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Arts & Entertainment

Underwear Boys and Golden Girls: Naked Is the New Black at the Katharine Story Erotic Art Show

The night begins with me freezing my butt off as I walk downtown in what could either be a really hot or, I suspect, a really ridiculous ensemble. It’s sort of a Last of the Mohicans meets ‘80s pop-star look, consisting of a curve-flattering, blue-laced, rouged mini-dress paired with a garage sale leather jacket-o-fringe. But it’s comfy, so I’m good to go.

I'd been told by numerous sources that women’s clothing boutique is the place to be, so I head over. When I arrive, it seems that every gay man and cool-cat hipster in town is already there.

As I make my way to the back of the room for my plastic cup of white wine, I’m also checking out the reason for the hubbub: the erotic art show. And yeah, it’s erotic all right—lots of mixed-media and oil-based sexual fantasies on canvas. There are beautiful photographs and busts of busts.

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I make it to the wine table, where I'm greeted by two of my Laguna Beach gays. There are also two large plates of cookies, which aren’t exactly the kind you’d find in the snack aisle at Albertsons, baked as they are in the shape of girl parts and boy parts.

"I better get one of the boy-part cookies, because I know I'm going home alone tonight,” I tell my friends. Suddenly, two hot model boys adorned only in their underpants emerge from a hidden closet next to me! Hmmm … maybe I'm not going home alone after all. …

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As I follow/stalk the boys, I get sidetracked by Redz, bassist for local band Rebel Rockers. I’m a real fan of his—a groupie, actually! I tell him that his performance at the Here Comes the Sun flood relief concert was really great. He smiles, we cuddle up for some cute pics, and I’m positive I could have his heart on a platter if I wanted it. But not tonight …

There’s Katharine, our super-sexy tall and blond hostess, sort of the Laguna Beach version of Cameron Diaz. She’s showing off her wife-beater tank, which has the words NAKED IS THE NEW BLACK printed on it. We exchange a few pleasantries and snap pics, and then she’s whisked away by her posse. It's a busy night.

Finally I make it over to the underwear boys, who are dancing up a storm. Introductions are in order: There’s Christopher Pavlik, who looks like a young Ricky Martin, and Nate Blizzard, whom I lock eyes with, and I instantly recall how I’ve always told my friends that I would never, ever become anyone’s sugar mama. But right here, right now, as I gaze at Nate’s delicious little snow cone of masculine perfection, I’m rapidly starting to embrace the idea.

Local hobby photographer Jim Rue leans over and tells me, "Wouldn't it be nice if they could actually dance?"

"It doesn't matter!" I tell him.

I make my way over to the DJ table, where scruffy duo Brothers from Another Mother are keeping the scene smoking with their spins, then make my way outside to snap pics of local "car-tist" Scott Alan and his new wiener doggie, Amber. Scott is the guy responsible for the ever-evolving spaceship VW that's normally parked on Forest Avenue.

"Wait, let me stand in front of some hot scenery," says Scott, as he wiggles to the front of the store window where Christopher is gyrating in the window in nothing but his Calvins. Apparently, I’m staring.

“You’re staring!” says a woman passing by.

Annnd?” I reply.

A gaggle of golden girls laugh devilishly along with me. Time to head out …

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