ORGASMIC MEDITATION

Last year, an actress friend of mine asked if I wanted to join her at her meditation class. Sure. I'm onboard. I like classes in just about anything. Give me something to do. I once even took a cheese class when I was lactose intolerant.

She referred to it as her "OM" meditation class, which I presumed was the vibrational mantra one performs at the beginning and end of a yoga class.

Turns out I was wrong. "OM" in this case is O.M., an acronym for "Orgasmic Meditation".

She instructs me to meet her at 8:30 PM, but not to arrive any earlier. Had she just told me the time, I would have arrived as instructed. Actually, I'm never late and probably would've still arrived 10 or 15 minutes early.

The space on North Fairfax avenue was a storefront. The windows were blacked out with Duvetyne. I'm surveying the space and notice a small gap in the draperie. I peek in, and at first glance it appears to look like a yoga studio, which is what I was expecting.  On closer inspection, I saw there were two person teams, like what I would expect a Lamaze class to look like.

Squinting, I notice that all of the women are either not wearing pants or have their dresses hiked up. Their legs were splayed open. The soles of their feet touching and the men over them were wearing a single latex glove and touching their vaginas with a single outstretched index finger.

My phone rings. It's Sophia,  the actress that introduced me to this actress. She's Latin, Catholic and conservative.

SOPHIA: Hey. What're you up to?

ME: Hey. I'm about to walk into Salma's (No, not her) meditation class. Do you know anything about her... practice?

SOPHIA: She's a hippie. I'm sure it will be nice.

ME: Um, I'm looking through the window and these women are all naked from the waist down and appear to be getting fingerblasted by guys.

SOPHIA: Scott Nathan, what the hell are you talking about?

ME: I'm telling you. This is what I'm looking at with my own two eyes.

SOPHIA: That is DISGUSTING! What kind of sick, degenerate thing is this?

ME: I'll let you know...

The clock strikes 8:30. The door unlocks and a few people walk out to the sidewalk. Out walks Salma looking... dewy.

SALMA: I'm so glad you made it. Come in. I'll introduce you to everyone.

She makes some introductions and asks me to help her assemble some folding chairs into a circle.

The room smelled like a sex shop. Latex, water based lube and (sorry) pussy. 15 or so people form the circle. Most were there before I arrived. A few were newcomers like me.  The women were mostly 40's & 50's. The men were awkward. 20's & 30's. A strange, rather horsey looking blonde woman was staring at me intensely. I looked up a couple of times and finally gave her a pleasant smile back.

I won't go into a lot of detail about the practice, but it's basically edge play. The men, collectively referred to as "The Strokers" are taught to, with the tip of their index finger, gently rub the upper left hand quadrant of the woman's clitoral hood. Only that spot. The women are known as "The Strokees". The explanation is through this high, sub orgasmic vibration benefit both parties and everyone else in the room. This organization has events globally. Sometimes with as many as a thousand people taking part. I try not to judge, but have little interest in further exploring this, nor touching (gloved or not) a sea of middle aged, divorced office manager vaginas. Still, I politely listen.

After the talk, the blonde equine woman with the disquieting stare approaches me. She's wearing a black, ill fitting dress with pet hair all over it. She's unkempt with messy hair and bad skin. She's late 30's.

EQUINE: I couldn't help notice that you were trying to get my attention.

If by trying to talk to get your attention, you mean avoiding eye contact, then yes. 

ME: Um. I thought you were trying to get MY attention, so... Anyway. I'm just here with my friend Salma.

EQUINE LADY: (aggressively) Would you like to sign for our mens introductory class or not? It's $375.00 for 3 hours and you'll get to stroke someone at the end.

I'm uncomfortable and at a loss for words. When people try to aggressively sell me anything, I  shut down.

ME: Um. No thank you.

EQUINE LADY: (Rolling her eyes) Ugh!

She storms off in a clippity cloppity clumsy canter and I can't wait to get the fuck out of this thing.

I didn't know what to say to Salma. My tendency is to joke about anything that makes me uncomfortable.

SALMA: So, what did you think?

ME: It's... interesting, but if you wanted a handjob, all you had to do was ask. Not sure if you know this, but Nathan means "Giver" in Hebrew.

SALMA: Funny, but it's not about sex or orgasms. It's about connecting with people and reaching a higher vibration.

I couldn't care less. I don't even like groups of people who are dressed. I'm just not a groups person.

ME: I'm gonna walk up to Canters and get some average soup. Talk to you soon.

And scene...

MY SINGLE DUMBEST/SMARTEST CAREER MOVE

in 2005, After a lifetime a passionate enthusiasm, I began my professional photography career.  I was encouraged by a friend who was a veteran pro himself. 

I began as a digital tech, possibly the first one in the business. Pro digital cameras were still an emerging technology & given that I was an technology consultant at places like Universal Pictures and The Walt Disney Company, I was suited to learn the workflow.  

The deal I made with my friend was, I would work on set with him & run the cameras & the computers and in the process, learn to navigate the waters of commercial celebrity & fashion photography as well as studio lighting. 

About 6 months into the job, one of the executives from Smashbox Cosmetics whom I had worked with on set numerous times, pulled me aside & asked if I was capable of doing similar types of images we had been doing with my friend at the helm. 

I said yes & she asked if I’d be willing to put together a creative brief for a baby brand called Too Faced Cosmetics. I was familiar with them to the extent that they had always used cutesy illustration & never photography. She admitted that she was overseeing change & looking to grow the brand up a bit.  I accepted the challenge & put together my brief.  

Now mind you, beauty was nothing I ever set out to do. It was something my friend did, but wasn’t particularly interesting to me. I wanted comedy, color, irony. Big fun stories.  That said, you take what you can get & I didn’t even have a portfolio to speak of at the time. 

The bones of the brief was playing off the name "Too Faced" 2 faced. 2 models. One good girl. One bad girl. Yin/Yang. One blonde. One brunette. More or less like every James Bond film.   

I asked for 2 casting days. 

Casting day 1 was blondes.  I saw approximately 225 models that day. When Lyndall Jarvis walked through the door, I knew she was my girl. Icy blonde, exotic, sapphire eyes, bee stung lips, South African & with an inaccessible & intimidating presence.  

Day 2 was brunettes. Again I saw maybe 200 brunettes & didn’t really remember a single one. I just wasn’t feeling anyone. I needed another casting day.  

Me: (To client) I didn’t find our girl. I need another casting day. 

Client: You saw 200 models in L.A. and you can’t find a single brunette that will work for our brand?

Me: Nope.  This is important stuff. One more day. Please?

Client: OK. 

We see another couple dozen girls the following day. Now I’m nervous. I call the CEO.  

Me: Listen. There’s no one here. Can we look at girls in New York?

Client: Scott. We don’t have the budget to fly and house New York models. 

Me: I have an idea.  I have this friend of mineI want you to meet. 

Client: Which agency is she with?

Me: She doesn’t have an agency. She’s not a model. She’s not tall enough to be a model & she’s not thin enough to be a model, but I think she’s going to be a big star. 

Client: Actress?

Me: No. Singer.  

Client: That’s an interesting idea. Who is she signed to?

Me: She doesn’t have a record deal.  

Client: Are you a crazy person? Do you really want to put your balls on the chopping block on your first campaign? Are you willing to risk everything on someone who isn’t a model & has never modeled for anything?

Me: Yes. Definitely. 

Client: What’s her name?

Me: Katy Perry. Will you meet with her? 

Client: (Nervous). Sure. Bring her in. If it doesn’t work, I’m picking someone we’ve seen from the tape. 

Later that night on phone:

Me: Perry.

Katy: Hey Nathan. 

Me: I’m picking you up at 11AM.  

Katy: For what? I’m writing with this guy tomorrow. 

Me: Reschedule it. Look fun & festive. Trust me on this one. It'll be fun & there's money involved. 

Katy: OK. I trust you & god knows I need money. See you then. 

As expected, Katy managed to charm the pants off everyone in the room. We listened to a demo CD and took a spin through her MySpace profile and the 2 of us managed to sell it in the room. 

Didn’t turn out half bad.  The pink ballerina dress was something Katy had already owned. I had art department make up some wallpaper to match the color & pattern and rented the famous Brigitte Bardot bed from a prop house.  

Shoot highlight - The CEO was a flamboyant gay guy with bleached blonde hair & very orangey foundation. Trying his best to help, he said…

CEO: OK! So, Katy. Just relax & be yourself. I want you to do whatever you’d be doing at home in bed right now.  

Katy: OH! OK! (Arches her hips high in the air & shoves her hand into her panties).  CEO runs away shrieking. Katy looks over & gives me a wink.

After another year of struggle, things ultimately worked out for Katy. The campaign was a hit & I went on to shoot 4 years & 16 seasons for Too Faced. That led to shooting for The Sephora Book of Beauty, Urban Decay Cosmetics (which got me fired from Too Faced) and ultimately to beauty becoming my specialty. 


AND SCENE...

Katy Perry "One Night Stand" ©ScottNathan.com

SO... ONE TIME... I COMMITTED THIS FELONY...

1994. I was a new arrival in Angel City. No job. No money. Couch surfing. Getting work of any kind was proving significantly tougher than I thought. 

Trying to meet some people, I went into an AOL chatroom one night and started talking to this woman.  She told me she was a comic performing at the Improv on Melrose avenue that night. There were no jpgs back then. No digital cameras. It was a B&W digital classified ad.  Friends, fine. Date, fine, nothing, fine. Don’t care. Just get me out of the house.

I showed up having no idea what she'd look like. Without going into too much detail, it wasn't really an aesthetic not personality fit. Oh, and she wasn't really a comic either. She was "The Fluffer" or announcer there to warm up the crowd. She was neither attractive, not in any way talented.  Nevertheless I saw magic in a just starting out Sarah Silverman.

I’m walking east on Melrose Avenue. Pehaps a block and a half away. While Melrose appears at first glance to be, a series of interconnected, mud & chicken wire, no civic pride, sub-Tijuana architecture, some of them have narrow spaces between them.

Man with knife steps out sideways from building gap:

Robber: Your watch & your wallet Señor.

This nervous looking, late 20’s, diminutive Mexican man with the half assed mustache, didn’t seem like a scary felon. He looked like Jorge, my house painter. Nevertheless, I’m on edge.

Having been carjacked at gunpoint less than a year earlier in Chicago, I was quite traumatized and on edge. A  jumpy crackhead asshole who shoves the barrel of a gun in your mouth while wearing Groucho Glasses tends to do that to you. It took years before I’d get into someone’s convertible or allow windows open in a car.

I wasn’t nervous. I was ready.

Me: Whoa! OK. I’m just reaching for my wallet, ok?

Robber: (nods ok)

Me: I reach for the inside pocket of my jacket and pull out my pocket pistol. A Sig Sauer P230 packed full of Federal Hydra-Shok JHP’s. 

Me: Your watch & YOUR wallet. 

Guys drops his Chinese, liquor store knife, which clatters onto the sidewalk. He takes a step back & raises his hands with his elbows at his side.

Robber: Ma Señior, I only have a few coins.

Me: I’ll take them.

He hands me a quarter, 2 dimes and 2 pennies. Turns and begins to walk away.

Me: Where do you think you’re going?

Robber: I gave you everything.

Me: No you didn’t. Give me your wallet and your keys.

Robber: (Showing me his wallet) See. No money.

Me: Give it to me. Part of your punishment is going to the DMV and getting a new drivers license. And your keys.

Hands me his wallet.

Robber: You can’t take my keys man, I’ve got a family. I gotta get home.

Me: Or I can blow a hole in your face. Up to you. Walk home. You’re a terrible parent.

Drops the keys into my open hand, then turns to walk away again.

Me: What are you doing?

Robber: Man. What do you want? I gave you everything.

Me: No you didn’t. Give me your coat.

Robber: You’re gonna take my coat?

Me: I’m letting you keep your shoes. That’s about it. Any problem with that?

(Silence)

Me: Now apologize.

Robber: Huh.

Me: Tell me you’re sorry and you’re never going to do this to anyone again.

Robber: I’m sorry.

He walked away. I threw his keys down the sewer, his coat and his wallet into the trash & felt at the time like I’d somehow done some good.

AND SCENE.

JOAN RIVERS & MY BALLS

Last year I did a shoot with Joan Rivers & appeared on her show.  So smart. So funny. I had to stop shooting every few minutes because I was laughing so hard. Here’s a snippet. 

Joan: Scott. How old are you?

Me: Legal

Joan: Shut the fuck up. How old are you?

Me: Cut me in half & count the rings. 

Joan: You asshole. How old?

Me: I’m 46. 

Joan: Do your balls sag?

Me: What?

Joan: What? Do you have shit in your ears? Do your balls sag?

Me: Well, more than they did as a teenager… yeah. 

Joan: My vagina sags so much that when I got out of bed this morning in my hotel room, I stepped on it. It looked like I was wearing one of those grey fuzzy rabbit slippers.  

AND SCENE.

Part 2.
We're having breakfast in the morning while my crew is setting up.

Joan: I've seen your work. It's very good, but it's not why I requested you.

Me: No?

Joan: No. I heard you were funny & Jewish.

Me: I'm both.

Joan: You don't look Jewish. How do I know you didn't lie to get the gig?

Me: Everyone named Nathan is either black or Jewish. I'm Jewish.

Joan: I'm not so sure.

I stand up, unbuckle my belt & start to unbutton my pants.

Me: Ok ok. I believe you!