My initial foray into the world of professional male modeling was less than glorious.

It started, inauspiciously enough, in a Somerville, Massachusetts, bar, where two "scouts" were looking for a candidate for an upcoming ad campaign. I'd like to lie and say that they approached me, but the truth is, a friend pointed them out, and told me to go over and introduce myself. I'd also like to lie and say that my good looks and a certain je nais se qua was what wowed them into asking me to pose for them. However, in retrospect, I'm thinking they had a quota to fill that night, and they really just wanted to get the "scouting" nonsense over with so they could go back to the serious business of drinking. Or, perhaps, they didn't want to hurt the dork's feelings. Whatever the case, I was handed a form that I filled out, and they had me sit down for a Polaroid. They gave me a time to show up on the following Monday, let me know their client was something-something.com, and that they were looking for "you know, a techie-type."

Of course, I was not at all insulted when they said that I was a good match for the ad, because I understood when they said, "techie-type," they didn't mean a 30-something slack-skinned guy with a cell phone attached to the rolled over waist of his size 36 pleated kakis. They also didn't mean they were looking for what sometime passes as cool in the techie-world: i.e. an overly worked out guy in a form fitting Armani Exchange shirt and too much gel in his hair. No, when they said, "techie-type" they meant, "advertising-techie-type," which could mean a gorgeous twenty-something black guy with thin, chiseled features and short clean dreads--long enough to say "funky," but not so long as to look "ethnic." Or, maybe, an imposibly healthy looking asian guy with spakling super-inteligent looking eyes. Or maybe "techie" to them meant a lanky young white guy, which is something that I am. Granted, I don't wear squared off black framed glasses to complete the look, but I'm sure they knew the prop department would take care of that. So with directions in hand, I thanked them, and went back to my friends, with a head full of big dreams of being a small time model.

The next Monday, I got up, showered early, picked some blackheads, and shaved. At 27, I had been shaving seriously for about 4 years, and by "seriously" I mean that I had to shave about 40 hairs off my upper lip and chin three times a week. As a result, I sucked at it. However, I was extra careful that morning, and as result, there wasn't a speck of blood on my chin or lip after I finished. Unfortunately, somehow a razor thin cut on the bottom of my left nostril was pumping blood down my face at an alarming rate. With wads of toilet paper and a styptic pencil I did my best to stem the flow of blood. But I don't clot well. I was diagnosed with mono in junior high, and my white blood count never made it back to normal levels. In fact, I'm pretty sure I never had mono, but was just an anemic kid who loved naps. Mono or not, part of the battery of tests I went through during that time was one in which they pricked my ear and timed how long it would take to stop itself. It never did. But once I beat the time at the far end of the test's bell curve, they just went ahead and bandaged it up. Just like with the ear prick test, it didn't look like the hemorrhaging from my nose was going to end any time soon.

With the blood flow down to a trickle, I made my way over to the studio. By the time I got there 40 minutes later, my nose had stopped bleeding for at least two to three minutes. I was welcomed in, and I immediately asked to use the bathroom. I went in, unnecessarily peed like a nervous pup, flushed the blood speckled tissues, washed the streaks of dried blood off my hand, straightened my hair, and made my way out to get shot.

I came to the shoot dressed in a blue Banana Republic mid-weight navy blue turtleneck sweater. I got the idea from the smart, evil tech guys in the movies that seem to gravitate towards the lean cabled euro-sweater look. I felt the soothing blue humanized the look, and would give me a not-so-evil, but smart tech guy look. A real techie would wear an ill-fitting oxford with a wrinkled collar or a blousy polo with a corporate logo on the breast, but again, I knew we were talking "advertising techie" for the shoot.

Everyone there introduced themselves and made sure they did everything they could to put me at ease. Of course, they failed miserably. They were dealing with an individual who can't take a family photo without looking either uncomfortably gassy or mildly retarded. Standing there between the marks I thought, not rhetorically, "What the hell made me think I could do this, and furthermore, why did I stop for the grande coffe? Christ, get me out of here."

"Just look natural. Put your hands in your pocket. Or cross them. What ever feels comfortable." Of course, what would have felt comfortable would be to scream like a little girl and run out, but I stayed put and did the best I could. As I crossed my hand and struck an amazingly wooden "natural pose," flashbacks of some 20-odd years of awkward school pictures started racing through my head. "Smile a little." How is it that once you point a camera at me my mouth has no idea what it normally does? Smile? . . . I know I should know what that is.

Once my mouth started freaking out, twitching up like a schizophrenic's smirk, the loss of muscle memory seemed to travel downward, and soon every part of my body forgot what it was supposed to do--all parts except my trusty sphincter, which knew that this was the right time to just seize up like a vice to give me a center of gravity. The rest of my body, on the other hand, ceased to function as a working unit, and began acting as a thrown together set of autonomous and incongruous parts. My arms felt like slabs of meat when they hung dead by my sides, and once I crossed my them to give them a break from being so self-conscious, my hands wondered how the hell they were supposed to stop fidgeting long enough to support these weighty hunks of flesh. Simultaneously, my hips had no idea how to position themselves as to not look rigid and tight, but not so loose as to look flamboyantly sassy. The legs, just operated as best as they could, resenting the fact they had to hold this nervous mass up.

A few shots were taken, and I must say that everyone there was very nice and supportive. "You look great. You should have seen how nervous _________ of the Celtics was when we shot him. He had to stop after a half a roll . . . " A few more pics sitting down, and then I was done. It was Veterans Day. The day we honor veterans who fought in wars. I couldn't take pictures. Ah well . . . I wonder if I could have gotten the negatives for my portfolio.