Robby Echo came out of Seattle back in '86. At eighteen he was done waiting to lose his cherry, so he grabbed the first girl who said yes. Thanks to nerves and a rubber, he lasted two hours—running technique drills to hold back—until she shoved him off 'cause her dad was rolling up the driveway. Junior high nights got weirder. At a football game he and two buddies flashed their pubes to the hottest girl in school just to suck on her tits. Another round happened at his mom’s high-school reunion—straight to anal. And on the ferry across Puget Sound he banged a girl right there in his car. Non-sex thrills include getting lost snowboarding out-of-bounds on a mountain, sure he was gonna die; dropping a log in the third-grade urinal; and getting hauled out of an abandoned skate spot by cops in high school. Psychedelics wiped out most fears. Death? Sounds like the next ride; he’ll still dodge it, but when it shows he’s ready. Losing apples—that’s real terror. Karla Kush, his ex, brought him in. She’d already been working a year, talked her agent at OC Modeling, and they signed him. Marooned on some desert island he’d pack a machete, a spear, and a box of filament: “then I’m golden, never again feeding this endless capitalist slot-machine that eats the planet and shrinks your value while the top dogs keep cashing out the fake loot.” Books: Siddhartha because it shows how dumb we get chasing samsara highs; How To Be Idle for calling out the clock we sold to industry; and Vonnegut, who spots every silly game we don’t question. Favorite flick—Jodorowsky’s The Holy Mountain—because the symbols make you work, not spoon-feed you cheap custard. Off-camera it’s yoga, docs, and art. His folks know what he shoots; they haven’t sat down to discuss it, but love keeps coming anyway.
Robby Echo came out of Seattle back in '86. At eighteen he was done waiting to lose his cherry, so he grabbed the first girl who said yes. Thanks to nerves and a rubber, he lasted two hours—running technique drills to hold back—until she shoved him off 'cause her dad was rolling up the driveway. Junior high nights got weirder. At a football game he and two buddies flashed their pubes to the hottest girl in school just to suck on her tits. Another round happened at his mom’s high-school reunion—straight to anal. And on the ferry across Puget Sound he banged a girl right there in his car. Non-sex thrills include getting lost snowboarding out-of-bounds on a mountain, sure he was gonna die; dropping a log in the third-grade urinal; and getting hauled out of an abandoned skate spot by cops in high school. Psychedelics wiped out most fears. Death? Sounds like the next ride; he’ll still dodge it, but when it shows he’s ready. Losing apples—that’s real terror. Karla Kush, his ex, brought him in. She’d already been working a year, talked her agent at OC Modeling, and they signed him. Marooned on some desert island he’d pack a machete, a spear, and a box of filament: “then I’m golden, never again feeding this endless capitalist slot-machine that eats the planet and shrinks your value while the top dogs keep cashing out the fake loot.” Books: Siddhartha because it shows how dumb we get chasing samsara highs; How To Be Idle for calling out the clock we sold to industry; and Vonnegut, who spots every silly game we don’t question. Favorite flick—Jodorowsky’s The Holy Mountain—because the symbols make you work, not spoon-feed you cheap custard. Off-camera it’s yoga, docs, and art. His folks know what he shoots; they haven’t sat down to discuss it, but love keeps coming anyway.