Of Mask and Men ... a tribal tales of boyz, best friends, and beauty.

By J. Corbett Holmes

Once upon a time there was a village. It was a small and trendy village nestled between the hills of fame and the rivers of the rich. It was a progressive community filled with colorful and virile dwellers. There were numerous, diverse tribes contained within the village; each embodied its own brand of warrior. Some went without shirts, others without women, and they all partook in varied tribal practices. They were a group of very proficient hunters and a sizeable amount of them wore masks. Some were made of mud for beautification, while other masks hid fear of invasion from unwelcome outsiders. At first glimpse, the settlers looked happy and almost perfect in their presentation. But their masks, although beautifully adorned, at times kept the villagers subdivided from one another, even in locations where they physically prepared for hunting or sacrifice -- like the gym. And that is where I met Jack.

I had seen Jack for years and held a secret admiration, as he was the perfect warrior specimen. Like any good soldier, he is adorned with war paint -- or what some villagers refer to as tattoos. They are numerous and intimidating. Like myself, I suppose there were many other villagers who would consider Jack the perfect warrior candidate to hunt for meat -- successfully returning home with a doe-eyed "dear-one."

Twelve years passed between us as we went about our lives as village people. No hellos or warrior cries, just the occasional meeting of the masks at tribal functions. Then one day I saw it! His mask was off and he was emoting loud cries of laughter! His eyes lit up like two fireballs, and his immense smile filled the room. He was without his masculine-mask. I was intrigued! Quite simply, the hieroglyphics on his walls had changed. It was just Jack! Eventually, through a mutual villager, we met. Our first tribunal involved junk food and the final episode of America's Next Top Model. He was funny, sweet, and spoke with a gentle, languid southern drawl. I discovered he loves to bake -- pecan pies are his specialty. Happily, today we go hunting together, and taunts of a dance-off-around-the-fire are somewhere in the future. When I consider my new friend and his warrior mask of protection, I am quickly reminded of a time when I discovered the beautiful meaning of mask and men. And how wrong we can be in our perceptions.

It was one of those hatefully humid July days in New York City. The kind where scents from the sea combine with aromas from the toilet causing a toxic-shock-flock, propelling even the most dedicated New Yorker elsewhere. After negotiating copious amounts of grumpy, squelchy subway commuters to get home from work, my only wish was to flee my cramped island existence, seeking solace in my cramped island apartment.

Once inside my five-by-seven slice of heaven, I shed my clothes, cranked up my illegally installed air conditioner, and scrubbed the days grime day off my person. Being a good fag, I applied my green Kiehl's rare-earth-cleansing face masque (then still only the secret of supermodels -- it was the early Ô90s) -- and flopped on my sofa. My only planned physical activity was to surf the television stations for anything cool. Eventually the phone rang and I embarked on an evening of phone conversation-complaining-camaraderie with my friend. "I can't take this humidity!" I whined. "Let's move to Maine!" My friend Tom volleyed back in a lethargic tone. "Dear, it's humid there too ... and besides, the winters are hateful and there's no chic people ... only blueberries!" "Well, at least we could go swimming!" I spat back. And as I said that, I realized I actually could! I'd forgotten about my rarely used membership to the neighborhood pool, which I usually reserved for winter swimming.

Tom and I said our goodbyes as I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed my gym bag and headed off to the pool. As I walked through the streets of the West Village, cute boy after sexy man cruised me. Was it the sandpapering I'd done on the crotch of my Levi's (remember, it was the early Ô90s)? Was it my baseball cap, trying-to-pass-for-boy-next-door-look? Or maybe, was I still glowing from a weekend of sun worship? I wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it was helping to combat the heavy blanket of humidity weighing me down.

When I got to the pool, the zaftig, African-American girl sitting behind the counter was deep in consumption of her Ebony magazine, devouring every word. When she looked up to check my pass, her face offered only disgust as she served me back my membership card along with a side-helping of shade. I thought, what the ^%!x%v# is her problem! I snatched my pass back and headed for the locker room. Once inside, the dingy tile room was filled with quite a large huddle of humpy basketball players preparing to head to the courts upstairs for a game. They were all most obviously straight. Instead of what could have been an excitable fantasy ... me consumed by a large group of sexy inner-city straight boys ... instead became an unwelcome invitation to the locker room lounge. What the # >%x!*!, I thought. This is the Village and my tribe was here first! Changing into my black Speedo (remember it was the early Ô90s) I did my best to ward off their unwelcome sneering.

I held my head high as I headed for the showers to rinse off before I hit the pool. Once under the solid pressure of the shower, I began to let the day's laundry list of annoyances wash from my body, looking forward to the cool, overly-chlorinated paradise of the pool. Then something odd happened. When I opened my eyes to turn off the shower, my entire body, including my black Speedo, was green! OHMYGOD! I thought.

I had just walked all the way through Greenwich Village to the pool, signed in and changed, with my mint green Kiehl's rare-earth-facial-cleansing-mask still on my face! Like a good fag, I did two things. First, I screamed, and then I thanked God that no one I knew had seen me. That tale, when shared around the village "camp-fire" always manages to ignite a firestorm of laughter. Although I was wearing a "real" mask, albeit beauty-related, people's perception of me was most obviously altered. As was mine of how they saw me.

But, when I recall my Kiehl's-mask-erade, and I think of my perception of warrior-Jack -- before I knew the sweet, shy man behind the mask. We were both seen as something other than who we really are. As for my "beauty mask," it was washed away in a matter of minutes, but for Jack's mask, it took 12 years for me to see the real man behind it.

The history of my mask is, well ... it's ancient history (remember, it was the early Ô90s). But as I look around my village, and I try to understand what it means to be a gay man today, it has made me consider why we all wear them. Are we wearing them to protect us from unwelcome intruders, or are they forcing us into a further divide within our community -- even when we think they make us look sexy?

Be it a mask of clay for beauty, or a warrior mask for protection, it is how we see each other everyday. And to quote a favored first lady ... "It takes a village (or perhaps in this case the village people) to raise a child!" For the good of the children, I'll take mine off, if you will ...

For your shaving graces, contact me at shavingsfrommyhead@yahoo.com.