m in awe. The potential of Phillippe’s character is overwhelming.

    Reply

  2. This is very funny, G.! Honestly, I heard Ben Stiller in my mind and turned it into a movie. My only critique would be to connect the arrest to the shower scene with a judge sentencing him.

    I tell you, I don’t know squat about writing a screenplay for a movie, but this is how this reads to me. It’s very good! Do you understand what I see?

    Reply

  3. Ben’s modeling movie helped inspire this piece, but I think reading about, and imaging this fantastic pair of glutes would be funnier than having one image solidified in the minds of all.
    However, the reports of hollywood infighting and backstabbing have begun to surface, as agents and mangers jockey for position, looking to pitch their client’s ass for the role. One front-runner was eliminated in a a horrific act of sabotage; sulfuric acid spread on his toilet seat, decorum demands that I refain from continuing

    Reply

    • Don’t even mention the hemorhoid episode. Purposefully depriving that boy of any roughage was not only cruel and unusual…………it was just wrong! What has this world become?!

      Reply

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