Some time ago, I spent several days palling around with a dozen aspiring romance novel cover models. Want to have a really fun time? Party in a hotel in Houston with some really cut dudes dressed like sexy Vikings and two thousand ladies who love them. Another dramatic parachute assignment for your favorite intrepid reporter!
In this case it was GQ who sent me in, commando-style, to uncover the mysteries of Mr. Romance, an annual contest in which the aforementioned physical specimens compete for a shot at cover model stardom. It was great fun. And then GQ never ran the story, despite that it was precisely what was pitched, assigned, and paid for. Nor did they really ever kill it it. Want to not have much fun at all? Get stuck in the editorial limbo of a glossy magazine.
But, like a phoenix emerging from the ashes, the tale of Mr Romance would get a chance to soar once more! First, it was granted new life by New Regency films, whereupon I became the proud father of a studio-based rom com. Can't wait to meet Ryan Reynolds! Or the Ol' Double Em! Almost a year later, when it was clear that Mr. Romance would never appear in GQ, I sent it to McSweeney's for the latest issue, which, in case you have not heard, is a 12-section, 300-plus-page, much-discussed epic media experiment called the San Francisco Panorama. If you are unfamiliar with this one-time broad sheet, here are some of the many kudos. Among the novel features of this newspaper is a 96-page bound book review section, which is where the full 7,000 words of Mr. Romance appears. Apparently, there's been a run on this thing — just like in the old days! — but you can order a copy here. In the meantime, here is a teaser from the article, which is called:
My Heart — The Only Muscle I Can't Control
Some books are meant to be judged by their covers. You know the kind: Comanche Rose, Petticoats and Pistols, Tender Warrior, Sea of Desires. You see them lined up in airport book stores and supermarket wire racks, their embossed titles accompanied by a shirtless he-man clutching a swooning, bosomy maiden. The ardent couple might be sitting astride a black stallion, standing amidships on a schooner, or admiring a vast, castle-containing idyll. Perhaps there is a stately carriage, or thunderclouds streaked with lightning, or a hawk perched on the hero’s outstretched arm. Shirts are unbuttoned, bodices unlaced. The light is right, the palette is warm, and the hair is always flowing.
These are the pastel dreams of romance novels. But behind each passionate Regency nobleman or brooding sheikh, there stands a real man—a man named Fred, or Travis. I know this because I am lost in a thicket of aspiring romance heroes right now. “Tight, tanned, and in command,” as one of them puts it, these guys have assembled at the Downtown Houston Hyatt for the fourteenth annual Mr. Romance Cover Model Competition. This is the proving ground for future Fabios.
Mr. Romance is a multi-day marathon competition, and what’s about to get started is the Saturday Night highlight, the moment when one man will walk away with the crown. A service area behind the Houston Hyatt’s Imperial Ballroom is doubling as an improvised green room, and this is one place where alpha males are not afraid to accessorize: capes, kilts, and fringed vests are paired with spurs, quivers, bandoliers, and at least one yarn-headed hobbyhorse. Near the emergency exit an Indian warrior is slipping a beaded band over massive biceps. A permed knight puts down his sword to fluff his hair. A cowboy shimmies into chaps, ties on a red bandana, and announces that “It’s bandito time!”
Out beyond the curtain awaits the grand prize: a guaranteed appearance on the cover of a book by this year’s sponsor, romance-publishing giant Dorchester. I look around the room. Some day soon, one of these anabolically proportioned young men will be rendered in oils, bedecked with a headband or Viking helmet, his windswept locks beckoning readers in checkout lines across the nation.
Lured by this opportunity, a dozen contenders have assembled from far and wide. Some have been here before. Others are first timers. The multi-hued and multicultural crowd represents the full range of well-groomed, gym-derived masculinity. Jason Santiago is one of this year’s strongest challengers—a confident and chiseled actor who’s been here before and fallen just short of first place. On the opposite end of the dreamboat spectrum, Travis Greiman is a shy country boy; he’s making the soft sell. Next to him stands Fred Williams, shirtless and twirling toy six-shooters, an energetic African American with rig eye musculature who is playing the gregarious showman and comes with a complement of rotating outfits, like an action figure. “I got it all worked out, with props and everything,” he says. He gives me a tour of his various looks: Western Fred, Formal Fred, Chinese Slave-owner Fred. “It’s gonna be off the chain!”
With a few minutes to curtain, everyone focuses on finishing touches. Travis coils his bullwhip. Jason does pushups for pectoral inflation. Fred arranges and re-arranges his props. Oddly, there’s no mirror back here, so everyone is forced to tell each other how they look. “It’s cooler if you hold the sword with two hands.” “Your bolo’s crooked.” “I like them fangs!”
Beyond appearances, and fangs, the competition is also about courtship, or what the official Mr. Romance program calls “Romance I.Q.” Throughout the competition, each of these guys needs to prove that he is the most romantic among the suitors—the sweetest, most tender man a woman could want. For that, they also came prepared. At one point, Fred furtively opens a black leather bag to give me a glimpse of his “secret weapon”: a bouquet of roses. But not just any roses — “Chocolate roses! Brought ’em all the way from St. Louis for that special edge.” Mr. Romance isn’t just about muscles, he tells me—“It’s about understanding women.”
Want more? I hope so, because you must believe me when I tell you that the world of Mr. Romance will speak to you more than you know...
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