Chaz D. Balantine

Look at him—that sexy little swine. Fingertips still glistening from his fifth hand wash this morning. It’s barely noon. He’s been up since seven; he hasn’t really done anything besides get black coffee and a whole-wheat bagel but he’s up. Good morning Chaz D. Balantine, you lucky bastard. Who would have ever known that the dust from the rodeo clown days would finally escape his now flawless pores? It’s really no wonder that he’s as built as he is. All of that fleeing from angry beasts and submerging yourself in a ring of testosterone would transform anyone into a lean piece of devil’s food crafted by the hands of Zeus himself. Some people are just chosen, I suppose.

If you would have asked me five years ago where I thought Chaz would end up later in his life, I sure as hell wouldn’t have told you the underwear business. You can’t walk down the street without seeing a bus cruise by, promoting his boxer brief covered phallus. What really blows the mind is how a man in his late twenties can be so completely hairless. In his photos, they airbrush his nipples because they are a little too dark but that’s it. Everything else is au natural.

I went to his house once. What a place. The man’s got a penthouse in the East Village that would make the average American cream in their socks. It’s pristine. Two maids alternate during the day and they run a tight ship. There’s never a smudge or fingerprint on the countless granite countertops and there’s four boxes of lint rollers in the cleaning closet. It almost seems like the obsession to become the object of the public’s perception of perfection has transformed his home into something also equally as “perfect.”

I don't watch him because I'm gay, or because I have some weird obsession, or because I idolize him. He just interests me, that's all. I've known Chaz for quite some time (not in the Biblical sense) and I just positively know that there is something else to him that no one else sees.

For a guy who only wears boxer briefs in photos, he sure has an interesting fashion sense. He doesn’t even wear underwear outside of work and he seldom can be seen in a tee shirt. Lintless polyfiber long sleeves are what cover his muscular upper body. I’d wear 1980s tank tops if I were him—no substitutes. So, how does an alcohol abstaining high school drop out get blessed with such an awesome set of junk and a perfect life? That was the question that plagued me quite some time. Then I realized that the answer was simple. He used to be a rodeo clown and like every single rodeo clown on God's good green earth, he sold his soul to the devil.