I Wanna be a Supermodel
Oh hey! I originally wrote this post 12 years ago. I was twenty-six at the time and had been in Vancouver for the better part of two years. Searching for anywhere to get published, I started writing for a local magazine with half-naked gay men on the cover. When the editor asked me if I wanted to appear in the style section of one issue I nearly passed out. Spending hundreds of dollars at Club Monaco that I did not have, I pieced together a mish-mash ensemble of new, used, borrowed, and blue clothing. By the sounds of it, you’d think I was getting ready to walk down the aisle, not the runway. When I wrote this, I remember having a ton of fun! I hope you get a kick out of it to!
Alright, so I’ve been holding back like some seriously major news. My plan was to keep it secret until the next issue of the magazine came out, but you know how much trouble I have keeping my mouth shut.
So, before I overdose on adjectives, I am just going to come right out and say it: I am a supermodel. That’s right bitches. Text it, tweet it, Facebook it! Because yours truly will be appearing in the style section of the hottest gay rag in town: DSD (Davie Street Divas).
You might think I was chosen for this honor because of my personal panache, trendsetting wardrobe, and heroic jawline. And while you are right; I was also the only person to beg for the job after one of the models dropped out.
“Rug Burn,” the Style Editor emailed me last-minute. “Rock Banyon that ho, had to cancel, something about blowing out his knees. Now I am one model short for a full-page spread and that is where you come in. All you have to do is dress gay, which we both know shouldn’t be a problem. Main and Waterfront, 4:00pm, tomorrow. You’re welcome, kisses, don’t reply, I won’t write back, London.”
Closing my laptop, I was enthralled my wardrobe was finally getting the recognition it deserved. Kneeling before my shoe rack, I patted my blue-suede Hush Puppies and apologized to my red-laced Fluevog’s for neglecting them. Then, rocking my cowboy boots in my arms, I whispered, “we did it guys, we are finally going to the top.”
Now that I was going to become a supermodel and there was no time to spare, I made a checklist of things to do.
1. Stop eating.
2. Think abs into existence.
3. Get haircut.
4. Polish cowboy boots.
5. Start smoking and/or take-up cocaine.
Waking up the next day, I managed to accomplish nothing on my list. Piecing together an outfit from my closet - to my absolute horror - I realized I had no pants to wear. Boot-cut and loose-fitting, all my slacks were considerably straight. Plus, I knew the perfect shade of blue I needed to really make the ensemble pop. Looking down at my non-existing watch, I called a cab to Club Monaco and asked the driver to step on it.
Tipping generously, I fled up the stairs to the men’s section with my bag Pacey strapped around my shoulder. Making a b-line for the clearance rack, old Winnipeg habit, I heard a fabulous voice rise up from behind a corduroy coat rack.
“Can I help you?” emerged a man who made up in personality what he lacked in height. He was dressed like he was going back to school at Harvard and smelled like one of my ex-boyfriends.
“Oh my gosh yes!” I replied, taking my excitement down a notch. While shopping for clothes in downtown Vancouver, I have learned that you must establish yourself as an important person. Otherwise, the retail gays will treat you like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.
“Hello, my name is Rugged Fox and I have a website.” I waited for any sign of recognition, but there was none.
“Hi, I am a supermodel and unless I find the right colour pants to match this outfit, I am going to lose my spot on page twenty-six of DSD.”
“For the first time in my adult male life, I felt the words bounce right off me. They could not penetrate the wooden heels on my boots; touch the vinyl lining inside my bag; or wipe the smile off my face.”
“Girl, I am Romaine. Now, what colour are you looking for?”
“Cerulean. It was featured in Calvin Klein’s 2011 spring collection.”
“Which Paul are we talking?”
“Come again?” I replied, confused as to his question.
“Newman or Walker?”
After a brief moment of silence, there was clarity.
“What did you say your name was, Ragged? Ginger wake-up. Their eye colours! If I am going to do my job properly, which I always do, I need to know the exact shade of blue you are looking for. Are we talking Paul Walker eyes, or Paul Newman?
“There is a difference?” I asked. To his clear dismay.
“Just follow me.”
As Romaine led me to the perfect pair of pants, I remembered to ask him whether he had a cigarette or two grams of coke. The answer was no.
One-hundred-and-fifty dollars later, and thirty minutes to spare, I took my outfit on a quick detour to the gay village for a test drive. It was a resounding success! As I strutted down Davie Street, old men hooted and hollered from the Pumpjack, before sloshing their afternoon beers. In front of Denny’s restaurant, a waiter ran out to tell me I was a “grand slam” just like their signature breakfast. Then, just as I was approaching Burrard Street, I received a much different reaction.
“You f#$king gays disgust me!” a man spat on the ground in front of me.
Then, turning to see him walk past, he spat again for dramatic effect.
In Winnipeg, I used to get called out for much less colourful outfits. Instead of honking or whistling, drivers would show their affection by rolling down their windows and screaming “faggot” or “homo.”
One time, three guys actually pulled over their truck to compliment my poofy sweater. Fortunately, I was in a rush at the time, and sprinted to the nearest Starbucks for safety.
I have always had the option to blend in; to throw on some baggy jeans and a hoody and watch myself magically disappear. The thing is, though, ever since I was a little boy, I have always preferred to stand out.
Standing still on the sidewalk following the rebuke, I found myself incapable of movement. Then, something surprising happened. I picked up my shoulders and placed one boot in front of the other. Taking the lead from my chin, my eyes lifted off the ground and my spine followed suit. I felt stronger than I ever had before, and I was in shock about it.
In the past I would have let a moment like this sink down into my stomach and poison the rest of my day. I would have carried the pain around like a grandé dark roast and tried to wash it down at the end of the night with red wine and gin. This time was different.
For the first time in my adult male life, I felt the words bounce right off me. They could not penetrate the wooden heels on my boots; touch the vinyl lining inside my bag; or wipe the smile off my face. This time around, I had an extra layer of protection that I never had before: self-esteem. This time I was bulletproof.
My boots switched into full stride, and I grabbed on to my cardigan before a gust of wind blew it away.
“Bring your chin up mate a little bit higher and try not to tilt your head so much,” instructed the photographer at the shoot. He had great pecs and the biggest lens I had ever seen.
“I am a supermodel,” I told him.
“Sure mate, whatever helps you get through the day,” he replied.
The fall issue of the magazine DSV hits select stands in Vancouver this October.
