ONLY IN ROPPONGI… can you get a boob job for a 100 Yen ….
or a ‘cock’ job?….
Sunny Shibuya- Looks deceivingly warm…
… but it’s actually a lot more like this….
Anyone for Quidditch? The most convient way to get from casting to casting in Tokyo is by broomstick. (flying with Shandor Ten Hoven & Maxime Bergougnoux)
Model Menu- portions are extra small, check out the pint glass on the top right!
Play Boy
Pissing into a red hot mouth at five in the morning
Everything in Tokyo must have a face….
and lastly one for Engrish.com…
‘End of the line, all off at this stop, please forget all of your belongings before you leave the carriage…’
So here we all are then, Twenty-Twelve, that’s it, that’s your lot, how was it for you?
Fortunatly, just before all that Four Horsemen of Ipanema palaver, just in the nick of time as the Mayan Calender whittles down to its achingly pringed and pranging groove, i’m going to be heading off for a second time to the fantastic whizz-bang Blade Runner world of Tokyo for what the occupation in the big, bold title above describes.
I needed some new pictures and writing of cities and horses, let loose the gates for Troy, one handsome 6 foot something Moldavian photographer, who coerced me into smoking and jaywalking in violent rain outside Piccadilly Circus and leaning against the tired scuff ridden corridor walls of various Soho sex shops and cock massage parlors.
Thank You Troy.
TROY J PHOTO TUMBLR: http://lptv.tumblr.com/
‘Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.’
One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
I wrote this short story for a magazine but they never got back to me.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, I want this room filled with your BLOOD, SWEAT AND CUM!!
‘LADIES, I want to see you sucking DICK!
‘FELLAS, I want you to fuck that fucking PUSSY!
Red velvet curtain suddenly breaks and reveals.
A mid thirties brunette draped in a regal robe complete with bejeweled crown, sitting on a bronze painted chair complete, with a music stand and sheets and a microphone placed in between her legs akimbo.
‘Some of you may have seen ‘The Kings Speech’ but I bet you’ve never heard the Queens butt cheek squeak…..
Make some noise you cunts as I introduce you too……..’
….. QUEEN LA QUEEFAAAAAA’
and the crowd, an overly generous dollop of wanker banker types with a light sprinkling of A to C list ‘celebs’ including that pale thin one, that was in those pirate movies a few years back and a few others, I’m embarrassed to know the names of, roar from the bottom of their gobs.
Queen Laqueefa suddenly erupts into the British National anthem and the crowd erupt with her into a fanfare of rapturous applause.
PARP …PARP….PAARP…. PARP…. PAAARRP ….PARP PARP…..PARP….PARP PAAARP PAARP PARP……. PARP
‘GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS QUEEF’ jeers the American on the overheads.
Red velvet curtains suddenly shut.
We’re now ten minutes into the debuting ‘risque’ cabaret act at The Closet, the sister club of the original in New York that everyone says ‘is completely out of date and no one goes too anymore’.
Before Queen Laqueefa’s flatus symphony, the crowd were treated to a ‘naughty’ twist of the fairy tale fable Pinocchio, the twist being that the said puppet sticks his erect elongated nose up the magical fairies pussy to become a real boy, the originality.
They could have ended it there, curtains close, everyone goes home drunk and a couple of thousand pounds lighter or goes back to someone else’s apartment with someone they don’t know or even like but will copulate with just to feel wanted or admired or both, but they didn’t, it went on.
Red velvet curtains suddenly break and reveals.
He stands on stage, penguin dinner suit with all the trimmings, and begins to gyrate his body coquettishly in time to the peaks and troughs of the seventies euro-disco music pumping at tinnitus inducing volume, from the new shiny club speakers.
‘Your upmost attention please, allow me to introduce you to….THE SEXIEST FUCKING MAN IN THE WORLD….’
Penguin dinner suit gyrating wildly on stage, begins to lose bow-tie and un-pops all the buttons on his shirt to reveal his shimmering hair less chest, all in time to the music, of course.
At the bar at the back, the insipid flock are more than happy to fight for an inch of space to buy an extortionately overpriced drink. Bottles of vodka are well over a grand each delivered to you by big boobed waitresses in off the rail tacky looking PVC Agent Provocateur corsets. What FUCKING recession?
The circular tables on either side of the room are red belt affairs where the rich, spoiled and stupefied sit and shell out ludicrously sickening amounts of money to fill the gaping hole.
Penguin dinner suit still gyrating wildly on stage, unzips his zip and takes out his large uncircumcised cock and begins to spin his flaccid flesh around and around and around, otherwise known as ‘the wind mill’. The bankers guffaw, their women shriek and yap like fake eyelash clad raptors.
‘ISN’T HE SEXY LADIES??, LOOK AT HIM GO, GO GO GO, LADIES YES YOU!, OVER THERE I BET YOU’D LOVE TO GURGLE A TRUCK LOAD OF HIS SPUNK, I BET YOU WOULDN’T SPIT IT OUT YOU DIRTY STINKING BITCH!!’
Penguin dinner suit gyrating wildly on stage suddenly rips off penguin dinner suit, at once all is revealed, two prosthetic arms hang from each shoulder, swaying a few beats behind his body. Over the music, a drum roll rises into it’s crescendo he rips the prosthetic arms off of his body to reveal his deformed appendages.
‘LOOK AT HIM GO, AHA HAH AH AHA, LOOK AT HIM, LOOK AT HIS LITTLE CHICKEN WINGS’
And following him, glistening from the remnants rays of the stage lights are hundreds of dilated multicolored pupils fixated, each out stretched index finger pointing en masse and all in one direction, their bodies heaving jackals up and down following in-sync to the layer upon layer of hysterical canned laughter almost drowning out the seventies euro disco music pumping tinnitus inducing volumes from the new shiny club speakers.
‘AHAHAHA BWARK, BWARK BWARK, YOU STILL WANT TO SUCK HIM OFF NOW DO YOU MISS? DO YOU? BWARK BWARK LIKE A LITTLE FUCKING CHICKEN, LIKE A LITTLE……FUCKING……CHICKEN!!’
A naked human being is pogoing on stage, sweating, his flapping cock slapping against his abdomen, prosthetic arms lie cold on thrust stage floor.
Chicken clucking becomes as common a sound as the laugher, I look to the left, a mid forties suit and bow-tie with a lit up ice bucket with a rehoboam begins spraying half sipped champagne all over his belly because he’s violently clucking along with others.
I begin to shove past sweaty bodies, I need to get out.
I push through the double doors into the lobby, I head for the stairs, Sebastian is leaning up against a wall with a leggy blonde haired girl.
‘Sebastian, We’ve got to go this place is fucking awful, did you see what they’re calling entertainment in there?’
‘It’s fucking weird man, I know, it’s just not right, oh yeah, by the way, this is Anna K, she’s from Sweden’
‘oh, hallo’ she leans in for a double kiss, but i’m not in the mood for doing all this tonight.
’I just can’t believe the way people are acting in there, Seb’
’Oh, you mean the chicken?’ answers Anna K foolishly ‘I thought he was quite…..’ and she hesitates to pluck the right word, ‘….Hil-air-ious’
As I take a large grasp of air to hold my thoughts, I can smell the fake tan emitting from her every pore.
This blog in itself, is a form of glorified reminiscence.
A visual retrospective wanking aide, my very own technological scrap book of anamnesis. You can’t go wrong with a good old reminisce.
The price we unknowingly pay for the ease of communication via social networking, is that, it’s never been easier than to bang at buttons on our computers and fritter away countless hours reliving parts of our lives that we’ve already trundled through.
After two nanoseconds of agonising thought, I’ve decided to give the blog a new lease of life and another pop, first a change in the title.
Secondly, to use this blog once again for short story writing and photography. So, apologies in advance for all things embarrassing and self indulgent coming your way.
Whilst, I’m in between deep breaths of apologies, a massive thank you to everyone and anyone that’s visited, reblogged posts and/or sent me messages and to a very big thank you to the blogs ‘followers’ (sounds like a new religious cult) please keep them all coming, it really does help and appreciate the attention.
‘Appreciate the attention’, In truth, that’s what all these blogs are about, the attention. Don’t ever believe anyone tell you otherwise. No one who writes wants to feel like an unloved, sad faced chihuahua with a reoccurring bladder problem.
“I never forget a face, but in your case I’ll be glad to make an exception. ” Groucho Marx
Being a great model isn’t about the ability to roll off verbatim the final chapter of a Milan Kundera novel or talking about strategies involving the hunt for large prime numbers ( you try working out two to the seven thousand six hundred and thirteenth power) or even the ability to bend over backwards ( although, I’ve heard this might help in certain casting situations!)
Lets not beat off around the bush here, whatever anyone else tells you, we all know it’s all about your mug.
So, what better way to exercise this very apparent fact than to cover up a bunch of models faces with comedy Groucho Marx-esque glasses.
Can you guess which models are under the ‘musings of a model’ spectacled guise?
(All photos & text by Jono Namara-musingsofamodel.tumblr.com)
PARIS: Rolling my drooling tongue back into my gob.
For the last week and a half, I’ve been traipsing around from one old higgledy-piggledy Parisian rue to the next, visiting the same castings I’ve visited bi-annunally since the start of my modeling career and whilst schlepping through rain, snow, sleet and dare I mention it even sun to the aforementioned things.
As a 19 year old I started my career as a model in Paris, I’ve met love and lost and met love, gained life long friends and temporary enemies.
If i’m not marveling at the sheer pomp and circumstance of the Haussmann architecture or rolling my drooling tongue back into my gob over the sight of the seemingly boundless amount of Parisian beauties that decorate the cafes by smoking cigarettes film noir stylee that they do so well (im quite sure the French tourist board employ them) I’m always trying to capture the whizz bang wonder world of fashion week with my camera, the lifespan of a “career” as a male model is too short not too.
I stay here for two months a year and I still can’t get past my “petit pour parler francais” vocabulary of a three year old stage, maybe I should just stick to pressing a button on a camera…
(All pictures by Jono Namara & Annabel Jansen)
A Close Shave
Belgian model Thomas Hoefnagels and Welsh lad Matt Hitt get to grips with the fine art of shaving, can you tell by the pictures who had more success.
GREEN
Waiting models backstage at the Wooyoungmi Show S/S 11.
Bored with me
My Dresser instruction card backstage at Wooyoungmi S/S 11.
Comparing portfolio sizes with Will Eustace & hugging a dust fairy (apparently, it’s slang for make up artist).
Mine is still bigger Will.E
Still more to come….
