If your life were a film … is there such a thing as too much exposure?

by J. Corbett Holmes

“Hey, what are you doing next Saturday night?” my friend Vincent quizzically asked over the phone a few weeks ago.

Even though I knew I’d be away, his tone propelled me to ask anyway, “Why, what’s up?”

“Well, there’s a show at Highways in Santa Monica. It’s a group of performance artists doing a show around XTube, called XTube Live.”

“What’s that?” I asked, trying to sound informed.

“It’s based on XTube. You know, like YouTube, but with porn.”

The jig was up. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I probed for more.

“So … are you telling me there’s like a porn version of YouTube now?”

“Yep, and that’s what the performance artists are basing the show around.”

“Well, it sounds interesting, and I suspect there’s probably a good story in it, but I’ll be out of the country. Bummer.”

A week later, when I returned from my trip, while catching up with my friend, I had to ask, “So how was the XTube Live thing?”

“Interesting, but I think some folks got more than they bargained for!”

“Why? What happened?”

“It was weird to be with an audience of people watching a video of this guy getting fisted while the performer acted out his part! I mean, I understand what the actor was trying to say but, well, it was a little uncomfortable.”

As soon as we hung up the phone I went searching. What I found, or should I say, was exposed to, was much more than I’d even imagined! Explicit shots aside, there were endless options for which to “x-plore”: videos, photos, DVDs, amateurs and community to name a few. I went to videos—more choices: “most viewed,” “most discussed,” “top favorites” and “recently featured.” Naturally I went to “most viewed.” The page was crammed with headings like: “F--king my girlfriend’s friend,” “Me getting f--ked in a public toilet” and “My boyfriend shooting his load up my ass bareback.” The amount of “amateur” porn stars was massive; the amount of viewers was staggering.

Since this column is also about exposure, then honestly, while viewing, there were a few I found erotic, my favorite being: “Hot sex with my boyfriend in the kitchen.” As I watched the underwear-clad pair peel away their shorts and, umm, “unite” in various ways, I became kinda turned on. But at the same time, I was annoyed with myself for being turned on. I wanted to hate the whole thing, passing judgment on the entire experience. My propriety kept trying to restrain the stimulation the pair was provoking. My (one) head kept thinking about all the viewers that might download and save their “show” … forever—long after they’d become bored with each other, or possibly moved on to other boyfriends, other kitchens, other lives. Perhaps lives filled with regret over the “shoot.” But then there was the other head (in my pants), nagging, throbbing and excited by what was truly a peeping Tom scenario.

What was it about them that was such a turn-on, I wondered. At the same time, I wondered how I’d feel getting turned on in front of my friends, or boss or parents—in public, and on film! And then I had a reality check.

Be it television or the movies (porn included), we, as a culture, have become accustomed to altered reality. The steroid-injected bicep, the saline-filled boobs, the collagen-filled lips, the facelift, the forehead that doesn’t move, the bodies entirely devoid of hair. The list goes on, not to mention the amount of shows. So was it the realness that I loved about “Hot sex with my boyfriend in the kitchen”? Things could have gotten sticky, but I was still stuck. Stuck between a rock (hard reality) and a hard (exposed) place: I wasn’t sure if their exposure was for freedom or fame.

After I logged off, I kept thinking about notoriety and fame, which naturally lead me to exposure. And exposure took me to vulnerability. Then I considered the ways I expose myself—this column, being one of the more public venues. Why? To be famous? No. To connect? Maybe. To alter your view of things? Perhaps. But whatever the reasons, I still ended up back at vulnerability.

As we gay men morph and grow, there are things—experiences, people—we gain, and others we lose. We reform and repiece our lives to deal with both. All of this comes from what we are exposed to and how. I am no different. When I was younger, like most of my peers, I stayed out all night and did “things”—a lot of things! And I am happy to report that said “things” have not been chronicled, photographed or made into a short film (that I’m aware of, anyway). They are living happily in the recesses of my cranium, where they belong. And, admittedly, I am of a different generation: a generation that didn’t grow up with a computer or a cell phone or a BlackBerry or a MySpace page or YouTube and, most definitely not, XTube.

Human beings are social; by nature we’re compelled to connect. But with all the exposure, are we really connecting, or is it just connected disconnect? Has reality reached triple-X status because we’re not really considering each other, each situation, each invited “friend”? Are we forgetting that every action—be it a homemade porn video or the most intimate aspects of our lives—garners a consequence, a result that, 20 years from now, might be something you might regret? Has reality become unrealistic? And has having your “15 minutes” (to quote Warhol) come to mean a home movie of you getting punch-fisted?

But, to be fair to both of my heads—and to those I’ve exposed on XTube—I’ll expose a little more of myself.

Here goes … in print, never to be taken back, out there forever: I sing in the car v-e-r-y loudly; I have a tattoo on my ass—the result of a drunken college visit to Miami Beach (which I am happy to say was not filmed); I was once hired to go-go dance in my underwear for an all-boy dance party (a long time ago); I have an underwear fetish; and, the biggest secret of all, the one very few know about me: I’m extremely shy.

In 20 years, will I regret telling you? Maybe. Will my secrets remain pale in comparison to a fisting video, or the anal consumption of a specially selected cucumber? Probably. But whatever my reason for exposing myself, it’ll be there for a lot longer than 15 minutes. Cut. Print it!

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