All we really want is boys

The lights were hot and so were the men.

The carpet was scorched after eight of Pitt’s… The lights were hot and so were the men.

The carpet was scorched after eight of Pitt’s finest hunks of manhood bared it all – OK, most of it all – for the camera two Sundays ago. These were no ordinary beefcakes. No, these were the men of the Campus Women’s Organization’s smokin’ new 2003 calendar, “The Finer-er Things.”

The calendar is the brainchild of Brett Wiewiora, secretary of CWO. The idea was to take “non-Calvin Klein-typish guys,” put them in their underwear in compromising positions and have fun, said the lion-maned Wiewiora.

It’s definitely meant as “a jokey protest” to the University Society for the Finer Things Women of Pitt calendar, he said. “The idea is to crack people up like they’ve never cracked up before.”

The carpet scorching may have been from a misplaced light, but the photos are definitely steamy. There’s everything from a man-whore in a smoking jacket with a wad of bills to a sizzling grill-jockey to the finest cowboy this side of the Mississippi – sporting only a G-string, a 10-gallon hat and a smile.

On the afternoon of the shoot, Wiewiora drove around collecting models and bringing them to a photographer friend’s house in Squirrel Hill. His cell phone rang incessantly.

“I hope you don’t regret your decision once we’re the new sex symbols of the University,” he told a model who called to back out.

After marshalling most of the hotties, Wiewiora dropped them off to shiver on the porch of the photographer’s house, who hadn’t gotten back from work yet, and drove off to snag a few more.

The models, some of whom had only known each other as long as the car ride, sized each other up and discussed ideas for themes for the different months.

“You mean we were supposed to wear underwear?” the eventual Mr. June moaned. “Oh, of all the days to go commando!”

“I’m never looking any of you guys in the eye again,” Mr. August warned.

Finally, the photographer came home and Wiewiora returned with a few more studs.

Mary Kalee Whitehouse, the photographer, was all business with a clipboard and notes. A junior at Carnegie Mellon University majoring in political science and art, she volunteered her time.

“You owe Brett a lot of money, don’t you?” Mr. September asked Whitehouse.

Wiewiora said it was tough getting commitments from potential models. He said most men he approached were initially excited about the calendar but couldn’t be found when the time came to actually drop trou for posterity.

“He got us liquored up and told us to be here today,” Mr. October joked.

“We were recruited for our bodies, not our minds,” Mr. June added.

Most of the fellas were pretty comfortable parading around in boxers or briefs as they waited their turn, with a few notable exceptions.

Mr. March, the stunning cowboy, stalked out of the bathroom in a G-string with a lock on the front and helped Mr. July find the most flattering drape for the American flag he sported. Mr. June wasn’t quite prepared for this.

“Does anyone have a fork so I can gouge out my eyes? I’m going to have to go home and take a shower and I don’t think I’ll ever be clean again,” the sweating, clean-cut New Englander wailed.

Misters March and July looked across the room at Mr. June shaking in a fetal position in the corner.

“I can see him in therapy like 15 years from now,” Mr. March quipped.

“I can see him in therapy like 15 minutes from now!” Mr. July retorted.

Mr. June survived the shoot, along with everyone else. Despite a pervasive odor of feet and acres of back hair and man-boobs, the afternoon was a success.

Cross every woman off your holiday shopping list, and one in 10 of the men. There’s no need to wait at the mall or send your precious credit card numbers into cyberspace. This masterwork can be purchased for three measly bucks at Schenley Cafe every afternoon during finals week.