In Imitatio Porno

The men bend themselves into machines. Put weights on their chests, push down with their legs, turn red in the face, and do it again and again. Each man acts as if he is alone in the room; machines are switched like dancing partners, with only darting looks toward other men, rival suitors, competitors.

The men are so intent on fitness goals that no one notices when the Famous Porn Star walks into the room, picks up weights and begins to exercise his remarkable biceps, admired all over the world.

One by men, the men, looking into the mirror, glimpse him looming at the edge of their vision. Some, intent on perfecting their form, don’t notice him for a long time. Others assume he just someone who looks like the Famous Porn Star. So many men do, after all. In this part of the city, Colt and Catalina Video are a kind of gospel and men live to the greatest extent possible In Imitatio Porno.

When men at last recognize him, they stare at the floor, at their gloves or machines. Anywhere but at him. (In this way worth is determined, by looking away.)

But the men look back, note his tattoo, his bulge, his perfect scar. The kind of scar you could never give yourself (though some had tried). The kind of scar you had to be gifted by some terribly fortunate accident.

Then men, who had been alone, are together now, united in orbit around the Famous Porn Star as they continue their sets, their repetitions. Each aspires to be seen, acknowledged, and thus receive benedictions from the Star. The men continue to pull and push and push and strain, but their counting falters and they forget their routine, forget what is next, and to breathe.

The Famous Porn Star thrusts a stack of weights into the air above his enormous shoulders. He does not look at anyone, not even at himself in the mirror.