"Who's the guy in the pool?" I asked. "He looks kind of familiar."
"That's Jack Wrangler," Brian answered. "Star of such fine films as New York Construction Company and Navy Blue ."
"Can't say that I know his work," I said. "I must have seen him at some party or other." "Did you ever see that Eleanor Powell show The Faith of Our Children on Sunday mornings when you were a kid?" Brian asked me. "You were probably only four or five when it was on, so you might have missed it." "Was that the one with the kid who always had some problem and solved it by praying?" I asked, reaching far back into my memory bank. "I kind of remember it. I saw it a couple of times when I wasn't in the mood for Winky-Dink and You ."
"Well, that kid is the fellow in the pool," Brian said. "Only then his name was John Stillman. And he was much smaller," he added dryly. "He's sure grown up," I said as Jack Wrangler put his hands on the pool deck and pushed himself out of the water. He walked toward the house, his muscular backside glistening and his feet leaving wet prints on the concrete.
Andy emerged from the sliding-glass doors, greeting Jack Wrangler as they passed one another and walking over to where Brian and I had positioned ourselves in the shade. He was wearing a small red bathing suit that only barely covered him and showed off nicely the tan he'd gotten during his two weeks in Palm Springs. He didn't even glance at the two men making love as he passed them.
"You boys having a good morning?" he asked as he pulled up a chair and sat next to me. "It's been very educational," I said. "Brian has been filling me in on who everybody is."
"He should know," Andy said. "He's been in the business longer than almost anyone."
Brian lowered his sunglasses and gave Andy a withering glance. "You make it sound like I invented it," he said.
"Didn't you?" Andy teased.
Brian sighed in mock exasperation. "Keep it up, darling, and I'll make sure to only film you from your bad side." "I don't have a bad side," said Andy.
Brian looked at me. "The sad thing is, he's right. He looks great on film."
I had yet to see one of Andy's films. He'd made three of them since his debut in Blueboy the year before. His scarred leg, far from being a detriment to his career, had been an asset, as the studio let it be known that he was a former soldier who had been injured in combat, turning him into an instant object of sexual longing. Now he was in Palm Springs to shoot another. He'd invited me and Jack along, but only I had accepted. Jack was too busy studying for finals of his first year of graduate school, where he was getting his master's in psychology. I still couldn't believe he'd found something he was good at besides sports or being popular, but he'd blossomed into quite the student. He was taking his classes very seriously, and had started to talk about becoming a therapist. I, meanwhile, continued to push papers for the VA. Although the work was easy and it paid reasonably well, it was wearing on me. The problems many of the Vietnam vets were experiencing had been linked to the use of Agent Orange as a defoliant in Southeast Asia, but the government was denying that the herbicide had any harmful effects. I was caught in the middle, between seeing for myself the various conditions the soldiers had and having to stand behind the military's official position. This was made even more difficult by the fact that Quan Loi had been among the areas most heavily sprayed with Agent Orange. Already I'd seen on the claims I processed the names of some of the men Andy and I had served with. Although neither myself nor Andy were experiencing any ill health, I'd begun to worry that, sooner or later, we might.
A trip to Palm Springs was exactly what I needed to relax. The mansion we were staying in belonged to the owner of the company Andy was making films for. It was used as a location for many of the films, and was always overrun with well-built and well-hung men. Andy was the newest addition to the stable, and his position as the new stud in the barn made him the subject of both desire and jealousy, both of which served to fuel his confidence.
"What time do we film this afternoon?" Andy asked Brian.
"Two," Brian said. "Which should be when most of your co-stars are waking up."
Brian Sugarman was the principal director for Kestrel Studios, one of the many companies producing gay porn in the 1970s. Unlike most of his contemporaries, however, Brian had actually gone to film school at UCLA. Since graduating in 1967, he'd made a handful of small pictures which had earned him critical notice but failed to land him larger, more commercial projects. When a friend had suggested porn as a way to make money until something better came along, Brian had reluctantly agreed. Now, at 34, he was financially well ahead of his film school peers. Porn had turned out to be a goldmine, and with his attention to detail and ability to make even the sleaziest scene look like high art, Brian was both rich and respected. The only problem was that he hated doing it.
I'd met Brian at a Christmas party thrown by the owner of Kestrel Studios. Attending with Andy, I was overawed, not to mention intimidated, by the roomful of gorgeous men. As Andy mingled, I stood by the cheese table, nervously eating crackers and watching a line of giddy revelers waiting to be photographed sitting on the lap of hunky Al Parker, who wore only a Santa hat and black leather boots. Brian, coming over for a piece of Gouda, introduced himself to me by saying, "He looks butch, but if he was one of Rudolph's reindeer pals, he'd be Prancer."
We'd spent the rest of the evening together, Brian dishing the dirt on all the porn stars and their assorted hangers-on. It wasn't until he'd asked me to dinner and I'd accepted that I found out he worked for the studio, and only when we were in bed afterward that I'd found out he knew so much about the actors because he directed them. We began dating, and within a month were a couple. Brian was eight years my senior, which I found exciting in the way that only a soon-to-be-26-year-old with a 34-year-old boyfriend can. Although I had been to war, he seemed to me to be much more experienced. I loved to listen to him talk about film, describing the movies he wanted to make. At night, in bed, he sketched them out for me, filling my head with images and weaving stories that held me spellbound with their beauty and daring. When I asked why he didn't try to interest a real studio in them, though, he always said no one in Hollywood would ever let him make films his way.
The Palm Springs shoot, in May of 1976, was the first one I attended. Brian hadn't been keen on the idea of me watching him direct, but Andy had worked on him, and finally he'd relented and said I could come. I could tell he still wasn't completely thrilled about it, though I didn't understand why.
"I'm going to go get ready," Andy said, standing up. "I'll see you in half an hour." "Don't come before then!" Brian ordered as Andy walked away. "I mean it. I want you to have a full load for the money shot. So hands—and mouths—off."
When Andy was gone I decided to bring up the topic of Brian's reluctance to let me watch him. "Is it that I'll be in the way?" I asked. Brian shook his head. "It's just embarrassing," he said. "Telling a guy where to stick his cock and how hard to pump it isn't exactly directing Dustin Hoffman to emote."
"That's what you're worried about?" I said. "You shouldn't be embarrassed. You make great movies."
Brian laughed. "Well,Mandate did give The Harder They Ride four stars," he said. "I guess that's as good as having an Oscar on my mantel."
"You'll get your Oscar," I told him.
"Sure I will," he said. "But first I have to go make Sticky Fingers . Are you sure you want to see this?"
"And miss the chance to see a master in action?" I said. "No way." We went into the house. The crew, busy since early morning, had set up in an upstairs bedroom. Lights were rigged around the bed, and the camera situated at the foot of it to catch all the action that would soon be taking place on top of the sheets. The set bustled with activity as the dozen or so people needed to film the scene went about their jobs.
"Are the guys ready?" Brian asked a young man who was running around with a jar of baby oil in his hand.
"They're getting fluffed," he said. "I'll go get them." "Good," Brian said. "We should be ready to shoot a
s soon as they get here." He turned to me. "Stand over there," he said, pointing to an area between the room's doorway and its closet. "That way you'll see everything but you won't be in the way."
I did as he suggested, leaning against the wall while everyone attended to their tasks. A few minutes later, Andy and another man walked into the room. Andy was dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck. The other man, a well-built blond, was wearing a white bathrobe.
"Okay," Brian said. "Let's make a movie. Here's the scene. Andy's a thief. Hence the name Sticky Fingers . Scotty, you're the owner of this place. You walk in and find Andy robbing you. You have a confrontation, you fuck. You guys know your lines?"
Andy and Scotty nodded.
"Good. Scotty, is your ass lubed?"
"Yep," Scotty answered. "I'm all set."
"All right then," Brian said, clapping his hands together. "Let's have some action."
Andy went to the dresser situated on the wall across from me. He pulled open a drawer and began riffling through it, as if he was searching for valuables hidden among the socks and underwear. After thirty seconds or so, Scotty entered the room from the hallway. He looked at Andy, as yet unaware of his presence, and called out, "What do you think you're doing?"
Andy turned, a jockstrap in his hand. "Hey, man," he said. "It's not what it looks like." "Don't move," Scotty said, trying to convey authority but sounding wooden. "I'm calling the cops."
"No," Andy said. "Come on. Isn't there some other way we can handle this?" Scotty walked over to him and put his hand on his crotch. "Maybe there is," he said. From there the scene progressed predictably. Andy opened Scotty's robe and stroked him with his gloved hand. After Scotty dropped to his knees and worked Andy to hardness with his mouth, the two of them moved to the bed, where they proceeded to fuck. As Andy was bucking his hips against Scotty's ass, Brian turned and motioned for me to come to him.
"Want to see what I see?" he whispered, nodding at the camera. I bent and looked. In the small rectangle of the camera's viewfinder, Scotty's ass was in close-up. Andy's cock moved in and out of it, every hair on his balls visible in detail. I could see the slickness of the lube on his shaft, and the red lips of Scotty's asshole as they were repeatedly pushed in and pulled back again. It was like they were making love under a microscope, and watching it felt just as clinical as observing a sperm work its way through the zona of the egg it wants to fertilize.
"Okay, Andy," Brian directed as he pulled me back and took my place. "I want you to pull out and shoot all over his balls and asshole." Andy did it, jerking himself off and spraying Scotty with thick ropes of cum. Scotty tried to respond in kind, furiously pulling on his own dick, but after a minute went by without ejaculation, Brian motioned at a man standing behind us. The man went to the bed and stood out of camera range holding a plastic bag from which a tube extended.
"Okay, Scotty," Brian said. "Let's see your O-face." Scotty, who had stopped playing with himself, mimed orgasm, closing his eyes, baring his teeth, and moaning repeatedly. As he did, the man off camera squeezed the bag in his hand. A burst of fluid flew from the end of the tube and spattered all over Scotty's chest and neck. It was followed by another, then a third, until Scotty's torso was dripping with what looked like the world's biggest load.
"And cut," Brian called out.
Someone ran over and began toweling Scotty off while Andy hopped off the bed and came over to us.
"What was that stuff?" I asked him, nodding at Scotty.
Andy ran a finger over his abdomen, which was also covered in some of the fake jism. He lifted it to my lips and inserted it before I could stop him. The taste was sickly sweet.
"Pina colada mix," he said.
"We used to use hand lotion for the pop shots," Brian said. "But it looked fake. Plus, this tastes better." Andy went to get cleaned up while I stayed with Brian. The crew was already moving equipment out of the room to set up in another location. Scotty, finally wiped down, was putting on his bathrobe.
"Scotty," Brian said. "What's with the shooting blanks?"
"Sorry," Scotty said. "I guess I just wasn't that into it."
"Are you doing coke?" asked Brian.
Scotty shook his head.
"All right," Brian said doubtfully. "Next time you give me a load or I'll have to replace you. Guys don't like it when I don't show the spunk coming straight from the source." Scotty nodded and left. When he was gone, Brian said, "Like hell he's not on coke. Andy almost drilled him a new asshole and he didn't blink an eye. That shit's going to kill this industry. Make sure Andy doesn't get into it."
"I don't know," I said. "If there's something to try, Andy's pretty much guaranteed to try it."
"Then he won't be around long," said Brian. "Guys who get fucked up can't fuck. He's a nice kid. I'd like to see him live through this."
"You make it sound like the war," I joked. "I'm sorry," Brian said. "Sometimes I just get overprotective. Look, why don't you go hang out by the pool and we'll have dinner in town tonight, just the two of us. We'll go to Melvyn's at the Ingleside. It's unbelievable. The waiters wear white jackets and they make a steak Diane right at your table."
"Sounds great," I said, kissing him. "It's a date." I went back to the pool and stretched out in a lounge chair. Picking up the newspaper Brian had left behind, I started reading the piece he'd raved about. Armistead Maupin's tale about a 25-year-old girl moving to San Francisco and starting a new life reminded me of my own, and when he introduced her friend Connie, a man-hungry stewardess who promised to shake up Mary Ann's world, I couldn't help but think of Andy. By the end of that first installment, I couldn't wait to see what life had in store for Mary Ann Singleton. If her life was anything like what mine was turning out to be, I thought, Maupin's story was going to be one wild ride.
CHAPTER 37
"I can't believe you made me come," Jack said testily. "For Christ's sake, it's only a movie ." "Yeah," said Andy. "But it's the best fucking movie ever ."
"He's right," I agreed. "Trust me, you'll thank us when it's over."
The line outside the Coronet Theatre stretched down Geary Boulevard for nearly five blocks. Fortunately, we'd arrived early, and were sure to get in to the seven-fifteen showing of what was fast turning into not just the biggest movie of the summer, but the biggest movie ever. Since its opening on the Wednesday before Labor Day, Star Wars had become a phenomenon, with sold-out shows and enthusiastic fans coming back over and over. Just two weeks later, some of the people in line with us were dressed as their favorite characters.
"You love movies," I reminded Jack.
"I like passing my finals more," he said.
"You'll be fine," I said. "You've been studying for weeks. Think of this as an end-of-school celebration."
"Sorry I'm late." Brian joined us in line, eliciting disapproving frowns and a few audible protests from people behind us, all of which he ignored. "The dubbing session ran late." "They roped you into this, too, huh?" said Jack. "Hell no," replied Brian. "This is the third time I've seen it. I'm already thinking of doing a porn version. I want to call it Stud Wars . Or maybe Star Whores is better, but that sounds like a straight flick."
"I want to play Darth Vader," Andy said. "We can do a really hot leather scene between him and Luke."
"How about between Darth and Chewbacca," I suggested. "You can get some bear to play him and you won't even need a costume."
The line began to move, to applause from those in the front, and we filed slowly into the theater. We were close enough to the front that we were able to find four seats together with no problem. Jack sat between me and Andy, and Brian sat to my left. Jack continued to bitch about the fact that we'd dragged him away from his books until the lights dimmed and the movie began. As the opening text scrolled up the screen, he shut up and settled into grudging silence.
Two hours later, he walked out a believer, mostly in the inherent humpiness of Harrison Ford. "Did you see the way he handled the Millennium Falcon ?" he rav
ed. "That man is hot . If I was Leah, I'd stop playing hard to get and let those buns down."
"Looks like someone will be seeing it again," Brian remarked as we walked to his car. Twenty minutes later, we were in the Elephant Walk, waiting for the bartender to get our drinks. Even on a Tuesday night it was busy, and we recognized many of the men out enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. One of them, a dark-haired man with large ears and big, dark eyes that made him look both sad and kind at the same time, detached himself from a group and came over to us.
"Hey, Harvey," Brian said. "How's the Mayor of Castro Street tonight?" "Did you hear what happened in Miami today?" Harvey asked. "They overturned the gay rights ordinance. And it's all thanks to Anita Bryant. You know what she said?" He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read from it. "‘In victory, we shall not be vindictive. We shall continue to seek help and change for homosexuals, whose sick and sad values belie the word gay which they pathetically use to cover their unhappy lives.'" He folded the paper up and tucked it away. "I saw it on the news and wrote it down so I'd be sure to get it right."
"I'm not surprised," I said. "Isn't this the same woman who said that if they gave rights to gays they'd have to give them to prostitutes and people who sleep with St. Bernards?" "And nail biters," Harvey added. "The woman's a menace. We have to do something about her." "Like what?" Andy asked him.
"Like this, for a start," Harvey answered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handful of buttons. He handed us each one. The front was orange and featured the words NO MORE ORANGE JUICE FROM THE UN -SHINE STATE, a reference to Bryant's job as a spokesperson for Florida's juice industry. "A friend of mine is making these," Harvey said. "We're going to boycott the orange juice guys like we boycotted Coors."
"Do you ever stop thinking about politics?" Brian said. "Only when I'm having sex," replied Harvey. "And even then, I'm thinking about how Jimmy Carter is screwing us. Do you know he has a policy of never being photographed with a homosexual?"
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