I'd always dreamed of a movie star asking me to get naked, but this isn't exactly what I had in mind. Mary-Louise Parker was considering posing nude for Esquire but had an unusual--by which I mean deeply disturbing--request: that the editor of the piece pose naked as well. Huh. The editor. That would be me. That's problematic. I pointed out that my nipples weren't fit for mass consumption. I mentioned the possibility of subscription cancellations. "Well, think about it," she said.
I told my wife, counting on her to be equally disturbed. "Oh, you have to do it," she said. "It's only fair." (My wife later confessed that she thought a nude photo in a national magazine would finally force me to start doing ab crunches.) I told my boss, who was also unnervingly enthusiastic. "Maybe we could shoot you the way we did Monica Bellucci on our cover, with caviar on your chest." He wasn't kidding. This was not going well.
A few days later, I was in a cab on the way to the studio with Esquire's design director, who kept assuring me that there would be nothing edible on my solar plexus and no Mapplethorpian whips in my orifices. This would be very classy, an homage to a famous Yves Saint Laurent nude. Classy. An adjective I'm sure Linda Lovelace heard a few times.
In the dim, hangar-sized studio, they poured me chilled wine, put on a Norah Jones CD, handed me a white terry-cloth robe, and apologized for not having a fluffer. Everyone had a good laugh at that one. I took off my robe and sat cross-legged on this red cushion. The humiliation level? I'd say moderate to high--about the same as when I inadvertently drooled on my desk in sixth grade.
There was Nigel--the very nice British photographer--who kept telling me to "soook in yer goot!" which I eventually figured out was a reference to my problematic stomach. There was the look of horror when I lowered my leg too much and exposed what Nigel called my "chopper." There was the monumental indifference displayed by the cute young female assistants to my naked form, which apparently held as much allure as a wicker table. There was the evidence of my low position on the media chain: As I was leaving, they began setting up for Mary-Louise, bringing in the couscous and grilled chicken and champagne. But at least there were no problems with my chopper misbehaving. (I was genuinely worried about this; I had brought along a photo of my late grandma, just in case.)
So what did I learn from the exercise? Maybe more respect for the actresses I ask to pose naked. Certainly more respect for the transformative power of good lighting and goot-sucking. Certainly more sympathy for the parents involved. (When I told my mom, she looked at me in the way I imagine John Walker Lindh's mom did when he told her he'd chosen a career in the Taliban military.) And I learned to never, ever scribble anonymous notes on nude photos around the office, like the one suggesting that I invest in several bottles of Nair. I saw that.
Nigel Parry
