Italy did have its share of amateur bodybuilders and physique fans. Eric was occasionally recognized, and guys would come up to him and ask him for his autograph. These admirers of his were invariably male, although they might have their wives or their girlfriends in tow. The women tended to stand there, looking bored, while their men engaged Eric in animated conversations. At that time, a certain conservatism still prevailed in Roman society, and no respectable woman would accost a man in the street.
But when it came to the kind of women who weren’t all that respectable, all bets were off. Eric and I were seated at a little table under an umbrella in a sidewalk café one afternoon, having coffee and people watching, when a couple of girls about our own age came sauntering along the sidewalk toward us. They were obviously streetwalkers—donne di giro was a polite Italian slang term for them. They teetered on high spike heels, and they wore tight skirts, tight blouses, gaudy jewelry, too much makeup, and big sprayed hair. Underneath all this camouflage, they looked like reasonably attractive girls.
They paused beside our table and made no secret of the fact that they were staring at us. We smiled at them, which was more encouragement than they probably needed.
“Look, Elena,” one of the girls said to her companion in a stage whisper—and in very good English. “Two big, strong American men.”
Eric wasn’t shy, under any circumstances. And so he spoke right up. “Now, how could you possibly know we’re Americans?” he asked.
“That’s easy,” the girl replied. “Your shoes, your wristwatches—everything about you.”
It occurred to me that, in her line of work, she was adept at sizing up men at first glance. She knew a foreigner, and a tourist, when she saw one.
“Why don’t you young ladies sit down and let us buy you a drink?” Eric suggested.
They accepted the offer—no surprise there!
The girl who had spoken first was named Marietta.
After a little polite small talk, it didn’t take long for her and Elena to get to the point. It was such a hot afternoon, they told us. By a remarkable coincidence, they had a room not far from the café. Perhaps we would like to go there and lie down for an hour or two? It could be very relaxing. And it need not be very expensive. The four of us could form two pairs, and then, for the sake of variety, we could change partners. It could be very stimulating to be in the same room with another couple, with all four persons making love.
“It does sound interesting,” I conceded. “But I’m afraid we have another engagement.”
“Break it,” Elena urged. “You won’t be sorry.”
“We’re athletes, and our trainer doesn’t allow us to have sex,” Eric fibbed.
The girls were incredulous. “Not ever?” Marietta asked.
“Not without his permission. You see, every time we have sex, we lose a little testosterone. And we have to store it up inside us, to keep our bodies looking like this.” I don’t know where Eric came up with this piece of medical misinformation. I imagine he invented it, right there on the spot.
I played along with him. “Yes,” I said. “One good orgasm, and I’d deflate like a balloon with a pin stuck it in. All my muscles, which you see here, would be gone.”
Marietta was skeptical. “I don’t believe it!”
“One good orgasm never hurt anyone,” Elena said. “And if one is good, two are better.”
“Tell me,” Marietta said. “Is it true that the bigger a man’s muscles are, the smaller his penis is?”
“Everything about me is big, baby,” Eric assured her. “Big and hard.”
“That’s what all men say,” Marietta retorted, with a professional’s cynicism, “until they take their trousers down. Then it can be a different story.”
Elena leaned toward me, with a sultry smile on her scarlet-painted lips. “And you, bello? Are you like your friend? Are you big and hard, too—everywhere?”
“I’m just average.”
This claim on my part made both girls giggle.
“He’s modest!” Marietta exclaimed. “How unusual in a man—and how refreshing.”
“He’s a liar,” Eric said. “He’s got plenty, and he knows what to do with it.”
This seemed to intrigue Elena. She put her hand on my knee and gave it a squeeze. Then she slid her hand higher, onto my thigh, and squeezed it as well. “Oh, Madonna!” she exclaimed. “What strong legs you have! I can’t even press my fingertips into the muscle. Listen, caro,” she purred. “I don’t care how small your cock is. I know how to make it stand up and crow!”
I didn’t doubt it.
“Some other time, ladies,” I pleaded.
The girls were good sports. They gave us a phone number, for future reference should we change our minds. Then they left, sashaying down the sidewalk in search of less tight-fisted (and straight) men. After all, they’d gotten free drinks out of our encounter.
“That was a narrow escape,” I told Eric.
He laughed. “Maybe we should’ve taken them up on their offer. It might’ve been an interesting experience.”
“You’re oversexed.”
“I don’t deny it. Which reminds me. Don’t wait up for me tonight. I’ll probably spend the night at Maurizio’s place?”
“Again? I ought to sublet your half of the hotel room.”
“Feel free to entertain somebody there in my absence. So tell me, Gino. If you had your choice and you could fuck anybody at the studio, who would it be?”
“That’s easy. It’d have to be—”
“No, let me guess. Alain Camargue.”
“Shit! Is it that obvious?”
“What, that you’ve got a crush on him? Don’t worry. Most people would mistake it for hero worship. But I know you better. So make your play for the dude, already.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“I don’t see why not. You were never shy about such things back in the States.”
I was developing a crush on Alain. This was understandable. He was attractive, he was interesting, and he took an interest in me.
I knew nothing about his personal life, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking him about it. So I took a roundabout approach. I suspected that some of the guys on the film crew could enlighten me, and I was correct. They kept up on all of the current show business gossip.
Back home in Paris, Alain had a wife and two small children. Supposedly, Alain swung both ways, although discreetly. And so did his wife! They had an open marriage. Husband and wife were both free to amuse themselves with lovers on the side—gay or bisexual men, in Alain’s case, and lesbian or bisexual women, in his wife’s.
Remember, I was a nice Catholic boy from New Jersey. I was stunned to learn that such things went on! The revelation seemed to confirm everything I’d ever heard or suspected about lax European morals. Europeans in general, and the French in particular, were nothing short of sex fiends.
When I repeated what I’d found out to Eric, he was neither surprised nor shocked.
“What’d you expect?” he asked. “After all, they’re French! They’re the sons of bitches who practically invented sex. Of course they’re promiscuous. Dirty bastards!”
I didn’t think I had any chance of tricking with Alain. And so, once I got settled into a routine and I realized that there was no reason for me to remain celibate, I did embark upon an affair. With none other than Ettore, our sword master.
Ettore was extremely macho, and I don’t think he thought of himself as homosexual. He preferred women; but he was the open-minded type who could also enjoy fucking another man. Because I was perfectly willing to allow him unrestricted access to my ass, we were well suited to each other. He reminded me, in fact, of my old fuck buddy Renzo. Ettore and I were basically friends, who frequently took time out to screw each other silly—after which, we immediately went back to being friends again. It was an arrangement which served our sexual needs well.
Back in those days, at least in the Italian studios, post-pr
oduction wasn’t necessarily a lengthy or complicated process. It wasn’t uncommon for a movie to be screened in theaters only a few months after the end of the shoot.
When the studio heads were shown a very rough cut of our picture, they decided they liked Eric’s work. They also decided to take a chance. Without waiting to see how audiences would react to Tito Manlio, they offered Eric a three-picture contract, to star in two more sword and sandal epics, and also in a spaghetti western. (Of course, that wasn’t the terminology they used—the three film projects were identified in the contract only by tentative working titles.)
It was the kind of deal that you’d think a young man like Eric would’ve jumped at. To everybody’s surprise, including mine, he turned it down, flat.
The truth was that Eric wasn’t cut out to live and work in a foreign country. He was homesick. All he really wanted to do was get back home and resume his bodybuilding career. So far as he was concerned, our Italia adventure had interrupted his training and competition schedule. Now, he was impatient to get back on track.
“This moviemaking nonsense—it’s not for me,” he told me, succinctly. “Who do I think I’m kidding? I’m no actor. I’ve had my shot at it. Once is enough.”
I think the studio heads were more than a little miffed by Eric’s rejection of their offer. He was un ingrato, an ingrate. Some sort of urgent, last-minute discussions took place behind closed doors. I later confirmed what I only suspected at the time—namely, that both Ludovico and Alain, whose opinions the studio guys respected, were consulted. They were asked to help come up with a list of possible replacements for Eric, and they were asked specifically what they thought about me. Both men said they’d enjoyed working with me, and that I showed promise. They told the studio heads that they could do a lot worse than give me a chance to appear in another film. In another supporting role, of course.
The big shots rolled the dice, and they decided to take an even bigger gamble. They offered me the same contract they’d drawn up for Eric—except that they offered me a lot less money. And who could blame them? Compared to Eric, I was a nobody.
Nonetheless, I was stunned. This was a development I couldn’t have anticipated in my wildest dreams.
When I told Eric what had happened, he immediately demonstrated just how loyal a friend he was. Sure, he’d turned the studio down. But any other guy in his position might have resented the fact that they were so quick to turn to someone else. If he had any second thoughts, he didn’t show them. Instead, he seemed thrilled for me.
The only thing that annoyed Eric was that I was being offered less money. He placed a long-distance call to Daniel. When we finally got my “agent” on the line and explained the situation to him, he advised me to call the studio’s bluff. I should ask them for the same amount of money they’d been willing to give Eric.
I couldn’t make up my mind whether or not to take this advice. Hell, I still hadn’t made up my mind whether or not I wanted to stay in Italy and make three more movies! There was, admittedly, nothing much waiting for me back home—at least, nothing in the way of job opportunities. But it seemed that by embarking upon a career as an actor, I’d be taking a big risk, and setting myself up for possible failure.
Feeling like a gambling addict who was betting everything he had on a single throw, I told the studio gentlemen what I wanted. They seemed to be taken aback. They whispered among themselves for a moment—the longest moment of my life—and then, to my amazement, they caved in. They agreed to my (or rather, to Daniel’s) financial terms. When the contract was retyped with the new monetary figures inserted, I couldn’t grab a pen and sign all of the copies quickly enough.
As a certain famous ancient Roman so memorably put it, iacta alea est—the die was cast.
Chapter Nine: The Whore of Babylon
Eric went back to the United States, and I stayed in Rome and began my new career. The studio didn’t waste any time. Barely a fortnight elapsed before I found myself back in front of the cameras.
This first film which I did under my new contract was titled Il Gladiatore di Babilonia, or The Gladiator of Babylon. The notion that the ancient Babylonians, or Assyrians, even had such things as gladiators was news to me. But historical accuracy wasn’t exactly this project’s strong point.
Unlike Tito Manlio, this script wasn’t based on a respected literary source—and believe me, it showed.
My character, whose name was Ushar, was a sort of bargain-basement version of Spartacus. I’d been a hot-shot warrior, before my people were defeated and enslaved by the Babylonians. Unfortunately, I didn’t make a very good slave. I was constantly defying my masters, and inciting my fellow slaves to resist, too.
The king of Babylon had a counselor named Gidri, who was a nasty piece of work. Gidri was plotting to assassinate the king and seize his throne. Gidri tried to recruit me to do his dirty work for him, promising me my freedom and a heap of gold if, some night, I’d wring the necks of a few palace bodyguards, sneak into the royal bedchamber, and stab the king in the back. Naturally, being the noble type, I refused—with a great show of righteous indignation.
Now, of course, Gidri had to get rid of me, to keep my mouth shut. He had another reason to want me dead. He had the hots for my girlfriend, Minussa, who was also a slave, working in the palace.
Gidri decided that the easiest way to have me killed would be to force me to fight as a gladiator. But his plan backfired. As a soldier, I had a certain advantage when it came to hand-to-hand combat. Instead of being killed by one of my opponents in the arena, I kept winning, and surviving—and, even worse from Gidri’s point of view, I became popular with the Babylonian rabble, who idolized their gladiators.
So, while Gidri kept plotting to kill the king, and went right on sexually harassing Minussa and trying to persuade her to submit to him, I kept fomenting rebellion. Spoiler alert: in the big finale, my fellow gladiators and I break out of our quarters, join forces with the king’s loyal bodyguards, and save his life. Gidri gets a well-deserved spear thrust in the guts, and I get the girl. The grateful king also gives me my freedom and a job as a general in his army.
This time, I worked with a different director. He was a pleasant, laid-back Italian gentleman—completely unlike Ludovico, in other words. This director never allowed anything to upset him, and he seemed to think of himself as basically a traffic cop. He told us where to stand, when and where to move, and which hand to gesticulate with. It wasn’t inspiring—hell, it wasn’t even particularly interesting—but it was efficient. He got the job done. The production was wrapped up a few days ahead of schedule, which kept the cost accountants happy.
I did find myself working again with Alain, to my delight. He was a great favorite with the studio executives, who signed him up whenever possible.
Alain said that this movie should have been titled The Whore of Babylon, and not just because it proved that we actors would do anything for money.
This time, Alain played the villain, Gidri. He was given a makeup job to lend him a more sinister look, complete with a bristling mustache and enhanced eyebrows. The result was a vague resemblance to Fu Manchu. Alain was also decked out in an array of incredible costumes, each of which was more elaborate and “over the top” than the one before it. He was draped in ankle-length robes of patterned and pleated silks, with long-fringed shawls thrown over them, and he was loaded down with a lot of oversized jewelry. He looked like an extremely macho drag queen.
I have to give Alain credit—instead of throwing a hissy fit and demanding that the makeup and costume departments tone down his character’s look, he got into the spirit of the thing. The role required him to do a lot of scheming, sneering, and fuming, and Alain certainly delivered the goods. It’s not every actor who can convincingly deliver such lines as “At dawn the white-hot irons will sear your filthy slave flesh from your bones!” or “I can see the fear and disgust in your eyes, my virginal beauty—and your hatred excites me.” (These gems were addressed to me
and to the heroine, respectively.)
My costumes, by contrast, presented me with few difficulties. Perhaps in acknowledgement of the fact that this wasn’t the most highbrow production imaginable, the costume designer decided to jack up the beefcake quotient. I spent virtually the entire movie half-naked. I think I was bare-chested in every single scene, with one or two exceptions during which I draped my torso in a sleeveless tunic for a total of a few minutes. I joked to Alain that in this movie I had two loyal costars who shared every single one of my scenes with me—namely, my left and right pecs. This time, I didn’t even have to get the costume department to sew weights inside the hem of my cloak, because I wasn’t given one to wear.
Actually, my experiences during the making of Tito Manlio now stood me in good stead. I felt more comfortable in the inevitable man skirts, and I really enjoyed wearing my gladiatorial gear. I thought it made me look very butch.
The Gladiator of Babylon may not be a great movie, but it’s entertaining enough in its modest way. It’s one of those sword and sandal films that gay men get a big kick out of, not only because of the camp element and all the beefcake on display; but because my character, Ushar, is continually being stripped down, tied up, and either whipped, or threatened with various tortures.
In one classic dungeon scene, I’m naked except for a tiny, grimy loincloth, with my arms raised above my head and my wrists bound by a rope to a ring fixed into the wall. A big sweaty brute of a torturer, also practically nude, is getting ready to work me over with a very large and nasty-looking bullwhip. But Alain, as Gidri, sashays down the stone steps into the dungeon to supervise the proceedings. He tells the torturer to stand aside, because he wants to have the pleasure of whipping me himself.
For the job, Alain pulls out from the folds of his robe an incongruously tiny, delicate-looking whip with an ivory handle. He begins to deploy it upon my face, my chest, and my thighs. As he lashes me, I writhe, straining to vain to break free of my bonds. My teeth-gritting, snarling, and squirming suggest that it hurts. A lot!
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