“Baby, I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t know what I would do without you. You help me so much… Today couldn’t have happened without you here. You’re amazing, and you were here for me in a way that nobody else was.”
His bedroom is a dim orange, and his bed is soft and warm. The room pulses and bumps in the background, matching his heart beat. My hand is placed gently on his golden chest, tracing the lines and cuts with my freshly manicured fingers.
“Well, that’s what you do when you care about someone… you do for them what they can’t do for themselves. I’m more than happy to be here for you, in anyway –every way- possible. I care about you a lot, and I am SO proud of you.”
I slid my hand to his face and kissed him softly. His breath was cinnamon fresh, and it always left my lips tingling. I slide my body down onto his chest, as he wrapped his rippling arms around me, gently holding me close. He is always so delicate with me, almost as if he was afraid I was going to fall apart in his arms. He is considerably more muscular, and can lift twice my weight. It would be very easy to hurt me, but he treats me like a flower, always careful and respectful.
I kiss him again, smiling against his lips, as I run my hand down his neck and shoulders. His skin was soft and supple from me shaving him the previous night before his body building competition. He walked home with a trophy as I knew he would, and (in my opinion) it’ll be mere months until he qualifies to become Pro.
I don’t know much about Professional Bodybuilding, dieting, “carbing up”, posing, or judging. What I do know is how to make a beautiful man look his best. What I also know, is how to take care of somebody that I care about, and how to anticipate someone’s needs. He buckled down for months, isolating himself and dedicating his life to his passion, which is what attracted me to him, and I was going to do everything within my power to help him succeed.
I’ll be the first person to tell you that I don’t care about big muscles and big dicks. I don’t care about money and fast cars, or gifts and vacations. What attracts me is a quiet passion for life, someone who has goals, a reason to live. Living life isn’t enough... it’s actively chasing a dream that’s the rare aphrodisiac, which is probably one of the reasons why I’ve been single for so long. I’m not attracted to men, or people, who are just float through life.
For the past few months, I prepared meals for him, kept him company, left him voicemails to wake up to, stopped smoking and drinking in front of him. I altered my lifestyle for him, which I was more than happy to do. You change a bit of yourself for the people you care about.
Babying him in every way possible, I was changing the way that I dress and act around people, so as to not inconvenience his lifestyle or his image. I would spend my days at his house, alone, while he slept all day, prepare his food for him, get him off, and then I’d go to bed. It was lonely.
When he noticed I was unhappy, he would say “Baby, when I finish this competition, it’ll be about us. I’ll actually be able to go out, and eat at real restaurants, instead of 6 ounces of chicken every three hours. I won’t be tired all the time, and we can finally… spend actual time together.”
I’m not sure exactly what I expected. Maybe I thought that if I took care of someone enough, showed them what kind of future I could be, I’d be worth loving. After two weeks of excuses and missed dates preceding the competition, I started to doubt myself; I started to doubt us. After two weeks of “Goodnight Prince.” “Goodnight Princess”, and not much else, I initiated “the talk”. We’ve been seeing each other for a few months, and I think it’d be an appropriate time to talk about developing a relationship.
“2 me ur a very close friend… that I feel like I can tell you anything and talk to you… and I told you I am always here for you. I am n ur life I care about you I love chillen with you…”
After a few moments of deciphering the message, I responded, “Show me.”
Immediately I received a message back , “When I wake up, I’m going to go early so I can get my haircut and come get you, okay?”
I smiled to myself, excited at the prospect of spending my last two days in California with him before my two-week visit to Colorado. I responded “Come showered so if I’m not ready to get up, you can crawl into bed with me for a bit. I’ll leave my phone on so your call wakes me up.”
“Okay! :-) Goodnight Princess.”
“Goodnight Prince. <3”
I went to bed confident and excited for the following day. We had originally planned for me to stay with him for the entire weekend, to go shopping (I needed a manicure), and you know, spend time together. Do things you do when someone you care about is going to leave for an extended amount of time.
To say the least, that has yet to happen.
Flight 281 to Denver International Airport, from LAX leaves in less than 24 hours, and I have yet to see the only person in the world I want to see. After three rings, I get bumped to voicemail. I feel this sinking pit in my stomach, as I leave a quiet message.
I woke up this morning at 1:12pm with dried drool on my face, 3 new voicemails, 9 text messages, and an empty bed. I look at my phone to see a text from him, “Bad news babe, I left my wallet in Michael’s car, so I have to drive to Irvine (Orange County, an hour South of Hollywood) to get it.”
“That’s okay! Do you want me to come with you? I haven’t been to Orange County in forever! We can stop at Fred’s in Huntington Beach and get fish taco’s on the pier?”
“No that’s okay, I’m going to get it after traffic, and then I’ll call you.”
“It’s 2:30pm on a Sunday… there isn’t any traffic.”
“Right now there is…”
“Okay. Then there is.”
Perpetually feeling disappointed my friends, friends, family, and my career, I can handle… well enough, at least. However, the disappointment of empty promises from someone I care about, and trust my body with… well, it’s harder to get used to. I consider myself to be a considerably selfless person, and I trust pretty easily.
Mentors of mine suggest that my “ignorance and naivety makes me immature and stupid”. I think that living my life with an open heart and optimism isn’t immature at all. In fact, I think that it takes great strength and moral development to live life with the air and presence that I do.
I know that someday it will be my turn to meet someone who has a heart the size of mine. The thing is, the men that I date AREN’T bad people… they just don’t… care as much as I do. I have a big heart, and my grandma says that it’s unfair to compare the size of other people’s hearts to mine, because I’ll just end up continually being disappointed with everyone. Some friends say that I hold people to impossible standards. I’m not sure if either one of those things are true.
In fact, I ask VERY little from people. I just want to meet someone who will actually follow through with what they say they’re going to do. Sounds simple right? You’d be surprised how impossible that can be for some people.
But then Jamie and Vyckee call, telling me how excited they are to pick me up from the airport, and I think back to the last time they picked me up, with glittering “Matty Beautiful” signs, screaming my name, and running across baggage claim. I may not have a man, but I have two beautiful mothers who love me more than any man ever could, and although I’m sitting in a cold apartment in Hollywood, I close my eyes and think of the last hug I had with them, and I’m home. Even if it’ only for a moment, everything is okay, and I know I’m loved.
XXO
Matty Beautiful
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Family Portrait
I'm just a little boy.
I'm sitting on the floor, coloring on a coffee stained drawing pad.
All of my crayons are dirty and broken.
So are my fingernails; rainbows jammed underneath them.
The box is peeling at the corners, and the sharpener in the back has a small, hard rock jammed tightly into it.
I turn the stained brown circle into the sun.
I pick up a dull brown pencil that doesn't have an eraser, and is covered in someone else's bite marks, and sketch little huts.
I think i'm a genus.
My little brother is across from me building a spaceship with broken legos, purchased half price at a thrift store.
My mom and dad took away my barbies, and now all i have left are neglected race cars thrown in the corner, and my drawing pads.
My best friend is such a precise architect as he stacks one after the other, preparing for space flight.
I need to go to the bathroom, so i walk over to my bedroom door, and tug on it hard.
It's locked from the outside.
I knock hard 7 times, signaling that i need to be let out.
I wait quietly next to a broken blue dresser that's decorated in ripped and torn stickers by children who owned it before us.
I hear heavy footsteps pad quickly down the hallway, stopping at my door.
I instinctively look up, waiting for the little hook on the outside to unlatch.
My dad's large, sweating face is shoved through the crack; asking what i wanted.
"Number one," i say.
"Hurry," he pants quickly," Don't knock again, after."
He opens the door wide, and he stands there naked, shiny, looming over me.
I brush past him in a huff, and run into the bathroom and close the door.
I reach over to lock it, but the lock is broken.
I hear him stomp back to his room; listening for the creak of the door.
The door never closes.. it's always open, just a little.
i spend a good twenty minutes washing my hands in the sink.
Underneath it, i hid a miniature Barbie that I got in a Happy Meal, when I was with my grandma.
I dance her around the edge of the sink, slipping her under the stream every so often, flicking water everywhere.
Before long, I hear my dad yelling muffled words from his bedroom to be quiet.
Apparently I started to sing to myself, again.
I hurriedly hide the barbie, and slowly creep out of the bathroom.
I peek my eye into my dad's room as i walk past, but it's so dark, i can only see a small flame flicker on and off.
It smells like burning soap.
The floor creaks, and the flame goes out.
"MATTHEW?!"
I run as fast as i can to the living room and look out the window; where is mom?
Mom is never home, ever.
She used to be my hero.
She is a part of it, but used to save me from this.
The earthquake begins as he chases me around the house.
I find a corner and start to cry.
I'm not scared,
I just want my mom.
I just want my mom.
I just want my mom.
My eyes are closed, and I just want my mom.
I hear my little brother, my best friend, crying from the other room.
He's scared for me, but i'm not scared.
I can't be scared.
I wonder where my older brother is.
If he was here, he would be with Robbie to keep him safe when I couldn't.
But he's with his mom.
I know he doesn't love us, otherwise he'd be here.
Otherwise he's take us back with him.
It's dark and cold.
The cement flooring is like ice beneath my feet.
I'm lying on a stool, naked, freezing and crying.
My bare butt is still burned from the spanking,
and my arms still ached red.
My mouth still stings and tastes foul, the dried soap bar on the oily ground.
I don't know how long it's been, but it's no longer day.
I hear a car pull up in the drive way, and I run to the huge metal door and put my ear to it.
I know my mom has come to save me, because i hear her shoes on the cement.
I knock on the garage door loud, shaking it violently.
I know she hears me, because she's screaming at him at the top of her lungs.
I hear a crash and a bang.
I start to cry when i envision what's happening.
i hear the stomp of her work boots on the kitchen floor, and i run to the door.
She opens the door, showering my thin, naked body with the light of the kitchen.
I squint and start to cry, knobbly knees shanking, my dirt streaked arms wrapped around myself.
I reach up for her, but she just grabs the back of my neck, and firmly guides my into the kitchen.
I don't know what i'm apologizing for.
If I keep crying, i'm told i'll get another spanking.
I'm so cold and tired, i can't even remember what i had to eat last.
I'm dismissed.
I run to my mom.
She pushes me off her, disgusted with my primal filth.
Naked and covered in dirt, i run back to my best friend.
He's sitting there playing with his legos.
His bright blue eyes sparkle under his shaggy blond hair.
He didn't even notice I was gone.
It didn't even make a difference.
He pushes me off of him, and then starts to cry because i accidentally broke his flying machine.
I hear my mom and dad scream my name, as heavy footsteps pound my way.
I dive into the bathroom to take a shower, and reach for the lock.
The lock is broken, so i get into the shower, and turn it on.
I hide behind the icy sheets of water.
i hear my parents go into the bedroom, but the door never closes.
It's always open, just a little.
The water is so cold, i have to get out.
I dig out my barbie from under the sink.
I look at her for a minute, and then i look at me.
my skin is brown.
my hair is long and dark.
my eyes are grey.
my ears are big.
My faces vanishes.
The room is filled with steam and i can barely see.
I dive under the water with my barbie in hand.
The water is so warm.
I wash my hair.
I wash my barbie's hair.
i'm clean, slippery, and wrapped in warmth, lost in my own world.
For a moment i'm free.
For a moment, i'm happy.
I'm 6 years old.
Matty Beautiful
I'm sitting on the floor, coloring on a coffee stained drawing pad.
All of my crayons are dirty and broken.
So are my fingernails; rainbows jammed underneath them.
The box is peeling at the corners, and the sharpener in the back has a small, hard rock jammed tightly into it.
I turn the stained brown circle into the sun.
I pick up a dull brown pencil that doesn't have an eraser, and is covered in someone else's bite marks, and sketch little huts.
I think i'm a genus.
My little brother is across from me building a spaceship with broken legos, purchased half price at a thrift store.
My mom and dad took away my barbies, and now all i have left are neglected race cars thrown in the corner, and my drawing pads.
My best friend is such a precise architect as he stacks one after the other, preparing for space flight.
I need to go to the bathroom, so i walk over to my bedroom door, and tug on it hard.
It's locked from the outside.
I knock hard 7 times, signaling that i need to be let out.
I wait quietly next to a broken blue dresser that's decorated in ripped and torn stickers by children who owned it before us.
I hear heavy footsteps pad quickly down the hallway, stopping at my door.
I instinctively look up, waiting for the little hook on the outside to unlatch.
My dad's large, sweating face is shoved through the crack; asking what i wanted.
"Number one," i say.
"Hurry," he pants quickly," Don't knock again, after."
He opens the door wide, and he stands there naked, shiny, looming over me.
I brush past him in a huff, and run into the bathroom and close the door.
I reach over to lock it, but the lock is broken.
I hear him stomp back to his room; listening for the creak of the door.
The door never closes.. it's always open, just a little.
i spend a good twenty minutes washing my hands in the sink.
Underneath it, i hid a miniature Barbie that I got in a Happy Meal, when I was with my grandma.
I dance her around the edge of the sink, slipping her under the stream every so often, flicking water everywhere.
Before long, I hear my dad yelling muffled words from his bedroom to be quiet.
Apparently I started to sing to myself, again.
I hurriedly hide the barbie, and slowly creep out of the bathroom.
I peek my eye into my dad's room as i walk past, but it's so dark, i can only see a small flame flicker on and off.
It smells like burning soap.
The floor creaks, and the flame goes out.
"MATTHEW?!"
I run as fast as i can to the living room and look out the window; where is mom?
Mom is never home, ever.
She used to be my hero.
She is a part of it, but used to save me from this.
The earthquake begins as he chases me around the house.
I find a corner and start to cry.
I'm not scared,
I just want my mom.
I just want my mom.
I just want my mom.
My eyes are closed, and I just want my mom.
I hear my little brother, my best friend, crying from the other room.
He's scared for me, but i'm not scared.
I can't be scared.
I wonder where my older brother is.
If he was here, he would be with Robbie to keep him safe when I couldn't.
But he's with his mom.
I know he doesn't love us, otherwise he'd be here.
Otherwise he's take us back with him.
It's dark and cold.
The cement flooring is like ice beneath my feet.
I'm lying on a stool, naked, freezing and crying.
My bare butt is still burned from the spanking,
and my arms still ached red.
My mouth still stings and tastes foul, the dried soap bar on the oily ground.
I don't know how long it's been, but it's no longer day.
I hear a car pull up in the drive way, and I run to the huge metal door and put my ear to it.
I know my mom has come to save me, because i hear her shoes on the cement.
I knock on the garage door loud, shaking it violently.
I know she hears me, because she's screaming at him at the top of her lungs.
I hear a crash and a bang.
I start to cry when i envision what's happening.
i hear the stomp of her work boots on the kitchen floor, and i run to the door.
She opens the door, showering my thin, naked body with the light of the kitchen.
I squint and start to cry, knobbly knees shanking, my dirt streaked arms wrapped around myself.
I reach up for her, but she just grabs the back of my neck, and firmly guides my into the kitchen.
I don't know what i'm apologizing for.
If I keep crying, i'm told i'll get another spanking.
I'm so cold and tired, i can't even remember what i had to eat last.
I'm dismissed.
I run to my mom.
She pushes me off her, disgusted with my primal filth.
Naked and covered in dirt, i run back to my best friend.
He's sitting there playing with his legos.
His bright blue eyes sparkle under his shaggy blond hair.
He didn't even notice I was gone.
It didn't even make a difference.
He pushes me off of him, and then starts to cry because i accidentally broke his flying machine.
I hear my mom and dad scream my name, as heavy footsteps pound my way.
I dive into the bathroom to take a shower, and reach for the lock.
The lock is broken, so i get into the shower, and turn it on.
I hide behind the icy sheets of water.
i hear my parents go into the bedroom, but the door never closes.
It's always open, just a little.
The water is so cold, i have to get out.
I dig out my barbie from under the sink.
I look at her for a minute, and then i look at me.
my skin is brown.
my hair is long and dark.
my eyes are grey.
my ears are big.
My faces vanishes.
The room is filled with steam and i can barely see.
I dive under the water with my barbie in hand.
The water is so warm.
I wash my hair.
I wash my barbie's hair.
i'm clean, slippery, and wrapped in warmth, lost in my own world.
For a moment i'm free.
For a moment, i'm happy.
I'm 6 years old.
Matty Beautiful
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Welcome To Paradise
It's interesting how quickly you can go from teetering at the edge of a financial cliff, to suddenly being wildly successful, and then right back to the edge of the cliff, in mere HOURS. I don't romanticize my success (or lack thereof), because I think that it would set an unrealistic standard, not only for my readers, but for myself. In fact, i don't really write about my daily happenings, unless it's incredibly profound (which it usually isn't), which leads many people to judge my life through photoshopped self portraits, and an occasional celebrity client photo i may have. I receive emails everyday asking me how to become a makeup artist, or a model, or an actor, and exactly what steps you have to take to become successful. Apparently, to my fan base, I look successful. As flattering as this is, i'm hardly one to pretend i'm something i'm not.
Here's the deal: I have been broke for days. I don't even have enough money for a pack of cigarettes, groceries, or (lord have mercy) drugs and alcohol. Most of all, I don't have money for a new weave, and it is ruining my life. It's hard to feel good about yourself, when you're not feeling your most beautiful. I'm a very firm believer that your outside is going to directly effect your inside. If you don't feel beautiful, you won't look beautiful. And it's hard to feel successful, when I know I don't look my finest.
I worked on set of the Hot Chelle Rae Music premiere music video "I Like to Dance", featuring Stephanie Pratt (who were recently featured on UsWeekly.com). We filmed in the historical Fashion District in Downtown Los Angeles, in a Television Warehouse. We had party goers, dancers, the band, and of course Miss Pratt. Sounds absolutely amazing doesn't it? Everyone I grew up with back home is reading this and thinking "Oh my god! He made it! How glamorous!" Time for your reality check.
We had a 14 hour shooting day: from 4pm-6am in the middle of some warehouse district. Our glam squad of five had to set up our kits at TWO beauty booths, and a table. Will someone tell me how FIVE people are suppose to share TWO mirrors? That aside, once the sun set, the room upstairs became pitch black, and the only light we had were from the beauty booths. The artists who weren't working at them (myself and another artist) had to result in a work lamp, because the overhead light was busted.
For anyone who is a makeup artist (or knows anything about lighting), you know what a compromising position this puts us in. The harsh light floods the face, washing out the natural features, and every time you cross the light with your hand, it casts a gaping shadow onto your client's face. Basically it's extremely difficult, and can ruin your desired final look. Luckily for us, we had wonderful models and extras, who didn't mind sitting in our chair longer, so that we could perfect their looks in the substandard conditions.
Because I wasn't "Key Makeup Artist," I was at the end of the directing artist's leash. I was very fortunate to have my FABULOUS friend Lux share a similar creative vision with me, and it made my job very easy to do, because i understood what her vision was. The only down side was that I wasn't allowed to do the Key Character's makeup, which took away the chance to put a celebrity client in my portfolio. The feeling of being so close in proximity to someone who's FACE could boost your career and not having the opportunity to take advantage of that, is crushing.
Standing on set for hours on end in a cold, dark, room with tons of people I don't know, sounds exciting, but it's not. Standing in the same place holding a powder puff, paper towel, comb, and blush brush, for an unnamed amount of time, while older men with angry faces yell at everyone to do whatever they do, can get a little tedious. Then, when I finally have a moment to steal a smoke, three drags into it, I have the assistant director and two PA's yelling at me to run (the ten feet) back to set, where I stand there and wait (doing nothing) for another spell of countless hours.
Then comes the 3am dinner break! I have a full hour to eat the deliciously catered meal on set! A full hour dedicated to just me, where i can eat my food in peace, smoke a cigarette, and have an energy drink. But wait! by the time I've gotten everybody what they needs, I take two bites, and I'm told that I need to start prepping the band before the rest of the crew is done eating. No big deal, right? I could just finish eating when they start filming! Wrong. By the time I finished with them, my grilled salmon talapia was cold, and I had to go stand on set, ready to touch up the band at a moments notice.
Finally the end of the night rolls around, and it is 6am. I was so ready to eat and go to bed, that I could feel it calling my name. Not so fast, sister! I had to clean EVERY item in my makeup kit: Every eyeshadow I used, eyeshadow powders, all the foundation bottles, blushes, bronzers, pressed powders, loose powders, the facial lotions, primers, the loose blush that spilled all over the bottom of my kit, and then of course my massive amounts of brushes. Thirty minutes later, my entire kit was packed, and I was ready to go! Then I got to carry ALL of my vanities down into the car, pack it up, and wait for the rest of my glam squad to do the same.
Right before I leave, I walked over to the Producer's table to fill out paperwork and get my stipend. After 15 minutes of forms, I get the envelope with "Matty Beautiful" scrawled across the top. I rip it open to find a twenty dollar, and a five dollar bill.
14 hours of work, and a $25 pay off. No new additions to my portfolio. No new clients.
That my friends, is how my life works. Luckily for me, i grew up extremely poor, and can live on almost nothing. Maybe I should have stayed in college? Maybe I should have stayed home in Colorado? I don't agree with that. Although the night was long, cold, and had almost no pay off (even though I did just as much work as ANY other artist there) I have the time of my life.
I know that this HAS to be my calling, because I still find happiness working for 14 hours and only receiving $25. It truly is my passion to make people FEEL beautiful. Just be sure whatever you plan to do, you can be happy at the end of the day, with sore muscles, tired eyes, and a smile on your face; because sometimes, that's all you're going to get.
XXO
Matty Beautiful
Here's the deal: I have been broke for days. I don't even have enough money for a pack of cigarettes, groceries, or (lord have mercy) drugs and alcohol. Most of all, I don't have money for a new weave, and it is ruining my life. It's hard to feel good about yourself, when you're not feeling your most beautiful. I'm a very firm believer that your outside is going to directly effect your inside. If you don't feel beautiful, you won't look beautiful. And it's hard to feel successful, when I know I don't look my finest.
I worked on set of the Hot Chelle Rae Music premiere music video "I Like to Dance", featuring Stephanie Pratt (who were recently featured on UsWeekly.com). We filmed in the historical Fashion District in Downtown Los Angeles, in a Television Warehouse. We had party goers, dancers, the band, and of course Miss Pratt. Sounds absolutely amazing doesn't it? Everyone I grew up with back home is reading this and thinking "Oh my god! He made it! How glamorous!" Time for your reality check.
We had a 14 hour shooting day: from 4pm-6am in the middle of some warehouse district. Our glam squad of five had to set up our kits at TWO beauty booths, and a table. Will someone tell me how FIVE people are suppose to share TWO mirrors? That aside, once the sun set, the room upstairs became pitch black, and the only light we had were from the beauty booths. The artists who weren't working at them (myself and another artist) had to result in a work lamp, because the overhead light was busted.
For anyone who is a makeup artist (or knows anything about lighting), you know what a compromising position this puts us in. The harsh light floods the face, washing out the natural features, and every time you cross the light with your hand, it casts a gaping shadow onto your client's face. Basically it's extremely difficult, and can ruin your desired final look. Luckily for us, we had wonderful models and extras, who didn't mind sitting in our chair longer, so that we could perfect their looks in the substandard conditions.
Because I wasn't "Key Makeup Artist," I was at the end of the directing artist's leash. I was very fortunate to have my FABULOUS friend Lux share a similar creative vision with me, and it made my job very easy to do, because i understood what her vision was. The only down side was that I wasn't allowed to do the Key Character's makeup, which took away the chance to put a celebrity client in my portfolio. The feeling of being so close in proximity to someone who's FACE could boost your career and not having the opportunity to take advantage of that, is crushing.
Standing on set for hours on end in a cold, dark, room with tons of people I don't know, sounds exciting, but it's not. Standing in the same place holding a powder puff, paper towel, comb, and blush brush, for an unnamed amount of time, while older men with angry faces yell at everyone to do whatever they do, can get a little tedious. Then, when I finally have a moment to steal a smoke, three drags into it, I have the assistant director and two PA's yelling at me to run (the ten feet) back to set, where I stand there and wait (doing nothing) for another spell of countless hours.
Then comes the 3am dinner break! I have a full hour to eat the deliciously catered meal on set! A full hour dedicated to just me, where i can eat my food in peace, smoke a cigarette, and have an energy drink. But wait! by the time I've gotten everybody what they needs, I take two bites, and I'm told that I need to start prepping the band before the rest of the crew is done eating. No big deal, right? I could just finish eating when they start filming! Wrong. By the time I finished with them, my grilled salmon talapia was cold, and I had to go stand on set, ready to touch up the band at a moments notice.
Finally the end of the night rolls around, and it is 6am. I was so ready to eat and go to bed, that I could feel it calling my name. Not so fast, sister! I had to clean EVERY item in my makeup kit: Every eyeshadow I used, eyeshadow powders, all the foundation bottles, blushes, bronzers, pressed powders, loose powders, the facial lotions, primers, the loose blush that spilled all over the bottom of my kit, and then of course my massive amounts of brushes. Thirty minutes later, my entire kit was packed, and I was ready to go! Then I got to carry ALL of my vanities down into the car, pack it up, and wait for the rest of my glam squad to do the same.
Right before I leave, I walked over to the Producer's table to fill out paperwork and get my stipend. After 15 minutes of forms, I get the envelope with "Matty Beautiful" scrawled across the top. I rip it open to find a twenty dollar, and a five dollar bill.
14 hours of work, and a $25 pay off. No new additions to my portfolio. No new clients.
That my friends, is how my life works. Luckily for me, i grew up extremely poor, and can live on almost nothing. Maybe I should have stayed in college? Maybe I should have stayed home in Colorado? I don't agree with that. Although the night was long, cold, and had almost no pay off (even though I did just as much work as ANY other artist there) I have the time of my life.
I know that this HAS to be my calling, because I still find happiness working for 14 hours and only receiving $25. It truly is my passion to make people FEEL beautiful. Just be sure whatever you plan to do, you can be happy at the end of the day, with sore muscles, tired eyes, and a smile on your face; because sometimes, that's all you're going to get.
XXO
Matty Beautiful
Starstruck. Baby Can You Blow My Heart Up?
Starstruckk. Baby Could Ya Blow My Heart Up?
Many people missunderstand my move to Los Angeles. constantly I am asked how frequently I work, who's makeup i'm doing, which famous people I have befriended, which celebritites I hate... It's a snowball of questions everytime I recieve a myspace comment, or wall post from a fan, or even an estranged friend. What people don't realize, is that although those seem like the obvious reasons to move to Hollywood; they weren't even present in my mind while deciding to move here.
It's hard for people to understand how I feel, because i'm not just any gay male. I'm am an extremely passionate, artistic, eccentric person who LIVES and BREATHES art and color. When someone on the street looks at me, I want them to see WHO I am. A balance of my personal expression, flirting with conventional boundries.
I wasn't born beautiful, like most of my friends. I never had a gorgeous body, I was never cool or accepted. Even by the gay community, I was an outcast for many, MANY, years. Only in the past 5, have I started to begin to accept my position in life. Like every other aspect of my life, nothing was going to be given to me, I had to earn it; i had to create who I am from the broken pieces i was given. Los Angeles is the mecca for the ugly, broken, and rejected. This is a place where you can take bits and pieces of the people around you, and create a new person. You become living and breathing found art. Walking the streets of downtown LA is like walking through a Lady GaGa music video: unique shapes and experiental color dancing through the streets.
Everyday is an experient. Everyday is a chance to create a new you. Everytime you sew a button to an old jacket, or clip in a brightly colored extension, or spray paint a stencil onto your sneakers, you're expereiencing the heartbeat of the city. You become an extension of what makes this city so great.
I have met hundreds and hundreds of people in Denver, and I consider myself pretty well known. Being the "big thing" has never been my goal or dream... it's always been being a part of something bigger than me, a movement, a lifestyle; it's what i've always wanted. My dream man? Dreams that same dream with me. In fact, I moved to Los Angeles to meet someone like me... Someone who created themselves out of nothing who had a unqiue beauty about them.
The beautiful thing about what i look for in a human, isn't that they have to live in Los Angeles, have a certain body type, or even dress a certain way... They have to be passionate and unique within themselves. You look on myspace, and you see copy cat imitators of sub-lebrities, everyone with their over priced corsets and matching hair... On the outside they appear to be such a free spirit, when on the inside, they are complete zombies like the rest of the world.The destination wasn't as important as the kind of people living there. If I had a better chance meeting someone who had a big enough heart to love me in Denver, I'd still be living there. I'd even move back from Hollywood for them. But the fact is, if there was really such a great guy there, i would have met him already. Trust me... i've searched. Los Angeles just has SO many unique characters, I HAVE to have a better chance of meeting that amazing person here.
I was seeing this guy named Erik, and he was a little heavy, had facial piercings, plugs, tattoos, was my age, and seemed really great! "Finally! someone i can appreciate! Someone who is a free thinker!" I thought to myself. Boy was I wrong.
On nights that he wasn't spending with me, he was stalking celebrities, and trying to meet them. He would drive to their houses, in the desperate attempt to "accidentally" run into them, just so that he would be able to claim that he's met them. You know those crazed fans with cell phone cameras that you see on TMZ and E!? He was one of them.
To add insult to injury, he would stalk my Twitter, myspace, and my facebook pages, see who I was talking to, add them, try and befreind them, and then talk poorly about me behind my back. Suddenly i noticed his pictures were starting to look like mine, his music player was a mirror to mine, and so was his myspace friend list. When I talked to said friends about his behavior, they just said "Oh we thought he was cool because YOU'RE friends with him."
This boy became obsessed with me in a matter of weeks, and was attempting to take over my life! Before i knew it, he was hitting on guys that I was talking to, quoting my twitter updates, and showing up to my frequent hang outs.
Josh Scott once told me that I shouldn't ever date someone because they were my biggest fan. You see, I have a problem with mistaking admiration for attraction. I think that just because someone researches my profile pages, that they have a genuine interest in me. That is definitely not the case... and I need to learn how to differentiate between the two.
I was talking to a friend of mine the other day, and they told me that I need to stop dating "down", and I need to date "up". When I asked him what he meant, he said that i keep going after these sad nobodies, that work remedial jobs, who i'm only with because they worship me... and that i need to date people who want to share my life, not take it over. It makes sense, because I have very little expectations for people. If you're nice and creative, you're okay in my book. If you're funny too, we MUST be soul mates. If we listen to the same music, we're going to have babies. It's ironic that the less expectaions I have for people, the more they dissapoint me.
It's all so comical: my dating life. I guess this is to be continued. (Hopefully)
XXO
Matty Beautiful
Many people missunderstand my move to Los Angeles. constantly I am asked how frequently I work, who's makeup i'm doing, which famous people I have befriended, which celebritites I hate... It's a snowball of questions everytime I recieve a myspace comment, or wall post from a fan, or even an estranged friend. What people don't realize, is that although those seem like the obvious reasons to move to Hollywood; they weren't even present in my mind while deciding to move here.
It's hard for people to understand how I feel, because i'm not just any gay male. I'm am an extremely passionate, artistic, eccentric person who LIVES and BREATHES art and color. When someone on the street looks at me, I want them to see WHO I am. A balance of my personal expression, flirting with conventional boundries.
I wasn't born beautiful, like most of my friends. I never had a gorgeous body, I was never cool or accepted. Even by the gay community, I was an outcast for many, MANY, years. Only in the past 5, have I started to begin to accept my position in life. Like every other aspect of my life, nothing was going to be given to me, I had to earn it; i had to create who I am from the broken pieces i was given. Los Angeles is the mecca for the ugly, broken, and rejected. This is a place where you can take bits and pieces of the people around you, and create a new person. You become living and breathing found art. Walking the streets of downtown LA is like walking through a Lady GaGa music video: unique shapes and experiental color dancing through the streets.
Everyday is an experient. Everyday is a chance to create a new you. Everytime you sew a button to an old jacket, or clip in a brightly colored extension, or spray paint a stencil onto your sneakers, you're expereiencing the heartbeat of the city. You become an extension of what makes this city so great.
I have met hundreds and hundreds of people in Denver, and I consider myself pretty well known. Being the "big thing" has never been my goal or dream... it's always been being a part of something bigger than me, a movement, a lifestyle; it's what i've always wanted. My dream man? Dreams that same dream with me. In fact, I moved to Los Angeles to meet someone like me... Someone who created themselves out of nothing who had a unqiue beauty about them.
The beautiful thing about what i look for in a human, isn't that they have to live in Los Angeles, have a certain body type, or even dress a certain way... They have to be passionate and unique within themselves. You look on myspace, and you see copy cat imitators of sub-lebrities, everyone with their over priced corsets and matching hair... On the outside they appear to be such a free spirit, when on the inside, they are complete zombies like the rest of the world.The destination wasn't as important as the kind of people living there. If I had a better chance meeting someone who had a big enough heart to love me in Denver, I'd still be living there. I'd even move back from Hollywood for them. But the fact is, if there was really such a great guy there, i would have met him already. Trust me... i've searched. Los Angeles just has SO many unique characters, I HAVE to have a better chance of meeting that amazing person here.
I was seeing this guy named Erik, and he was a little heavy, had facial piercings, plugs, tattoos, was my age, and seemed really great! "Finally! someone i can appreciate! Someone who is a free thinker!" I thought to myself. Boy was I wrong.
On nights that he wasn't spending with me, he was stalking celebrities, and trying to meet them. He would drive to their houses, in the desperate attempt to "accidentally" run into them, just so that he would be able to claim that he's met them. You know those crazed fans with cell phone cameras that you see on TMZ and E!? He was one of them.
To add insult to injury, he would stalk my Twitter, myspace, and my facebook pages, see who I was talking to, add them, try and befreind them, and then talk poorly about me behind my back. Suddenly i noticed his pictures were starting to look like mine, his music player was a mirror to mine, and so was his myspace friend list. When I talked to said friends about his behavior, they just said "Oh we thought he was cool because YOU'RE friends with him."
This boy became obsessed with me in a matter of weeks, and was attempting to take over my life! Before i knew it, he was hitting on guys that I was talking to, quoting my twitter updates, and showing up to my frequent hang outs.
Josh Scott once told me that I shouldn't ever date someone because they were my biggest fan. You see, I have a problem with mistaking admiration for attraction. I think that just because someone researches my profile pages, that they have a genuine interest in me. That is definitely not the case... and I need to learn how to differentiate between the two.
I was talking to a friend of mine the other day, and they told me that I need to stop dating "down", and I need to date "up". When I asked him what he meant, he said that i keep going after these sad nobodies, that work remedial jobs, who i'm only with because they worship me... and that i need to date people who want to share my life, not take it over. It makes sense, because I have very little expectations for people. If you're nice and creative, you're okay in my book. If you're funny too, we MUST be soul mates. If we listen to the same music, we're going to have babies. It's ironic that the less expectaions I have for people, the more they dissapoint me.
It's all so comical: my dating life. I guess this is to be continued. (Hopefully)
XXO
Matty Beautiful
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