For all the good people at the
"Dew Me Channing" group who read about my encounter with Chan (see below), here's a wallpaper of one of the photos I shot of your favorite model. Feel free to share it, but leave my URL at the bottom. Happy Chan Hunting.
Back in 1998, I was spending the summer in the dorm at Glenville State College to help with the student newspaper. I met a football player who was there for summer practice. His name was Chan Tatum, and I paid him $30 to pose for my wallpaper site.
I decided to Google his name, and I found out
he's now a famous model. I've drooled over his professional work for years and somehow never connected the dots to realize it was him. The closest I got was thinking the actor driving the car in the Mountain Dew commercial seemed familiar.
In retrospect, his shock that I could sell photos of him seems really really funny.
Chan Tatum, then and now.
Flashback: July 28, 1998 - "The Chan Tatum Affair"Today has been the most interesting I've had all summer.
The Heflin Center is being bug-bombed, so we couldn't be in the Mercury office today. John told me yesterday to get the camera and spend my day off being an art photographer, if that's what I wanted to do. I had planned to make a few prints in the darkroom, but my negatives are nowhere to be found. I told Gravely when he called yesterday that I think they're in April's car. I won't see them until Saturday, I guess.
I woke up early, took a shower, changed into some fresh clothes (I stayed up very late last night doing my laundry), got the camera, and decided to go hunting.
I couldn't find much. I decided to walk over to Annie's house to see what she was doing. As I was walking past the bank's parking lot, one lady said "You're missing all the action. There's a big car accident on college street." I guess she saw the camera and bag and thought journalist, which exactly the image I want to project. Good to know it's working.
I seriously thought about walking to the accident, but I couldn't quite bring myself to that yet. I pride myself on my detachment, but I know I'm not that detached yet. There was an accident here earlier in the year that killed one of our students. Greg and I were on our way to Foodland and had to drive by the scene where all the rescue workers were milling around and all the noble citizenry of Glenville turned out to see the blood like rubberneck assholes. For a moment, I thought about asking Greg to let me out--I had my camera, my notebook, and my press badge--but I couldn't do it. I got a glimpse of the young girl's body, too. That's when I knew I wasn't detached enough, because I can still see her in my mind when I think about it.
I didn't know the girl, but I cried hard for her that night. I felt a little selfish that I was glad I was crying, because that meant I wasn't the unfeeling robot that all my friends say I am--hell, that I say I am.
So, I didn't go to the accident. I went to Annie's and woke her up and sat on her bed for a few minutes before pushing on. I really didn't know where I wanted to go, so I decided to hoof it over to the public library. It's a nice little walk, and one that I should make on a regular basis for the exercise. The first thing I noticed when I stepped inside was how wonderful the air conditioning felt.
Even though I'm firmly encased in Chapterhouse: Dune, I looked around. There must not be a lot of book buyers around during the summer, because the "for sale" tables were overflowing. I picked up children's book by a guy named Gary Paulson--I KNOW I've seen that name before. I also grabbed some other book I don't remember and a Garrison Keillor (how do you spell his name?) book for James Arnold. James loves to read the guy's stuff. I don't know if he has this one or not.
I also decided to check out Isaac Asimov's Foundation and Empire and Arthur Clarke's Garden of Rama. I may even have time to read them. Who knows? By the time I got them into my bag, it was bulging at an almost obscene angle. I probably looked like I was transporting a severed head or something.
Back to the dorm, taking the long way around because, hey, I've got the time. I dropped off my stuff in my room. That's when I broke my pattern.
Instead of sitting there, watching TV or trying to get into Final Fantasy 7 again, I picked up the Asimov, filled my Long John Silver's insulated cup with icewater, and sat outside on one of the picnic tables. I read about thirty pages.
Now, I'm not an "outside" kind of person, usually. This was fun, though. The sun wasn't too hot, I was in the shade, and the cool breeze felt great on my legs. I probably read about 40 pages before Dave Weese walked over. We talked for awhile, and then Jeremy I-can't-remember-his-last-name rode up on his bike. Dave and I started making comments about how much we hated healthy people. Then Mandy Wasserman drove up in her jeep and sat with us. Jeremy left. Dave and Mandy and I probably talked for about two hours, getting cracked up over West Virginia accents and religion. I told them about the unfortunate woman I saw on the 700 Club this morning. She was a sex addict who said she had a "God-shaped hole" she was trying to fill, but she couldnt' find satisfaction. I think she just picked the wrong addiction. Meanwhile, the blonde host of the show was bobbing her head sympathetically and not picking up on the joke.
So that was fun, and then Dave and Mandy left. I walked over to where the cafeteria ladies were grilling the food. They can't work in the kitchen with all the insecticide, so they're serving outside today and tomorrow. They let me fix a plate of food and I went back to the table to read and eat. It was fun. I haven't been outside that long in years, I bet. I can feel a little tightness across my face from the sun. I wonder if I'll get burned.
I started writing the novel yesterday. I only had two pages written before John came in and distracted me, but I made it up today and wrote three more. I'm not completely sure where I'm going to go with this thing, but I'd like to have a crappy finished novel under my belt than a crappy unfinished one.
I finally came up to the office, and then had to go back down the hill to get my disks, and then I saw this guy sitting on one of the benches in front of the dorm, eating his dinner. "Nice camera," he said. So, I sat down to talk to him.
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| Chan Tatum |
"The name's Chan," he said, "from Tampa, Florida."
"Terry Estep, from Boone County."
Chan ("Just like Charlie Chan," he explained.) is a freshman football player who'll be living in Louis Bennett Hall this year. He moved up from Florida to take two summer classes this term. I've seen him around once or twice (I think I saw him in his underwear this morning, now that I think about it. He was walking into his room from the bathroom). Chan is pretty easy on the eyes. I don't know how he got his moniker, but he's about as aryan-looking as they get. Blond, close-cropped hair, green eyes, and a decent smile. He was wearing green shorts and a white muscle shirt with the midriff cut out. Every so often he'd pull of his hat and start swatting at the yellowjackets that were hovering around his food.
He didn't know anything about the Athletic Department's troubles until he saw the front page of the Mercury with Coach Ruggeiro on it. I have it taped to my door, and he asked one of the coaches about it. So, now I know that I was being useful to incoming students and their decision-making when I did that cover. Fuck everyone else.
Chan says he likes to go hiking and taking pictures of wildlife with his point-and-shoot camera. That's pretty cool.
Eric Poirier, easily the most sedate house director we've had, came over to remind Chan that he has to sign his guests out. Since I'm always more daring when I've got someone to impress, I started asking Eric about the sign-in policy and why it's still here. It's Big Brother-ism, I argue. I tried picking his brain for a little while before turning him loose. Then I sat and talked to Chan before he had to leave to go work out. I took a couple pictures of him standing outside (see below). I also got pics of two of the Japanese students from first floor playing frisbee.
It's so weird. I like Chan. He seems like a nice guy, and he told me to stop in and visit. BUT. There's this little part of me that whispers "He wouldn't like you if he knew you were gay, he wouldn't like you if he knew you were gay..." It makes me realize how insulated I can be. Don't get me wrong--Chan didn't say anything that was even vaguely homophobic. But I sometimes forget that I'm not always around people who don't have a problem with it. We'll see if Chan does if he ever comes into my room. I'll have to explain the giant Champion Underwear poster over my television.
Fuck, it may not matter. We'll see. I have nothing else to occupy my time this week, so that will be my Great Experiment.
After all, it's been a day of firsts. I went outside and liked it. I had a conversation with Dave Weese and discovered he doesn't hate me. I met a nice guy who has never been to West Virginia and is going through culture shock. If all this had happened at the start of the summer, I might not have been bitching so loudly. I'm going to go clean my room, so I won't be embarassed to ask Chan inside. It's tough to be comfortable playing Playstation games when you've got to dodge books, underwear, and dirty plates.
"Wow. I could sell pictures of that!" I hooted later that evening.
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| Chan at the washer. |
Chan stood in my doorway, wrapped in a fuzzy white towel, holding a bottle of laundry detergent. Seeing him walk past my door, combined with the rapport we'd developed earlier, resulted in my uncharacteristic outburst.
"Do you think so?" he asked.
"Oh, yeah. Can I take your picture again?" I asked him. "I have a wallpaper site, and I've had some people pose for me. How would you like to be one of my models? I couldn't pay you much, but at least you'll be able to buy some beer or something."
He nodded in a half-disbelieving way, but with enough self-confidence that I got the feeling he's used to being ogled and enjoys it a little. I shot a few frames of him in the towel and then followed him down the hall to his room. The desk is covered with tapes and papers. A few football trophies stand at attention on his shelf, flanked by pictures of Chan with his girlfriend from back home.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked. "I'm not sure what kind of pictures you want. I just beat off an hour ago, though."
My mind locks on to that statement. Would you be jerking off for my camera if you hadn't? I thought incoherently. The lack of self-consciousness in his statement unlocked my sense of professionalism--this kid wanted to be directed and would do anything I want. His only stipulation was that he didn't want the coach to find out about the pictures.
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| Chan Tatum, from Tampa, Florida. |
He opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of boxer briefs. Turning away from me, he let the towel drop to the floor and stepped into the shorts, pulling them up and covering the sight of his ass. The boy looked good, and my mind kept ticking off strategies for hiding an erection I never developed. Behind the camera, I don't register normal emotions. I should've been panting and drooling over this young football player standing half-naked in front of me, but I didn't.
I tried a variety of angles and poses, switching out the lens to see what effects I could get. The box fan in the corner, the fridge, the bed--each visual distraction reinforced my desire to buy a professional backdrop when I could afford it.
I had him put on a pair of shorts and sit on his bed, holding his football, as though he were having a quiet moment before the big game. Nothing says "jock" like holding a football, and I could hear the sighs of gay men everywhere as he stood in front of the mirror with his cock tenting his shorts.
"What about your butt? Would you go nude?"
He thought about it a second. "I don't know. I'd better not this time."
"Okay. What other underwear do you have in there?"
He rummaged around again and came out with another pair. He turned away and stripped off his shorts and underwear in one motion.
"For the record, this is where I could've shot your butt," I joked. He laughed and pulled on the other shorts. I directed him to the bed and had him stretch out, pretending to sleep. More frames. Then I ran out of film. Shit.
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| Chan, looking like he's having phone sex. |
"Stay right there," I told him. I rushed down to my room and snagged two rolls of color film I'd been saving for the Nature Trail. I had only shot a few frames when the telephone rang. He answered with a "Hello, sis." I continued to work the phone into the shoot, quietly motioning for him to stand this way or that.
"Hmmm?" He asked his sister. "No, I've just got a video playing."
A sudden perverse instinct took over. I gestured for him to lay back on his bed and shot a few close-ups of the bulge in his underwear. I motioned for him to rub himself. Might as well make this look like an ad for phone sex, I thought. He didn't balk at the idea, either. His hands went straight for the money.
I finally ran out of film and thanked him for his time.
"This site of yours," he asked. "Is it mostly men or mostly women who look at it?"
"Well, it's geared toward men, but it's really a mix." I thought This is where he threatens me and tries to take back the film.
"Oh, okay. Good night."
Photo FAQAug. 10, 2006 - Due to the e-mails and comments left here, I'm whipping up a little FAQ file to answer the "frequently asked questions."
Q: "Is that really Chan Tatum?"
A: Yes. Yes it is.
Q: "Will you post larger versions here?"
A: No. The only large versions are available at
"Dew Me Channing". They're heavily-watermarked to prevent publication.
Q: "Will you approve me to join "DewMe Channing"?
A: It's not my group, and I have no say in who can join. Follow the directions and hopefully the moderator will take care of you. It's not up to me.Q: "Will you send me the larger versions?"
A: No.
Q: "Pretty please?"
A: No.
Q: "Does Channing Tatum read this blog?"
A: I seriously doubt it. Stop leaving comments directed at him.
Q: "What's his sexuality?"
A: I honestly don't know. Open-minded, I guess.
