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CHATSWORTH, Calif. —Longtime Helix Studios contract performer Kyle Ross—who Str8UpGay called "arguably the most well-known and prolific Helix model of all time"—was killed in a single-car crash last weekend in Florida, according to multiple reports. He was The Sword is saddened to report that the gay world is mourning the loss of former performer Kyle Ross, whose death by car accident was confirmed by Helix in a tweet earlier this week.

(Image by Matthew Rettenmund) STR8UPGAY: Former () Helix gay- actor Kyle Ross (born Aaron Cumbey), one of the studio's most recognizable stars, died in what is called a horrific one-car crash in Florida, hours after he had multiple heated disputes with American Airlines for not accommodating him with a flight he had booked.

Welcome to the Private Life

After announcing his retirement from performing last month, we may not see any more gay scenes starring powerbottom gay star Kyle Ross, as he transitions into an off-camera, corporate position at Helix Studios. The handful of rules he set out for himself included composing the essays quickly and writing them by hand. The first time I blew it was with entry thirteen.

As I was thinking, I turned the page and just kept reading. But breaking the rules is allowable here, not least because Gay himself does it. For instance, he tasked himself with writing about one delight a day and forbade the hoarding of delights. My friend Evie Shockley, who told me, after I gave a reading where she teaches, that a turn in one of my poems, which in some poets I say might be a horseshit trick, is in fact a horseshit trick.

The phrase—a colloquialism a regionalism? The understanding of a multiplicity of selves, of a complexity of self. A self-weirding. I does not equal me. In another, he mentions that the cardinal is his favorite bird. I read this and looked out the window and saw a cardinal on a maple tree, hopping, crisscross, from one branch to another, before flying out of the frame. Left unshared as many delights are especially the commonplace variety that Gay writes about , they live as a kind of secret.

And not only a secret but a secret not often dwelt on—a fleeting secret. To catalogue delights and to delight in them at some length, as Gay does, shines a light on otherwise private, intimate moments, and the book that collects this catalogue has the feel of a devotional poem. In the process, I discovered—or rediscovered, since at some point I had put it there myself—a very slim book by Walser called Looking at Pictures.

The discovery felt serendipitous. As Gay might say, it was a delight. What do these two books have in common? One answer is nothing. Another is, fundamentally, everything. But those compositional minutiae, brushstrokes, and colors inspire tangents and digressions that have very little, if anything, to do with the art.

You involuntarily put your hands in your pockets when you look at it, since it so wonderfully communicates its wintry nature. He had chosen the entry in which he is applying coconut oil to his body after a shower. He described the progression of oiling, from legs to face, as he considers what he is doing, why he does it, and what contemplating these things makes him think about. Bodies can be poetical, but they can also be absurd, and in this essay Gay was working both of these perspectives.

Interesting, too, that Coplans should think of his body as Gay does of his—as a vessel for other bodies, previous or alternative selves. I am somewhere else, another person, or a woman in another life. They are clauses and asides in which, as Gay writes them, you feel his hand on your arm, you feel him lean in toward you, conspiratorially or simply to emphasize his meaning.

On a flight from Indianapolis to Charlotte, a black male flight attendant brings Gay a drink and taps him twice on the arm. Communication, for Gay, is sensory. Numerous entries involve his delight in eating food, his delight in smelling flowers, his delight in hearing birdsong. Delight is experiential.