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Description
You’ve seen me naked.

You can say you haven’t, but you are probably lying. The night Jay Leno mentioned me in his monologue the server crashed three times. If you weren’t among the thousands of voyeurs who logged on, you tried later after your household was dark and quiet − long after your kids and spouse were asleep. Hell, they’ve probably seen me naked too.

Most people know about the strawberry birthmark on my inner thigh and the appendectomy scar on my stomach. Of course everyone knows about the tattoo: the falling blue jay with the broken wing that adorns the bicep of my left arm. Much has been made of that small tattoo. It’s been dissected to death in chat rooms and on blogs the length and breadth of cyberspace. Aficionados will tell you the bird isn’t there in my debut flick, and that I cannot possibly be the same man you see in later videos.

They are correct.

The tattoo was Lydia’s idea; “stage dressing” she called it. It was inked on with a much-hated needle before they shot RentBoy; if you look closely, the inflammation is still apparent on camera.

I am also not the same man. I’ve been changed in intimate ways. Unspeakable ways. I’m quite sure I will never be the same again.

Still insisting you haven’t peeked? Not even once? I will pretend to believe you. After all, you could have learned the sordid details in less-disturbing ways. There was the in-depth segment on Nightline, and the unauthorized bio in Maxim. Rolling Stone magazine ran an exclusive interview, but the questions were submitted by email and ghost-answered by Marcus. I was as surprised by my “traditional upbringing” as you were. The Wall Street Journal revealed a few titillating facts in a business profile. (Let it never be said those editors don’t know how to sell papers.) Even the Conservative Christian Right pulled back the covers a time or two while blasting me for corrupting American family values.

Everyone knows how to find me twenty-four hours a day, including Christmas. But no one knows where I am, or who I am. Gay men want to blow me. Straight men want to be me. Lonely women want to hold me. Strong women want to save me. Everyone wants a piece.

Lydia and Marcus own me.

I am the hottest thing on the Internet, and I will live forever. Or at least for as long as Marcus maintains the feed. In reality – which is the world I inhabit – I am a prisoner. I exist only for as long as I can hold your interest. For you, I am bound, gagged, tortured and pleasured. For you, I bind, gag, torture and pleasure others − and do it with apparent ease, with apparent willingness.

I have to. The day you stop watching, they will kill me.

You may get to see that too.

I am an international obsession, a catch phrase, and an icon. I am jon.com. And you are my lifeline.

Description
You’ve seen me naked.

You can say you haven’t, but you are probably lying. The night Jay Leno mentioned me in his monologue the server crashed three times. If you weren’t among the thousands of voyeurs who logged on, you tried later after your household was dark and quiet − long after your kids and spouse were asleep. Hell, they’ve probably seen me naked too.

Most people know about the strawberry birthmark on my inner thigh and the appendectomy scar on my stomach. Of course everyone knows about the tattoo: the falling blue jay with the broken wing that adorns the bicep of my left arm. Much has been made of that small tattoo. It’s been dissected to death in chat rooms and on blogs the length and breadth of cyberspace. Aficionados will tell you the bird isn’t there in my debut flick, and that I cannot possibly be the same man you see in later videos.

They are correct.

The tattoo was Lydia’s idea; “stage dressing” she called it. It was inked on with a much-hated needle before they shot RentBoy; if you look closely, the inflammation is still apparent on camera.

I am also not the same man. I’ve been changed in intimate ways. Unspeakable ways. I’m quite sure I will never be the same again.

Still insisting you haven’t peeked? Not even once? I will pretend to believe you. After all, you could have learned the sordid details in less-disturbing ways. There was the in-depth segment on Nightline, and the unauthorized bio in Maxim. Rolling Stone magazine ran an exclusive interview, but the questions were submitted by email and ghost-answered by Marcus. I was as surprised by my “traditional upbringing” as you were. The Wall Street Journal revealed a few titillating facts in a business profile. (Let it never be said those editors don’t know how to sell papers.) Even the Conservative Christian Right pulled back the covers a time or two while blasting me for corrupting American family values.

Everyone knows how to find me twenty-four hours a day, including Christmas. But no one knows where I am, or who I am. Gay men want to blow me. Straight men want to be me. Lonely women want to hold me. Strong women want to save me. Everyone wants a piece.

Lydia and Marcus own me.

I am the hottest thing on the Internet, and I will live forever. Or at least for as long as Marcus maintains the feed. In reality – which is the world I inhabit – I am a prisoner. I exist only for as long as I can hold your interest. For you, I am bound, gagged, tortured and pleasured. For you, I bind, gag, torture and pleasure others − and do it with apparent ease, with apparent willingness.

I have to. The day you stop watching, they will kill me.

You may get to see that too.

I am an international obsession, a catch phrase, and an icon. I am jon.com. And you are my lifeline.