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I must be a really good kisser. I mean, I've never had any complaints from the women I've dated. But the first time I kissed a man, the reaction I got caught me completely by surprise.
I should backtrack, and tell you that I'm an actor. I'm reputed to be good - I don't know about that, but at the moment I am popular, and I work a lot. I've done five movies in the last two years, each one more successful than the last. In Hollywood that's a long hot streak. I attribute it mostly to my eyesight.
I have extremely poor vision, which cannot be corrected with contact lenses. So when I'm off-camera (I do movies, not The Theatre or The Stage as some of my Broadway-bound friends call it), I wear glasses thick as barroom ashtrays. Directors always make me take them off when it's time to shoot a scene. This requires the makeup girl (or guy, but it's usually a girl) to touch up the marks the glasses leave on either side of my nose just before each scene.
Because I can barely see anything without my glasses, I have a tendency to stare, as if trying to wring every possible ounce of acuity out of my substandard optic nerves. In addition to making my eyes water, this instinctive but futile attempt at focusing apparently imbues me with a look of intense yearning.
Intense yearning is quite marketable, it would seem, and lengthy passages have been published in popular magazines describing the "passion" and "hunger" in my "burning gaze." Without my glasses, the only thing I'm conscious of intensely yearning for is the ability to see, but hey, if Hollywood likes it, I'll stare. Just point me in the right direction.
Anyway, my eyesight doesn't make me a good kisser, but I really do believe it is the secret of my current acting success. Like I said, I'm popular right now, and while I'm realistic enough to know that this won't last forever, I'm also selfish enough to want to enjoy it while I can. So I capitalize on what I've got. Viva Visine.
Back to the kissing. I was cast in a gay-coming-of-age movie (that's how it was pitched to me - there's actually a name for this genre), and I was the gay in question. For the movie, not in real life. I'm not gay, nor even gay-curious - to use a term popular in personal ads - but I'm not at all homophobic either. I've even had several roommates who were gay. As the cliché goes, some of my best friends...
Anyway, I like to act, and I like to not be out of work, and this looked like a great role. So I took it.
In what was considered a casting coup, Brock Hastings had signed on to play the part of the man who would be instrumental in my character's coming of age. This was regarded as brilliant anti-type casting: Brock was known for action movies, and was a well-known womanizer of the Hollywood old school. His square jaw oozed machismo, his mustache bristled with testosterone. No simpering queen in this role, no sir.
Brock's character, Vincent, was a college professor, and I was to play Teddy, one of his students. A favorite student, as the plot would reveal - a real prize pupil. According to the script, Vincent saw glimpses of himself in Teddy, and felt that trapped deep inside Teddy was a young gay man, yearning to be free. Again, the yearning thing. Enter my inefficient but emotive eyes, and suddenly I'm starring in another movie.
It was a good script - I don't mean to trivialize it. Both characters are deeply conflicted. Vincent faces the doubly forbidden prospect of having a relationship with his student, and a gay relationship at that. Meanwhile Teddy has to confront his father, a grizzled ex-Marine who is in no small way unreceptive to learning of his son's newfound inclinations. Powerful stuff. Ripped from today's headlines, as they say.
The big turning point in "Staying After School" is a scene where Teddy and Vincent share their first kiss. It's a beautifully written scene - if you've seen the movie you'll know what I mean - the tension is drawn out forever it seems, until the two men finally fall into each other's arms in a soulful kiss. Add to this the impact of seeing Hollywood's young male heartthrob-of-the-week (yours truly) sucking face with an older action star indelibly associated with all that is manly, and you've got yourself something to gossip about tomorrow at work.
The kissing scene was one of the last scenes we filmed (movies are rarely shot in chronological order), and Brock and I were both a little nervous about it. Again I emphasize that I really do not consider myself homophobic, but I do admit that I found the prospect of kissing a man a bit unnerving. And this was to be no peck on the cheek. This was flat-out necking.
Brock was even more nervous, I think, trying to hide his discomfiture by dismissing any discussion of the upcoming scene with blustery comments like, "We won't need to spend much time rehearsing THAT scene!" These remarks were typically delivered with a forced chuckle and an elbow to the ribs, in the how-bout-those-Bears voice of a manly sports fan.
Off-camera, Brock chomped incessantly on a smoldering cigar, and trimmed and cleaned his nails with a savage looking pocket knife that he liked to open one-handed with a flick of his wrist. Later I wondered if he had been trying to reinforce his own masculinity by adopting every macho prop and mannerism possible. I must say, the cigar made the prospect of the kiss even less appealing to me. I'm one of the maybe five percent of Hollywood's population that does not smoke. This, in a city with the most strident anti-smoking laws in the country.
We never did end up rehearsing the kissing scene. Instead, the director sat the two of us down just before the shot to describe his "vision" for this scene. That was the term he used - they really do talk like that. Then he smiled encouragingly, slapped us each on the back, and said "Let's get some takes."
Notice the plural word. It's a common directorial technique to film the same scene several times in a rapid succession of "takes," trying different camera angles and offering subtle suggestions (or barked orders) to the actors for each subsequent performance. The director can then pick and choose the best take from a variety of performances, or splice together the best moments from each take. When done well, it's seamless and invisible to the audience viewing the final result. That's all well and good, but when you work this way, a 30-second scene might take hours to film. That's a lot of kissing.
For the fated scene, we were seated on a big leather couch in a set decorated to look like the cluttered office of a college professor. Brock and I had been directed to kiss first tentatively, then more passionately. I was then to fall slowly back on the couch with Brock on top of me, locked in a heated embrace.
We began. It wasn't that bad, but it did feel weird. I try to throw myself into any part I'm playing, so I did my best at conveying passion for Brock (or, rather, Vincent). I found the sensation of kissing someone with a mustache unusual, to say the least. And I could definitely taste the cigar. I tried to ignore these factors and concentrate on my performance.
To Brock's credit, he seemed to do the same. He nailed the dialog leading up to the kiss, and did a very professional job of seeming shy and tentative at first, before surrendering to the passion of the moment and kissing me with fervor. And more than a little tongue. We fell back on the couch, and necked for the prescribed length of time, waiting to hear the director call "Cut!"
Then it was time to do it again. Brock avoided my gaze and said nothing. I found I had equally little to say. The tension was broken when the makeup girls descended upon us. Operating with the efficiency of an Indy 500 pit crew, they powdered our faces and fussed with our hair, then scurried away as quickly as they had appeared. We assumed our initial positions on the couch, and started filming another take. Again it went pretty well, I thought. Brock was a big man, and it felt odd to have his weight on top of me as we finished the scene. And I could have done without the tongue, but I wasn't going to chide him for going for realism.
It was on the third take that I noticed a little something extra. As Brock crushed his body against mine on the couch, I realized that he was becoming aroused. I told myself it was his belt buckle. Then the belt buckle grew. Oh boy.
We did three more takes, each more intense than the last. If you've seen the movie, ninety percent of what you saw in that scene came from the sixth take. It was a doozy. Onscreen, the passion in Brock's eyes rivaled that of my own trademark watery orbs, and his voice went all hoarse and husky. When he won Best Supporting Actor at the Academy Awards that year, that was the scene critics talked about. His role in the movie showed the world a whole new side of Brock Hastings. Hollywood's biggest action hero was now being acknowledged as a Serious Actor.
I soon began seeing a whole new side of Brock Hastings, too. The movie wrapped several days after the kissing scene, leaving us free to go our separate ways. I usually find this rather sad - you develop quite a camaraderie among cast and crew when you're making a film, and then all of a sudden, it's over. It's not unusual to see a lot of tears at the wrap party, and ours was no exception. Towards the end of the party Brock made an emotional speech, toasting all of us and holding my gaze when our eyes met. I nodded towards him, and raised my glass in what I hoped was an elegant salute. Then I turned my attention back to an eager young wardrobe mistress who, after three glasses of champagne, had suddenly become inordinately attractive to me.
Later that evening a heavy hand clapped down on my shoulder, accompanied by the telltale scent of a presumably expensive cigar. I turned to find Brock, who had obviously been taking advantage of the open bar. He leaned forward, speaking with the exaggerated conspiratorial seriousness of the pleasantly inebriated.
"I've really got to thank you," he said, his breath a potent combination of alcohol and tobacco. His hand stayed on my shoulder, either for emphasis or to prevent him from falling over. He spoke in short, urgent bursts, each punctuated with an emphatic nod. "I learned a lot. About myself. From you."
He stood there for a long moment, leaning on my shoulder, his eyes locked with mine in an expression more than a little reminiscent of Take 6 of the kissing scene. Then he broke the moment with a sudden exhalation that was part laugh and part sigh.
"You're so wise," he said, clapping me gently but firmly on the cheek. Then he walked away. I returned my attention to the wardrobe mistress (now downright dazzling to me), and thought nothing more of the encounter.
But it didn't end there. Three weeks later I was awakened in the middle of the night by the odd-sounding ring of an Italian hotel telephone. I was working on a young-American-comes-of-age-in-a-foreign-country movie that was being shot on location in Sicily. I know, I seemed to be coming of age a lot these days, but again it was a good script. Really. And this time my costar was a beautiful woman, a popular Italian actress whose English turned out to be so heavily accented that the director was now considering dubbing in her voice with that of an unknown but more intelligible American actress. But let's get back to the ringing phone, which I groped for and found.
"Hello?"
"It's me," a husky male voice said.
"Who is this? What time is it?" I asked, groggy and confused.
"It's me. Brock."
"Brock?" This threw me. "Brock Hastings?" Although we had worked together for several months, we had never really socialized, or even exchanged numbers. I had no idea how he knew where to find me. I asked him.
"I got your number from - oh, it's not important. What's important is that we talk. We need to talk." Even through the less-than-optimal phone connection I could hear the urgency in his voice.
"Okay," I agreed, "Let's talk. What about?"
"About us! About me! About ... you know ... being gay!"
My mouth hung open. This was making no sense. I held the phone to my ear, not knowing how to respond.
"You showed me," Brock said. "I would never have known it without you showing me."
"What did I show you?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"Who I am! Until you kissed me, I never really knew who I was. You showed me. Now I know."
"Now you know what?" I really dreaded this answer, but I needed to make sure I understood him.
"That I'm gay. Now I know. And I have you to thank."
Brock went on to describe his newfound self-discovery, waxing ecstatic as he spoke about the new life that awaited him. Unlike his "Vincent" character, Brock seemed not at all conflicted about this rather radical change. No, Brock was embracing gayness wholeheartedly, and he kept thanking me, over and over. He spoke eagerly of his plans to make a public "coming out" announcement. Then he urged me to do the same.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You don't need to hide it," Brock said. "We live in a much more tolerant age. You don't need to deny who you are."
"There's one problem, Brock." I was getting a little miffed at all the who-I-am and who-you-are talk.
"What, your career? It won't change anything - I'm telling you, we live in a more tolerant age, particularly in our line of work--"
I cut him off. "That's not it, Brock." I'd had enough, and wanted to set the record straight.
"I'm not gay!" I shouted. I felt this bore repeating, so I said it again, in what I hoped was a less hysterical tone of voice.
"I'm not gay."
There was a long silence. I fumed. Brock's phone bill grew. Then he spoke.
"Okay..." he said, drawing the word out in what I considered to be a rather condescending tone. "Maybe you're not ready to accept this yet. That's okay. Take your time, but be honest with yourself. I'm sure you'll eventually get past the denial. I was hoping I could help you with that, by sharing with you. After all, you helped me grow so much--"
"I'm not gay!"
I was shouting again. My tolerance for psychological buzzwords is not high. Denial. Share. Grow. Gag.
"Honey, listen," he began. Brock Hastings was calling me honey - this had to be a dream.
Brock continued, "There's no way a man could kiss me the way you kissed me and not be gay. Nobody's that good an actor!"
Here I must make an admission. In the midst of all the consternation this phone call was causing me, Brock's latest proclamation caused a small stirring in a not-so-small part of me that I'm not terribly proud of: my ego. I'm sorry, but there isn't an actor alive that won't stop to bask in the glow of a rave review, and here was the ultimate accolade. I was being told my performance was completely convincing - high praise indeed - and this was coming from somebody who had already read the script!
So, for a split second, I basked. We actors are a vain lot - I've never claimed otherwise. But when that split second had elapsed, I snapped back to the crisis at hand. Collecting myself, I tried again.
"I'm not gay."
I used my most serious voice this time, the one I used when I told Heather that Bryce only had forty-eight hours to live, during my three-week stint as Dr. Tyler Shane on General Hospital - you may have seen it.
Brock sighed. "Okay," he said, "Obviously you're not ready to talk about it yet. But when you are, I'll be there for you."
Actors are prone to speaking in such clichés - it seems to be an occupational hazard that blurs the distinction between reciting lines and participating in actual spontaneous conversation. But I did not need Brock to be there for me, or here for me, or anywhere for me. I told him as much. Brock remained blissed out and unflappable, attempting to calm me down with a few more okay's.
Then he said, "And don't worry. I won't 'out' you - not if you're not ready. But I'm sure I'm not the first who's had their suspicions about you. I mean, in hindsight it's amazing I never saw the signs. You are pretty obvious, after all." The man had been gay for maybe three weeks, and had already adopted the universally held belief that gay men could always recognize their own kind. Some call this ability gaydar.
I hung up.
Several days later Brock made his announcement. The ripples were felt even in Sicily, where everyone on the set kept asking me "Did you know?" assuming I'd been in on Brock's secret from the start. I gave noncommittal answers and feigned indifference. I concentrated on my performance, and on trying to develop some onscreen chemistry with my Italian costar, whose love for garlic seemed to exceed her interest in oral hygiene. Don't let anybody tell you that kissing scenes are fun - there's always a catch.
Brock's announcement also served to generate an enormous buzz for "Staying After School." Months before the movie opened it was already a hot topic of discussion. This sort of advance publicity is invaluable, and Hollywood sat up and took notice. Producers began bandying about script ideas featuring a gay action hero; it seemed an entirely new genre was being developed to capitalize on Brock's newly adopted persona. Various other action stars suddenly had their own sexual preferences called into question. Were they gay? If not, were they willing to play a gay role?
I managed to avoid most of this wave until "Staying After School" opened. Then all bets were off. The movie opened big; the box-office figures were enormous. And there I was on the screen, bigger than life, my eyes glistening magnets that beckoned to man and woman alike. Or so they tell me.
Was I or wasn't I? Gay, that is. That was what everybody wanted to know, and some were willing to go to extraordinary lengths to find out. The press contacted my family, my ex-girlfriends, friends from high school, people that I didn't even know in high school. A couple of the gay ex-roommates were unearthed, casting further doubt. Despite anything I might say in interviews, opinion seemed equally divided. There were even several polls on the Internet, though none were conclusive.
I did not have a girlfriend at the time, and hadn't dated recently. I'd simply been too busy, caught up in the sudden rush of work I was getting. I quickly started randomly dating, but each date (they were all female, thank you) was quickly written off in the press as a "beard." Brock, meanwhile, was involved in a highly publicized relationship with his personal trainer, a hulking Swede whose name I could never pronounce. Nice guy, though, with a soft voice and a handshake that could crush walnuts. They seemed quite happy.
So, I escaped. I flew to Australia to begin work on a young-white-man-comes-of-age-among-the-Aborigines movie. I know, I know - I don't want to hear it. But the director was a legend, really, and I'd dreamed for years of working with him. Really. Also, my profile in Australia was much lower - I was a virtual unknown there, which was a great relief. I was thrilled to be able to avoid the scrutiny of the press, and concentrate on my work.
But every two weeks the outside world would intrude, in the form of a box delivered to my hotel in Sydney, forwarded from my agent in Hollywood. Inside I would find scripts he thought I might be interested in, and fan mail. Lots of fan mail.
I started getting fan mail a little over a year ago, after my first successful movie. (The eight or so not-so-successful movies I had been in previously had not generated so much as a post card.) Here again I must admit to some vanity. Fan mail was a novelty to me - it still is. I read every letter, and I keep them all. Again, I'm not sure how long I'll be in the spotlight. These letters are proof that for at least a moment, I was there.
The mail I received ran the gamut from highly flattering to deeply disturbing. It was not uncommon for women (some of them no more than young girls, really) to enclose pictures of themselves, often wearing a smile and nothing else. Some wrote highly detailed procedurals outlining what they'd like to do to me, with me, for me, or vice versa. You'd be amazed. Some were quite inventive and, I would think, anatomically challenging.
When "Staying After School" opened, my fan mail doubled. And a new variable was introduced. Now I began receiving the same kind of letters I've just described, but from men.
I did throw some of these letters away. I found the extremely lurid sexual fantasies a little hard to take, and I destroyed any nude photos that were enclosed. I don't want somebody finding a box of that kind of photos in my possession. There's just no way that would look good.
But I kept a lot of those letters, too. Many were from men - young and old alike - who were grappling with sexuality issues, and who had identified strongly with the Teddy character. I couldn't help but be moved by these deeply emotional messages. Some were beautifully articulated, while others were more awkward in their attempts to express their feelings. Many of these letters brimmed with hope. All of them were full of pain, either past or present. Several included photos, ranging from candid snapshots to school pictures. These were offered in friendship and gratitude, not sexual longing. I kept them.
The Australian picture wrapped early, and I flew home to Hollywood just in time for the Academy Awards. "Staying After School" was an across-the-boards contender: I'd been nominated for Best Actor, Brock for Best Supporting Actor, and the movie itself was up for Best Picture. I didn't think I'd win, but I wasn't about to miss the opportunity to attend the show.
We swept it. The movie won, Brock won, and I won. It's not an exaggeration to say that it was all a blur to me. I had no speech prepared, so I mumbled some incoherent words of thanks to the Academy and to the screenwriter, and walked off the stage lugging the surprisingly heavy statue. In contrast, Brock's acceptance speech lasted four minutes, and is now considered one of the pivotal moments in gay oratory (another genre with which I was not familiar).
Countless after-parties were held that night across Hollywood, and it seemed my attendance was expected at all of them. I went to two, then ducked out and paid somebody else's limo driver to take me home. I was a little drunk, and I wanted to avoid committing any social faux pas on this, my greatest night. Leave 'em on a high note, as the saying goes.
When I got home, I put the statue on my kitchen counter, shrugged off my jacket, and collapsed on the couch in my living room. A red light blinked on the VCR. I had set it to record the awards show, and it was still running. I pressed Stop and then Rewind on the remote control, and got up to brew a pot of coffee.
Yes, I admit it, I taped the show. Big movie stars probably aren't supposed to stoop to such small acts of vanity, but I think if you won an Academy Award, you'd want to have the moment caught on tape. And you'd feel silly asking your friends or relatives to tape it for you. Armed with a fresh cup of coffee, I sat down to watch.
I don't have to tell you, these shows go on forever. I soon found myself impatiently pressing the Fast Forward button, and watching as sequin-draped starlets and tuxedo-clad actors and moguls walked in jerky double-time to the stage to accept their awards, their words muted by the speeding tape. Every so often, commercials would flash by on the screen, interrupting the festivities with a word from our sponsors. I sipped my coffee and waited, wondering if my acceptance speech was going to be as awkward as I remembered it.
I had worn a new pair of tinted glasses to the show, which my optician had assured me would minimize the obvious thickness of my lenses. I was curious to see if he'd been telling the truth. If, as they say, the camera adds ten pounds, what would it do to my new specs? Such were the deep thoughts I was thinking after winning the biggest cinematic prize there is. Hey, I've already copped to the vanity thing - I'm not proud of it.
As the sped-up images raced by on the screen, something caught my eye. Twice during commercials they had shown the picture of a young man - a boy, really - about fifteen or sixteen years old. There was evidently going to be a story about this boy on the evening news after the Oscars.
Something about the boy struck me as familiar, but I couldn't think of anybody that age that I actually knew. My world was filled with actors, directors, producers, and agents. None of them had been sixteen in a long time, despite what their publicists might say. Curious, I pressed Rewind and backed the tape up to the last time the boy's image had been shown. I pressed Play.
"Coming up on Headline News immediately after the Academy Awards, a tragic story about a murder that police and local residents are calling a hate crime. Sixteen-year-old Paul Terry was beaten to death by several of his classmates today, apparently after he informed them that he was gay."
I hit Pause, freezing the image on the screen. Paul Terry wore a jacket and tie, and was posed against the familiar cloudy blue background found in all school pictures. But it was more than the background that made this photo seem familiar. It was his face, his timid smile. I had seen this picture. I owned a copy.
I hadn't finished unpacking from my Australian trip yet, and the latest box of fan mail was still in my suitcase, which lay open on my bed. Frantically I began riffling through the letters, feeling each envelope for the telltale thickness of an enclosed photograph. Each one I found I opened quickly, digging to pull out the photo, then discarding it and resuming my search. After a dozen or so false alarms, I saw the face I'd been looking for, but had hoped I wouldn't find. It was Paul Terry. Shit.
I sat down heavily on the bed, and unfolded the letter Paul had sent. It was one of the eloquent ones. It spoke of how "Staying After School" had inspired and encouraged him. Seeing the way my character had been able to talk to his father about his sexuality had given Paul the strength he needed to approach his own family and friends. "I feel as if I know you," Paul wrote. "Looking into your eyes, I can see the beauty of your soul. You inspired me, and gave me the courage I need to start my new life. Now I don't hate myself."
I dropped the letter and staggered to the bathroom, where I spent the next few minutes on my knees, vomiting in violent spasms.
Finally, empty and numb, I stood up and rinsed my mouth and washed my face. I went back to the living room couch, punching Fast Forward as I sat. The show went on (it must, mustn't it?), and eventually Brock walked up to make his speech, which took a long time even at double speed.
I almost missed my own acceptance speech, partly because I was distracted by the Headline News commercial that had preceded the presentation of the Best Actor award, and partly because my acceptance speech was so brief. I slowed the tape down to normal speed and watched myself once. It was as bad as I'd feared. And my optician had lied: I appeared to be wearing the goggles of a World War One flying ace. Oh well. I hit Fast Forward again, waiting for the news to come on.
The report was well done and informative. Paul was a promising high school student who had decided to take advantage of the increasing tolerance America was showing its gay youth, a movement many attributed to the popular acceptance and success of movies like "Staying After School." He had informed his family that he was gay last week. They had taken it well, and had frankly not been surprised by this announcement, according to his mother, a plump but pleasant looking woman who appeared briefly onscreen, choking back tears as she spoke.
Encouraged by his family's response, Paul took the opportunity during an oral book report he was presenting to inform his entire Sophomore English class that he was gay.
Paul's classmates were not as receptive. Three of them surrounded Paul after school, and a savage beating ensued that stopped only when Paul lay motionless on the ground. Paramedics were called, but Paul died in the ambulance five minutes before reaching the hospital. Two boys were in custody, their names withheld while a third boy was sought for questioning. All were minors.
I turned the TV off, and shuffled into the kitchen, opening the fridge. Inside was a bottle of champagne I had purchased long ago on a whim, in case I ever had something to celebrate. I grabbed the bottle, and after some fumbling I managed to open it with a loud pop. The cork projectile narrowly missed the Oscar where it stood, guarding the toaster. I found a champagne glass on a high shelf, and held it upside down and blew the dust out of it before filling it.
Then I turned and offered a toast to Mr. Oscar, my companion for the evening. Standing resolutely silent, the statue made no comments about my eyes, or my glasses, or the fact that I had become extremely famous for pretending to be somebody else for a great deal of money, or that the person I had pretended to be was probably responsible for the death of a sixteen-year-old boy. I admired the statue's restraint.
Looking into your eyes, I can see the beauty of your soul. You inspired me, and gave me the courage I need to start my new life, sixteen-year-old Paul Terry (who would never be seventeen) had written.
Now I don't hate myself.
Wish I could say the same.
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