really?

it's exhausting.

every time i hear it's happened again,

i just feel my entire body collapse from inside. 

why him?

how?

damn.

really?

it never gets easier,

it's not really shocking anymore, but it should be.

you can never figure out who will be next,

how it will happen

or why.

but from what i see,

i can only guess.

you live your life day to day

trying to do your best

just to get by...

then add on top of that the stress that is caused

by an economy that's crumbled,

fighting for every little scrap of kindness to be thrown your way,

having to do things you don't really want to do, just because you have to...

it isn't the glamorous life people think,

in fact, it's more than you bargain for

when you basically sell your soul

hoping against all odds

that maybe you can make it just one more day.

then you wake up,

slap on a smile,

and start over again.

only to realize that today is no different from the last.

but you gotta keep going.

you have to move on.

it's one life,

one chance,

one time...

don't give up.

                                       dedicated to Arpad Miklos

i never got the chance to photograph him, but we had met a bunch of times, and one thing i can say is he was always smiling. i never heard a bad thing come from his mouth, never a negative ounce of energy from him, just a laugh, a smile, a warm handshake, and a face that will never be equalled. 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/02/05/arpad-miklos-gay-porn-star-dead_n_2624369.html

ok.

 

something wasn't right.
nothing was working...
nothing made sense.
it was as if everyone around him spoke a different language...

desperately he grasped for something solid to hold on to as he tried to gasp out the simple word
"help..."
but from the bottom of his gut,
all he felt was emptiness which only echoed the sound through his body
but was unable to be released into the air.
he began to sweat.
his heart raced.
his temples throbbed 
and his pulse began to work in overtime.
what the fuck was going on?
he slapped himself on his face to try to wake himself up from this horrible dream...

help...
help?
help!

nothing.

it was then he understood that in fact, 
he wasn't ok.
everything was wrong...
for the very first time he realized that he was truly
all alone.



as the television set went from broadcasting to static, he shook,   
                              he shivered, and stopped breathing.

                             

maybe, quite possibly...

http://vimeo.com/8767097

maybe, quite possibly, i was a bit too harsh to you today on the phone.

maybe.

it's also a possibility that probably if not definitely i was yelling at you because in fact i was telling you the truth when i said that when i called and texted you in the past month or so, i was indeed in a hideous place, with not a lot of people to turn to, and the one person who i felt i could open up to was someone who i actually didn't know at all, except for the false identity in which you had presented yourself to me. you manipulated me with a facade that you created to uncover who you thought i was, then you let on to the scheme with what i felt was sincerity, which i was shocked to discover was insincere when i reached out a hand in a desperate attempt to regain my composure. 

i thought that you actually cared when you said what you said to me, and i believed that you meant what you said. i have been deep in the middle of the most hideous point of my life, and when we spoke and we "bonded" it made me think that maybe, for the first time, somebody actually understood me, and actually gave a shit.

less than two months later, when i had stepped up and taken the initiative to try and be the person you claimed you needed me to be, i was proud to have the knowledge that there was someone who had my back and would be there when i faced the consequences for my actions. i wasn't putting the weight on you to save me, but i was glad to have you there, to be there if i fell.

then i fell, and as i fell, in slow motion, i looked around, called out your name, texted you as a last resort, and heard nothing but the echo of my life as it once again, shattered into a zillion little pieces.

so, maybe i should have realized that you were nothing more just the same as everyone else.

you took what you needed, got all you wanted, but never imagined that what you in fact had done was just add fuel to my fire and stood back as it burned.

so maybe, quite possibly, i made a mistake when i allowed you to tempt me with the thought that i had found something new in you.

maybe, quite possibly, you actually meant what you said, but then you possibly, if not definitely dropped the ball the very first time it was thrown.

so of course, my first reaction when you called me yesterday morning was that something wasn't right.

that you possibly maybe needed me, and deep down actually felt that i was going to be there to help you up after you fell...

but possibly you misjudged me.

maybe you thought my skin wasn't as thick as it was, my body was less fragile than you expected, my blood not as hot or my mind not as clear.

presumably you were my friend,

which is contrary to what i expected,

but, dear friend, you definitely upset me when you so horribly neglected me in what is now, 

undeniably, an awkward situation which may or may not be

the deciding factor in how we either move forward and admit our mistakes

or never again speak.

maybe, quite possibly, you were the one who saved me.

probably, most definitely, you should understand why i am upset.

definitely, i would like to move forward and not look back on this situation with hate in my heart.

because probably, if not definitely, i think that you are a good man with good intentions, and to lose your friendship would be a mistake to both of us.

definitely, you should pick up the phone tomorrow,

probably the first words out of your mouth should be 

"i'm sorry",

and maybe i'll show you what a real friend can be.

it's done in my book.

the chapter is finished, the book is closed.

when the phone rings, chapter two begins.

are you ready?

maybe, if you're smart, your answer would  probably be...

                                                  "definitely!"

funny.

j/o------------------------------

there was honestly nothing more                              
                  he could say.
he was officially exhausted.
his life had begin spiraling out of control sometime around the time his career was spiraling out into another stratosphere. he couldn't quite pinpoint the date, but he remembered the confusion that surrounded his every waking moment. one day he was a normal guy in the middle of a million others. the next, he was hailed a genius, compared to artists he admired, and his phone didn't stop ringing for the next few years. as much as he was thrilled for the opportunities that were presenting themselves, he wasn't prepared for the pressure that weighed so heavily on his shoulders. it wasn't what he expected, and he wasn't capable of handling it. especially alone. his lover began to grow jealous of the attention put upon him. his friends who had always supported and encouraged him weren't sure how to deal with his notoriety, and so, stepped back and let him shine, never understanding that in actuality, he needed them more than ever.
he woke up every morning with every good intention, which, by noon, was usually scrambled with a hundred different points of view, something he didn't like because he had always done things his way, which was why these other views, the same ones which were hiring him, were defeating that very purpose. why were they hiring him if they just wanted him to do things their way? wasn't it what he did without them that they loved? didn't they understand that by just letting him go, they would get something better than they could have ever dreamed? wasn't it fair to at least let the artist create art? that was when his mind began to get jumbled up and he began to understand that his art was just something that everyone wanted to take control of and then, just stamp his name on. it was his name they wanted, not really him. he was just there to make them look good. then he started to realize that all of a sudden, everything he saw by other artists was beginning to look very similar to his signature style, one that had never really been seen before, but now, was being copied by everyone, on everything, and he understood then that, he in fact was disposable. he had created the style, and now it was being recreated, however poorly, by the masses.
he had never cared much for the masses, in fact, it was because of his rebellion against them that he changed the look of what he did in the first place, but now, they were not only following him, but blatantly copying his style that less than two years before he was told would never sell.
funny.
if only they believed in him two years ago, if only he had someone with power to stand behind and trust him, push him, and exploit him so that he was the one who got credit and, well, money, for his backbreaking work. maybe then, he wouldn't be in the position he was now. maybe then he would have avoided the insanity that followed the next eight years when he was so hurt and so disillusioned by the way things all twisted and turned against him.
his heart was cold.
his brain, fried.
his soul, shredded.
his life, a mess.
the once generous man he used to be was now the one who needed a hand out, but others, as he was finding out, were not so giving. he had once been on top and the one they all looked to.
now he was outside looking in, and though he hoped for the best, he knew better.
the end was near, he thought.

     but in fact, it was only the beginning...



                                        

aint no nothin'

Inner Life - Ain't No Mountain High Enough (WhiteNoize Remix) (Cover Art)

As the steps get higher,

so do the stakes...

and as numbers of days count one by one

the the weeks go by, some good, some bad,

pressure mounts, tensions rise,

and attitudes change,

creating disturbance in one's rituals

and imbalance in one's day.

when it comes down to the wire and there's no one looking, as we try to succeed in a world full of failure, and as we ask for forgiveness, or even for help...we get doors slammed in our faces by the very ones that talk a big talk about the "higher powers"

they have found but somehow forget to pass on any knowledge, unless it's somehow for their own good.

people talk only because they love to hear themselves. it makes them feel better than you to tell you how great they're doing.

when they ask (if they ask) how you are,

suddenly they recall an appointment that they are late for, of a phone call they need to make. stepping, basically, on the top of your head,  as if it's just another step to get them where they need to go.

up.

no...actually,

you're going down.

you thought i would forget?

you simply don't know me at all.

my mind, however bent

remembers every detail as it unfolded.

every second you made me wait,

every minute i sat alone,

every hour that i spent

in the very same places you used to go

that you swore you'd help me get out of,

but then never returned not one of my calls,

so today when the phone rang at 7:15 am,

i was not surprised one bit

to hear that you'd fallen down again.

was i upset?

of course.

did i care?

i always do...

will i be there to help you up?

not this time...

you're on your own.

if that makes me not a friend,

then i guess we deserve each other,

since you obviously weren't a friend to me, so, why, i'll ask you one more time...

why did you think i would be there for you?

we aren't friends.

we fucked a few times,

we hung out 

we laughed.

but when i cried...

i heard crickets.

So, next time you need a friend,

or someone with a sympathetic ear to hear you bitch n complain,

just skip my number in your phone book.

because there's no one here who can help you any longer.

Oh, and when you return to your meetings this week and you have to say out loud that your back to step one...

tell them you got as far as step 13

fall off the high horse.

they'll all know exactly what you mean...trust me.

Supermodel of the world

(LUCY, sitting pretty while the camera's rolled)

now i understand exactly how my sister felt the first time my niece or nephew did something major, like, take their first step...say "mama", or sashayed down a runway...
what?
well, maybe it's not exactly the same but there's something very parental about seeing one of your children, in my case, dogs, do something monumental...something that may change their direction in life forever...something that made me so proud, so happy, filled my heart with joy and burst my eyes into tears...
now, i know she isn't technically my dog, but today while i was shooting a new web fashion look book for a new company, my dog, Buddy, who is actually, officially named Buddy Turlington, after Christie, his God-mother, (not really but in my fucked up imaginary twisted head, it is...) is usually the star of the show. when he walks down the runways at fashion week, the paparazzi goes insane, but today, he did the supermodel-like thing and let the new, fresh face in the room have center stage, and Lucy, my room mate Craig's gorgeous mixed pooch who we love so so much, took the reins and gave good face, and the rest, as they say, is history. her modeling techniques, learned from the few months of diligent training with Buddy, paid off, and she booked not one, but TWO fashion editorials...
we are so proud of lil LuLu, and we see a bright future for her, in fact, i am on the phone with Giorgio (yes, Armani) now discussing the rate for her for the next campaign, so, later!
xo
j/o


the portfolio of Mr. Buddy Turlington 






     (Buddy and Daddy, Fire Island)

sometimes it hits me

 UGH!

sometimes it hits me, 

and i can't stop the waterfall of tears that begins to gush, unexplained from my eyes...is it actually unexplained or is it so obviously obvious as to why i can't help the tears from pouring down...people around me are dying. young. too young. way too young. but what really fucks with me more than the simple fact that my friend is gone, is the way they are treated, misjudged and exploited by people, well, gay men, who hail these men as superstars in their roles as "porn stars", yet as soon as they die, they flip the coin and say horrific things, usually lies, about the same person who's life-like dildo they are sitting on at the same time. oh, i see, you work at the mall in your small hometown...that means your, what? boring? you visited Miami or San Francisco once when you were on layover from your gay cruise...interesting..you think cause you got a raise at Walmart this summer that that makes you "fierce". but you never moved in the fast pace circles that the ones you hail as "hot" did, you never were thrown into the public eye, you never had to be "on" night after night, daily, on stage with a hard-on in front of a room full of gawkers, so, you just don't know what that does to your head, do you? you were there cheering, drooling, screaming, and you took the free dvd he gave you, didn't you? so, why now, and HOW now, do you have the gaul to whisper, or worse, shout out in anger, how awful he was because he did what he did, when he did it, really, because he had to, he had to please YOU...because if he showed up at 50% of what you expected he should be, live and in person, imagine what your glossed lips would have been talking about then...

fuck you all...

you are no better than anyone,

                                        in fact,

you're, most probably, less.

 J/O

 

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Trying to save something other than myself...

Joe Oppedisano and Erik Rhodes Vs. Global Warming

Posted by Erik Rhodes at 5:30 PM 20 comments 

                            http://erikrhodes.blogspot.com/ 

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

My Hooker Therapist

I was walking home the other night, down 28th street to lex. If your a New Yorker you would know that this just happens to be where all the "50 dollar blow job in your car" female hookers work. Anyways, i walk past these sluts on a regular basis, and as oversexed and worn out as there pussies might be, they always cat call as i walk by. But this time was different. One of the regular blonds stopped me and said "I know your not "looking", but i just was wondering why is it that you never smile". Kinda shocked, the only thing i could respond with was " sorry but i don't talk with street hookers" and i walked away. I made it half way down the block before i began laughing to myself. I was actually returning home for getting my toes sucked for 500 bucks. I'm not sure why i think I'm any better than these sluts, i guess cuz I'm not working a street corner? Maybe cuz i don't wear fishnets and try to make a quota of at least 10 dicks in my mouth before i call it a night? Anyways what she said to me, got me thinking. Is it possible that these street walkers are somehow happier than me? I mean she called me out, i have walked past them a good enough times, is my daily unhappiness that obvious that these street hooker feel bad for me and feel the need to try to provide me with some sort of roadside therapy? Has it got that bad?I guess I'm never very really happy walking around my building anyways, i always fear that i will bump into my ex that still lives in my building. At points i hope to see him, just to walk past him and show him i don't care anymore, sometimes i wish to see him with whoever he is dating just to make his new fling feel inferior, other times i kinda wish we could just be friendly, so that i could possibly see my dogs that i miss so much.

Moving on,

So i have been throwing myself out there lately, going out as much as i hate it, talking with strangers and trying to be social, honestly past the point i am comfortable with. I'm not sure what i expect, but most nights i still go home disappointed. I have actually had some of the worst nights of my life just recently. i have chosen not to write about them to spare the poor kids i was withs egos. (yes Dylan and Evan, you awful little shits, I'm talking about you). I'm not sure why. Its just not worth talking about, just some more simple mistakes i have made that i have since corrected. I do not think i have lost control, the sex and drugs of being single, despite my huge bottle of G, have not got the best of me... yet. In fact my nightly G use has been me more happy then i been in awhile. Although, I still wake up hating life. I guess i can't have everything i want huh?

Oh a positive note, i have just signed my ass up for some health insurance. I look forward to countless hours of brainwashing and life changing sessions with a therapist. I predict a grocery list of prescriptions after my first visit. Hopefully I'll get some good shit that will feel alot better if i abuse them or inject them. Just kidding... maybe. I just want something that shuts my brain off. I'm tired of over thinking every little thing. I want the crazy persons dream of just being able to feel normal around people.

Posted by Erik Rhodes at 5:01 PM 94 comments

Manors Tragedy: M.E. Ruling Pending on Popular Bodybuilder/Model’s “Unattended Death”

Posted on 30 January 2013

WILTON MANORS—On Monday morning, January 28, the residents of the Wilton Tower on Northeast 20^th Street witnessed the arrival of emergency vehicles, police cruisers, a Broward Sheriff’s Office (BSO) Crime Scene van, and eventually the county Medical Examiner’s truck, each of which had responded to reports of the tragic death of a popular local bodybuilder, fitness trainer, and one-time Colt model, Christian Bouthillette, who lived at the high rise with his partner, Frank Angiulli.
Although the official ruling from the county Medical Examiner’s office upon the manner of Bouthillette’s death—including a toxicology report—could take up to two weeks to be released, official sources close to the case who declined to be identified told the Agenda that the 52 year old Montreal-native was discovered “unattended” in his bath tub.
The management of the luxury apartment building—which is located behind Dairy Queen and Tropics restaurant, near the south end of Wilton Drive—expressed sadness for Bouthillette’s death, and Community Manager Heather Sparks posted a note of condolence and sympathy near the building’s elevators, explaining the cause of his passing as a massive heart attack.
The source close to the case told the Agenda that Bouthillette’s exact cause of death won’t be known until the toxicology is completed, but that source referred to an online report that Bouthillette had been arrested last weekend in Miami-Dade County for cocaine-related offenses. The same source also stated that a note had been found on the scene by investigators.
Bouthillette, whom neighbors say was warm and friendly, was an award-winning bodybuilder, a nationally-recognized trainer, and a popular Colt model whose images are available online.
He welcomed visitors to his fitness Website (bodyimagefitness.us) with a friendly open manner that his friends say was second nature to him. “Hi. My name is Christian,” he wrote on the site.
Bouthillette, a Montreal native, graduated from high school in 1977. According to his self-written Web bio, “I started bodybuilding at the age of 21 in Spain. I studied science of education in Montreal, and was a track and field athlete. After being diagnosed with periostitis (the inflammation of the periosteum, a layer of connecting tissues that surround the bone) my tibia was affected and I could no longer jump or run. So I turned to bodybuilding to keep fit and healthy.”
After winning numerous bodybuilding competitions—including the 1995 Canada Cup, 1^st Place in mixed pairs, the 1998 National Physique Committee (NPC) New York Grand Prix 1^st Place in super heavy weight, and the 2004 NPC East Coast, 1^st Place in super heavy weight—Bouthillette “started [his] dream job” in 1998 as a personal trainer.
Ken Hunt, the owner of New York City-based Steel Gym, knew Bouthillette for more than 10 years, and had employed him in both New York and Miami. “Christian was a very dear friend of mine,” he told the Agenda. “He was a sweet person whose biggest muscle was his heart.”
Hunt told the Agenda that plans were being made to hold a memorial event in Bouthillette’s memory.
He says he had spoken with Bouthillette’s partner, and been told that his friend had died from a massive heart attack.
Hunt described Bouthillette as a “friendly” and “serious” person, who was sometimes “guarded” around others, especially those who only saw him at face value.
“I remember being at Fort Lauderdale Beach with him last year,” Hunt recalled. “He was very friendly, but I remember him saying that it was funny how most people only saw him as this big muscular guy, how they felt they ‘knew’ him from his fame as a Colt model. But that wasn’t the deeper part of Christian. It’s really a terrible loss.”
While officials wait the official ruling from the medical examiner, his loved ones try to make sense of their loss, and take comfort from the memories they retain of their friend. On his training Website, Bouthillette himself wrote that he gained tremendous satisfaction from “Helping people get what they want and reach their goals like I did; using the experience and knowledge I’ve acquired during my career in bodybuilding.”

                          " I don't know where this is going, i just felt like bitching, I'm done for now."
Posted by Erik Rhodes at 5:47 PM 66 comments  

daily routine?

as difficult as it was for him to concentrate on one thing for more than 2 seconds,
it was more difficult for him to not touch himself inappropriately every 1/2 second.
his hands never left the comfort zone of his pubic bush,

which was usually greasy from Vaseline and or some other kind of lubricant.

even when he would do something ordinary and mindless like walk down the street,

he would have one hand down the front of his pants tugging on his cock,

groping his nutsack,

adjusting his cockring, which he never took off,

scrolling through Scruff, Grindr, Manhuntmobile and/or emailing,

and wondering just why he can't get anything done all day...

the trouble with him

the trouble with him is...

From even before the time he had learned to walk or talk, his personality shown through brightly.

he was not a shy boy, never timid or scared. he dove right into any and everything as if it was the best, most important thing in the universe, and he had to have it. he spent hour upon hour doing and re-doing the smallest of project, day after day, into the darkest of night. he barely slept, he rarely ate, and his mother spent many sleepless hours worrying and wondering what she should do about him and his horrible habits.  he'll surely outgrow them, she was told by everyone around her, who after they left, were themselves left puzzled and worried for the boy. this just wasn't normal. it just wasn't right.

By the summer of his fourteenth year, it was apparent that nothing about him was ever going to change. he was stubborn, sometimes arrogant, he threw fits and raised hell. he was still doing everything the same way as when he was a baby, but it had grown much more sinister, and his ritual for perfecting everything he saw, was thrown off by the fact that he never stopped for a moment, but instead he worked from beginning till end, adding here, subtracting there, coloring, building, creating, and then just before he was finished, if the slightest flaw was noticed by his highly trained eye, the entire piece was shattered, smashed, ripped apart as words straight from Satan were thrown from violently his mouth and aimed directly toward anyone who happened to be in ear shot. when he got mad, he got meaner, and his temper was short. when he was angry at you, well, you might as well die, for the depths that he sank were only more powerful because they were always all true. if he found the slightest flaw on someone, he could exploit it and you to tears within seconds. he was a bomb waiting to explode. ticking ticking ticking, you could see everyone around ready to run for safety.

But there was no place to hide...

nowhere was safe and absolutely nothing was sacred.