Saturday, October 31, 2009

...And Deeds (Excerpt 5 of 5 from "Looking through the Naked Window," book 1 of the memoir)

These vignettes are from chapter/episode 23... in book/season 1 of the memoir series.


In my sordid, sometimes triumphant life there have been many deeds. There have been the dirty deeds and then there are those wonderful acts of kindness. They're nice when on the receiving end, but even more redeeming when on the giving end.


Lance, my first, so-called ex-lover has been on my mind a lot lately. You lovers of the world know what influences those first loves have on us, be damned what they did in the past. Hell, we all have a past. I know I certainly do. Over the years though, during our multiple episodes of being high profile guest stars in each other's lives, we have always come back together and picked up where we left off. Remember when I said I left Lance originally, because I wanted to feel something for my mate. That was a half-truth then, which has snowballed into my very own personal foolishness.

You see, all along I really didn't want to feel. It was always too sexually charged. If it wasn't an explosive and head-banging (literally) experience, I wanted nothing to do with it. That was then, so when Lance and I were going together I became bored with him and his comfort zone, as far as our relations were concerned. Then, we can't forget Jimmie, who took the whole sex thing to another level. He became boring due to his constant repetitions. Allen was always a buddy. So, there you have the first three of my relationships. I remind you, they were all one-sided and as I told my dear friend, Pam, recently, as I toked long and hard on another ruthless cigarette... I, yes, I have never been in a true relationship.

I have lived a lie.


I wrote Lance a letter about a month and a half ago. It’s been about three years since I had seen him and I was wondering how he was doing and I will admit, I missed being with him. Sure enough, he got the letter and we got together for a very nice, intimate evening. I have seen him twice in the week and a half surrounding the holiday. Yes, before and after Thanksgiving, I was having a little more holiday cheer than I had anticipated and it was wonderful. Why? Because, of the differences. Now I like the familiarity. Now I feel like being ...familiar.


It was funny having all the company I had over the holiday weekend.

It felt good, but whenever somebody ate something or sat down or touched something, I'd say. "Oh Pam got that for me" or "Diva did that for me."

Not that I hadn't realized it before, but what would people like me do without kind people in our lives and their acts of kindness and good deeds.

We would be naked.

Pam, Diva and people like Colleen and those at my church, St. Leo's, like Mary Ann or Angela; my friends like Shad and Marshall and even people like Tiger - they live the Beatitudes from the Bible. None of them are particularly 'religious' people, although a couple of them go to church and participate in their community a lot more than some of the doesn't matter. It is the simple fact that they all have one thing in common. They have very little themselves, but have enough of the "Spirit" in them to give what they can, do what they can for those of us who had or have found themselves in a tighter spot in life.


Don't get me wrong; I have been a giver all my life, but primarily for all the wrong reasons - usually, to impress a guy. Because, you see, for as many men as I have considered lover there have been those who are "friends" past and present whom I have wanted quite desperately, but never landed that proverbial lay in the hay. Not that it would have been a big deal, but it was just that I equated love with sex for a long time. I have a lot of love for these guys to this day, but it hadn't reached its fullest potential because we hadn't done the deed, as it were. My dealing with them has been a major part in my turning point and responsible largely for where I am now in my life.


The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Little does he know, even though we never 'related' with one another, he is one of the reasons I now keep a low-profile on the night club scene. When you see how people act and hear what they say about him after he walks past their fake grins on their false countenances, it makes one like me think - "I never want to be thought of that way." And I have maintained that respect over the years. As big of a whore as I was in the past, I never carried myself as such. That's the difference between him and me. Call it an educated read, but when you call it like it is seen and when we become honest with ourselves, honey, and you figure out - well, that's not somebody you'd want to be with anyway because sure it may be a cool sexual experience, but at what cost and while it may be a big deal to you we all know it means next to nothing to men like him of the world.


I have also learned that deeds always outweigh any act you put on or any string of words you can put together in a perfectly created phrase.


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Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Acts (excerpt 4 of 5) from "Looking through the Naked Window" (book 1 of the memoir)

These passages are from episode 21: "Acts"


Tiki and Natalie had since witnessed the birth of their beautiful daughter. They were still living their thugged out fantasia, but something was about to put a damper on the whole thing. He no longer worked at the mail sorting company and I had since quit for the eighth time and was simply going to college and working my college work study job and at the burger joint. I got a call from an ex-co-worker, who told me he saw Tiki on a crime show, stating he was wanted - make that Most Wanted.

Well, you know me; I simply got in my car and drove over to his house. I had stayed away for about a year because I was steady with someone else and besides I thought whatever fling he and I had was over and done with and left him to his Natalie and their baby and their common-law wedded, parental bliss. Ah, but how things suddenly change. Natalie had gotten a little selfish with the daughter and was spending more time at her parent’s home.

Tiki and Gramps argued more and more. Tiki was almost psychotic when he discussed Natalie and his grandfather to me, when I came over unannounced. That is unlike me. I usually always call first, but I knew Tiki needed someone to listen to him and he was very happy to see me. Yes, very happy, very drunk, twice as high and extremely horny. Little did I know, I was not only in for a long night (that was actually a good thing, as I needed a long night at that point), but it would be the last time I would see him for many, many years.


I cheated - and I cheated - and I cheated.

Yes, I admit it. Hell, I've gone this far. Why not own up to all of it? Why hold back now? Shame forbade me from telling this before. Not only because of where - that was bad enough, the symbolism, but because of my ability to conceal it from my lovers, family and friends. Nobody ever knew, nor would they if I weren't telling them right here and right now.

If you haven't figured out my memoirs by now, it is an attempt to wipe my own slate clean. I know I am not the most perfect person in the world. Who is? I don't think, my dear friend, you realize how addicted I was to sex. Even now, I have to watch myself. I doubt you could, nor would you really want to, put a finger on how much of a slut and whore and sinner I have been. Guilt... Guilt has pretty much been the ruler of my life for a very long time. It comes from not only being raised Catholic, but from the acts - the many acts - I have committed in my life.
I only scratched the surface with my mother about it. I couldn't get too much past her, though. I think she prayed for my soul enough for ten lifetimes, God bless her, but I have still lived with my guilt and my snowball, my avalanche of lies and concealment of my whorish lifestyle. I made gay people look bad, because not all of them are as much of a ho as I have been. However, I have come so far from that now that it only makes sense to apologize for my shortcomings and ask for forgiveness.


The men - they didn't care. That was part of the problem. I am not pointing the finger, but boy did they partake in the situation at hand and had no problem with it whatsoever. Oh, the sins that line ones soul runs deep and grows ever wide. It surprises even me the memories I have of the many tricks of the trade that took place in the auditorium at that holy place. I took advantage of that situation, pure and simple, and nobody ever knew...

Or did they...?


Were the hall's lined with eyes
Yes, the eye of God
But His eyes looked upon me with mercy,
And I looked away in shame and cried...


He was a man on the run. He had issues. Plus, he didn't want to start something with me he couldn't finish. He said I made him feel uncomfortable. Not discomfortable, but uncomfortable in a way it was bad for him. He didn't want to "start up" something with me. He was very angry with himself and started berating me at that point. I was like what in Sam's hell was wrong with him?

It wasn't me and even though I did I shouldn't have taken it personally, but he abruptly ended our visit and pretty much threw me out of his house. He told me I should stay away from there for a while that he did something, but he couldn't help it and that he would surely be arrested soon. I couldn't imagine what he could have done and how things could have fallen so quickly into the shit hole he found himself in. Whatever it was, it was serious and, even he said, I wanted nothing to do with him.

He was right.

A little time passed and before I knew it he was calling me collect ...from jail.

I said, "What the hell have you done?"


Looking through the Naked Window: The Restoration Chronicles (Volume 1) is available in both Paperback and Kindle Editions for purchase at

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Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Deeper and Deeper (Excerpt 3 of 5) from "Looking through the Naked Window" (Book 1 of the memoir)

Looking back on my first installment of my memoir, I would have written it a lot differently now. That is because I have grown since then in life, as a person and as a writer. I already have the outline for the fifth book (the final one of the series - at least, my telling of my life story in the current format). What I will tell you is that it will go back to my school days and clarify a lot of things I myself was mistaken about. I am sure I will be just as intrigued in my approach as a writer, as my faithful readership will be curious to find out what all of what I just said means.

Here I present to you excerpts from episode 17, entitled "Deeper and Deeper."


My mother never really realized I had one steady lover, let alone was well into my second relationship, until I started getting letters from Lance in prison. He seemed much friendlier, almost angelic from that far away place and we corresponded every other week or so the whole eight years he was in prison. As time went by, and as my mother became more accepting of my sexuality, she would even send him Christmas cards.

Before my mother arrived to that acceptance, she and I had it out a few times. Not because I was gay, although that was mentioned, but because I dated Black men - pretty much exclusively. I had no idea that would have been an issue, but then again I thought back to her bitter display during prom season just a few years prior.

"It's bad enough you're gay, but you would have to date Black men," she said in a sinister tone.

"Well, would you rather it is a Black woman?" I recovered quickly.

"This whole fascination you have with Black people is scary."

"It is not fascination, more like gravitation," I remarked proudly.

"Why? What have Black people ever done so impressively for you?" She really wondered and I couldn't believe the racist standing in front of me was my own mother.

"You are a racist," I accused.

"I am not! And how dare you accuse me of that? I just believe you should stick with your own."

"I do stick with my own," I seized the opportunity. "Men!"

"That's not what I mean and you know it." She was furious.


My mother was, indeed, not the racist she seemed to be to me at that time. I even apologized to her, after I got a better understanding of what she meant. My poor mother used to have the hardest time getting across what she really meant. She was always concerned, for a long time, about what other people would think and one can't forget my grandma raised her.

Googles was another one I used to go toe to toe with, while maintaining a good deal of respect, on the race issue. She had horror stories. It's unfortunate because Googles was a good woman at heart and was a prime example that racism isn't something we are born with, but something attained or taught. She had a lot of Black friends at the factory she worked at. They affectionately called her Rita, because she looked like Rita Hayworth and the guys loved to play in her hair.

I was dumbfounded, imagining some burly Black stud fiddling in my grandmother's hair. She accepted it as a compliment and knew it wouldn't go any further, as she explained to me the factory was the one place she saw Black people getting treated fairly, from where she was standing. Her being a determined woman, she noticed her salary was the same as her Black male counterparts and based on that unfortunate truth, she viewed them as her equal - then. Over the years, however, she witnessed a lot of separation and attitudes among those Black folks around her. She would even stick up for them.

She told me she'd have them over on holidays and go to their churches for a visit, only to be talked about by them the following Monday at work. She felt that she fed them and partied with them, only to be stabbed in the back and betrayed by them. She was still deeply hurt at how she fell out with her "brothers from the grease pit," as she referred to them. Then the Civil Rights Movement took off and she was hurt in the 1967 riots, by people she was only trying to find cover for. Then, at that point, she told me after that anything negative that happened to her had been done by a Black person.

"You just can't trust them," she said.

Then I went on to tell both her and my mother that, yes they had an argument that I was teased and taunted by Blacks in my youth, but then Blacks were always coming to my rescue, as well. That was my environment - there are good and bad in all races, religions, sexual orientations, etc. Since my mother taught me to be a positive thinker, I always sided with the good people in my life, the majority of whom just happen to be African-American. My mother saw my point, while Googles remained unmovable.


I have always been more giving...more concerned...more into the relationship...

None of my lovers, the four I have learned so much from, ever acknowledged our relationships as, simply that, relationships. None ever told me they loved me. None ever treated me as more than an object, save one. It was always about me doing for them, me pleasing them physically, me writing poems for them, them, them, them...never about me, yet I am accused of being an egomaniac, in regards to my theatrical accomplishments, writings, and such.

Let's not mistake pride with egomania...


Looking through the Naked Window: The Restoration Chronicles (Volume 1) is available in both Paperback and Kindle Editions for purchase at

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Early Transition to Nowhere in Particular (Excerpt 2 of 5) from "Looking through the Naked Window" (book 1 of the memoir)

Continuing on with this week's promotion of book one of my memoir series, Looking through the Naked Window, I bring to you passages from episode five.


Gay. Hell, I didn't even know what I was feeling was called. I knew nothing about the subject of homosexuality. I just felt gay. And I suppose, to a certain extent, I was typical - almost stereotypical. I mean, I grew up listening to Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer, loved Disco, watched Cher, liked my mother's jewelry box and thought my sister, Anne, was a diva before I knew that word existed. I was certifiable and didn't even know why, where it came from or what it was called.


Mrs. Davis, a short auburn colored woman, befriended me from down the street. She lived next door to Byron. She was an elderly, wise grandmother-type and she loved to cook. Well, that summer her husband died and she went through a bout of depression. Then, before I knew it, she invited me into her home one day when I went to see Byron, who was gone. So, I went in and helped her bake a cake. Actually, I helped by licking the bowl. I should have known then that I would battle weight, as an adult. Her cakes were phenomenal. They melted in my mouth like butter and were light as heaven. They were something that should have been in a recipe book.

Now, don't get me wrong my mother was, and still is, my favorite all-time cook in the world. Not everyone can say that about their Mom's cooking. My stomach and I were blessed by her cooking and I still miss it, but have the memories. However, Mrs. Davis' cakes looked like works of art and I really think I cheered her up. She even befriended my dad, swearing she had to have his permission for me to come over and help her. She capped off my stay at that east side neighborhood on a good note and I have never forgotten her wit, wisdom and incredible strength of will. She was an angel on earth.


Then, we moved to St. Hedwig Street on the west side. It was the end of a hot July. I had learned a lot. I had begun to blossom, but quickly grew uncomfortable around my new neighborhood. It was a culture shock to say the least. It was a predominantly Polish and Hispanic neighborhood. The only good thing about it was that we lived across the street from the school. No more buses. The eighth grade came and went in a flash. I reverted back to my shy ways.
It was safer for me.


In my life, I have always been weary of men who pass themselves off as "straight" by talking about ‘fags’ and such by trying to make them selves look stronger by putting us down. Trying to make us look like sissies, when they themselves are two steps out of a bugle-beaded, evening gown and lip-synching their favorite Carol Channing show tune. Bastards! They are the fags! They'd call me faggot and get all ill tongued and foul-mouthed with me. They'd want me to put my lips on their body and my face where the sun never shines. They'd make me touch them and they, in turn, would touch me. Think it's distasteful the way of how I am expressing my feelings, right now? I have years of rage inside of me from matters less offensive.

I felt violated living through it. Older men's hands touched me. They forced kisses and fondled my genitalia. I have cried myself to sleep many nights. I look at relationships as toxic - to this day - because, like my sister, I believe men are good for only one thing and one thing alone and most of them aren't that good at that either. They may think they work it good in bed, but I beg to differ with most of them. He had no right to touch me. Neither did any of the numerous unidentified males of my adolescence - young or old, black or white. My body was supposed to be a temple. At that time, I thought - no more being svelte. No more being modest and healthy. I used to have a cute shape. It was very appealing to the guys I would end up being toyed around by. So, I fattened up and have struggled with weight since. Yes. I admit it is an excuse, but it did work by turning some of them off. Over the years, fewer hands touch on me. Now I only have hands that touch me when I want them to. But the damage has been done.


It was very quiet... at that moment. Mom was humming... You could hear Dad singing happily under his breath... I interrupted the calm, quiet by running water over the potatoes Mom just peeled... Spot, our dog, was cheerfully wagging about... What was wrong with this picture? This wasn’t normal for us. We were becoming the perfect little family with the perfect little dog and this perfect little home… Bump grandfather clocks and family outings… Shit – it was unbelievable. I hadn’t gotten a whipping in over a year. Mom wasn’t being as bitchy as she had been year’s earlier, hell she was even chipper these days after losing like fifty pounds… We were becoming happy… and what the hell was wrong with that?

What was gonna spoil that apple cart, you could wonder…

Slow motion.

In an instant it happened. Could have taken my breath away it happened so dammed fast. I turned the water off… All you could hear was my parent’s humming/Spot panting/Water dripping from the potatoes in the colander…




The kitchen window shattered. Mom fell to the floor. Dad, out of his chair, was running down the stairs faster than a track star. I crept shakily over to what used to be the kitchen window, only to see Mr. and Mrs. Z.’s house completely leveled. I helped Mom up onto her feet... She ran back to her bedroom (the first time I ever saw my mother run). I stood still. Then I surveyed where my Dad had gone... Looked out on the back porch – part of Mr. and Mrs. Z’s house was in OUR backyard.

I looked out the window again and saw one, single HUMONGOUS flame seductively licking the side of our house... I heard screaming from outside. The smell was terrible. I yelled for my mother. We had to get out of there! I was shaking. She came out of her room. We grabbed each other's hands and made our journey down the smoke-filled stairs to the back yard.
"SPOT!" She screamed.

We forgot our pet. I ran back up to get him. I came back out with dog in tow much more shaken, as I had seen the innards of our home being destroyed. I nearly cut my own throat by almost walking into a fallen electrical wire. Thank God my mother woke me up with a quick, blunt slap across the face - the one time I appreciated her slapping me, as it saved my neck, literally.

Then she cried, defeated, "What are we going to do?"

"Where's your father?"

We questioned... We were sure he was trying to help the firemen find Mr. and Mrs. Z. It was loud and crazy furious. This kid walked by us and said Dad had gotten caught in between the houses.

It looked like a war zone...


Looking through the Naked Window: The Restoration Chronicles (Volume 1) is available in both Paperback and Kindle Editions for purchase at

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Sunday, October 25, 2009

Fires Burn Within and Without (Excerpt from 'Looking through the Naked Window - Book 1 of the memoir series)

The premise of how I decided to tell my life story was: What if your life were a made for television weekly drama series? Or, in my case, made-for-cable. As part of a promotion for the book (published in 2006 through Publish America) AND to share a bit of it with my blog audience, I will be running five sets of excerpts/passages from each of the already released books in the series. More will be revealed about the ins and outs of the series as we go along...

That being said, with the premise being what it is, chapters are referred to as 'episodes' and books in the series are referred to as 'seasons.' For example, this passage is from the first book, third chapter...or, in this world, here from episode three in season one... a slice of my life story.

Passages from Episode 3: "Fires Burn Within and Without" from Looking through the Naked Window

Elementary school came and went. I don't know why I was such a mediocre student, but I do recall getting a whipping from my dad every time I got a report card. My dad worked long hours to put me through private school and what did I do? I got C's and D's. The only classes I'd get good grades were English and Theology. So, for the seventh grade they decided to bus me to a Detroit public school, Burbank Middle School to be exact. It worked.

Their thinking, I suppose, was that it would straighten me out if I went to a school where teachers didn't show as much attention; and I wouldn't be spoiled by the comforts of a private school. For the first time in my life, I recall being very afraid. We lived on Camden Street in the Chandler Park area on Detroit's east side. Crime, drugs, low-income living and gangs plagued the neighborhood. Aside from our family and Mr. and Mrs. Mains, our landlords who lived next door, and the Taylor family, who lived at the end of our street, the rest of the block's residents were primarily African-American.

I found myself drawing more into myself, as time went by. I was very shy at that time in my life. I was shy and very observant. I watched the boys on the block - a lot. I would develop crush after crush. Some guys were my age, but most of them were older than me and I would have torrid fantasies about them. A lot of the older guys would tease and taunt me. They'd say I was soft. I looked like a girl. I was a sissy. A fag. Faggot. They'd tell me how they would tame my white ass. How racist a notion, I thought, as I got older and perhaps I grew up silently gay as a result of their suggestions. You could say that I am gay by persuasive deception. Although now, as an adult, I see that I was born gay and am not a product of my environment.

What my environment did provide however, was a healthy dose of fear and an almost lusting sensation and gravitation toward Black men. Remember my very first crush was on an Italian guy. I am an Italian guy, but these numerous unidentified Black males I found myself fantasizing about from a very young age, as I went through puberty and as I approached my adolescence; left me bewildered, curious, confused and frustrated. They were not as unapproachable about such matters as the few White boys I encountered; yet they embodied such a sense of pure masculinity that was both alluring and threatening at the same time. I found that I was often afraid to respond to their advances.


Things escalated when I began going to school with them. Their taunting went way beyond milk money or Mom's bagged lunch. We took that yellow bus and when it was just the kids from my block, it was fine. Little did I know the misery I'd endure when we got to the other bus stop at Courville Street. Or, as I liked to think of it: Whore Kill Street. I was shell-shocked at their indecency and prejudice towards me. I didn't think it could've been any worse than the ridicule I endured on my very own block. I'd never experienced anything like it before. My parents raised us to get along with everyone, not to look at color. I followed that notion, while it took my sister years to get there. They'd make me sit on the bus floor because, of course, like the school's classroom itself, the bus was overcrowded. Yet, I was the only one who seemed to be sitting on the floor of that dirty bus; come rain, snow or shine, everyday - feeling like I didn't have a friend in the world.


Well, I got tired of taking the bus. It was bringing me down. I had five F's, a B+ (from History) and Mr. Preston always gave me an A. My parents were worried I was gonna fail because I was even doing poorly in English class. No gold stars for me. They thought I was doing it on purpose to spite them and the whippings were more and more common, but something had to give. So, I started walking to school.

In the dead of winter, I found my way. I'd lose gloves and hats and my mother finally stopped buying them. Borderline child abuse... Not really. There was this lady I saw at a city bus stop every morning and during one of the coldest spells that winter she noticed I didn't have a hat, gloves or scarf. She stopped me and asked why. I told her what was going on and that actually my parents couldn't afford to keep getting them for me every week. She told me to be sure to stop by the next day. I did and she had them for me. I never got her name, but she was the first of many good Samaritans in my life. She didn't have to notice. Most people wouldn't, but I didn’t lose that scarf or that hat or those gloves - I was set for the rest of the winter.

My sister was the only one who knew about me walking to school and I was mad as a hornet caught in a blizzard when she told my dad. I thought I was gonna get a whipping for being a wuss. Then my father came and had a talk with me. He said he would drive me to school, if he could, but he was at work when I left for school. He didn't tell me not to walk to school. Just that he would prefer if I would take the bus because something "is gonna happen" and before I'd know it I'd regret not taking the school bus. He told me that the time would come when I would get an opportunity to fight for my rightful seat on that bus. He said don't start the fight for it would only come to me, but when it does finish it by taking on the weaker one of the group.


Looking through the Naked Window: The Restoration Chronicles (Volume 1) is available in both Paperback and Kindle Editions for purchase at

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Check Yourself, Girl (Photography Archive #015)

"Check Yourself, Girl"
Model: Anya Allen
Photo: Antonio Cassone

I always play with contrasting. Even more so than messing around with sharpness. Sometimes I even blur intentionally (as I do in some of my later work). I do a lot of work in Photoshop in the post. I am a digital photographer. I wouldn't know how to handle a traditional camera, quite frankly - although I am sure I would learn in time. I know from the various online communities I am a part of, it is greatly debated if digital photographers should even be classified as regular photographers or not. Some feel they should be listed in a class all by themselves. I, for one, artistically do not care, or have a preference. I guess because what I have learned I have done so by trial and error. For the most part, I would suppose so long as the image turns out to the liking of the client FIRST, then the photographer - anything the critics have to say can be taken at there worth based on whether it is constructive or otherwise. Goodness knows, there are plenty of them out there.

NKOSI~FIGUEROA (Photography Archives #014)

Model: Nkosi Figueroa
Photo: Antonio Cassone
Looking back, even before Anya Allen and I worked together, I did some test work with Nkosi...who is my 'son-in-show.' In my female impersonation career, I used to go by the stage name "Miranda Davison" (that all changed in 2008 - those fabulous details will be revealed on this blog in time). Nkosi took on the stage name of David Davison and has always been a consistent entertainer, bringing to the stage a variety of performances - and even a character or two (most notably his impersonation of Andre 3000 from the group Outkast). I wish I wish I wish I knew then what I know now as a photographer, because he was a great model to work with. Time and distance has kept us from working together in recent years, but you never know - we may work together again someday.

Duet 1 (Photography Archives #013)

"Duet 1"
Photo: Antonio Cassone

I have grown to love photographing nature, floral work and objects. In fact, I am finding that is what I am leaning towards more so as I grow in my artistry. Capturing such, and putting a creative spin on it is almost like creating a character or characters out of them. Must be the writer in me, too. I find it all very inspiring. It is what gets me through.

Fernando (Photography Archives #012)

Model: Fernando
Photo: Antonio Cassone

This snippet was one of my more popular pics from early on in my photography. Fernando always had a great smile and always quite the fashionisto/ - also known as LaPorsha... this is one versatile model, who never disappointed. Also a talented dancer and innovative choreographer, which makes them quite competitive in their entertainment field.

Deborah Oliver (Photography Archives #011)

Model: Deborah Oliver
Photo: Antonio Cassone
circa 2004

One of the fiercest female impersonators I ever had the priviledge of working with. Deborah is a former Miss Stiletto's, Performers Awards of Detroit (PAD) Entertainer of the Year, along with many other titles. Always very creative and is also well versed in the makeup & hairstyling departments. I loved their expression in this one and connect with the camera, so it's a keeper.

Wicked (Photography Archives #010)

Model: Jeuvel Milner
Photo: Antonio Cassone

With Halloween coming up, I thought - meh - why not? This was one of my earlier creations. I worked with Jeuvel's mom and she set us up for me to snap some pics - this came from that shoot - so, obviously, it was not planned. I had fun with it - and the funny thing is, his attitude is the complete opposite of the theme. One of the nicest models I have worked with.