Hollywood Flames

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  Holy roller Fred was a real piece of work. He’d get up out of bed after we had sex and sequester himself inside the bathroom for what seemed like hours. I didn’t think much of it until one night I got up and heard his strange mumbling. I opened the door and found him sitting lotus-like on the floor, palms turned upward, closed eyes dripping with tears, praying to the Lord to forgive him for being the sinning sodomite that he was.

  Mild-mannered Jevon turned out to be not so mild-mannered. I’ve been known to have a rather wicked tongue and one could expect a good tongue lashing if I’m riled. Well I certainly didn’t expect Jevon to smack me upside my head just for calling him everything but a child of God. No matter how violent my mouth is, I am completely non-violent, domestic and otherwise. I called the police on his ass and while he was cooling it in overnight lock-up, I got a restraining order, moved all his shit out to his sister’s, changed the locks and was never in contact with him again. I mean, you can spank me but you can’t hit me.

  I really thought I had found my own private piece of heaven when I met Demetrius. Not only did he have the personality of a saint, but he was intellectual, witty, drop-dead gorgeous and the best sex this side of a porn star. That was the problem. He was a porn star. I didn’t find out until I happened to be browsing videos in a Castro District sex shop, and there he was on the cover taking triple X dick like he was taking a nap. Now I have nothing against porn stars, I just don’t want to be in a relationship with one.

  And of course, there was Hollywood Sean, the actor, my last romantic debacle. I went to surprise him in Germany where he was shooting a film with Denzel Washington and Brad Pitt, only to get the surprise myself when I walked in on him getting his cookies done by Brad Pitt’s stand-in.

  So when Étie entered my life and our relationship went beyond the six-month milestone, I knew my losing streak was over and my poor mother would finally be able to exhale.

  “You know something, Junie? Your daddy would be so happy for you and Étie. In fact, I think I hear him singing.” She said that so often, it became her theme song.

  Étie, like the spouses of my other siblings, simply became another one of Mrs. Anjenette Templeton’s children, and she was to Étie the mother he never knew.

  And oh yes, she knew about the marital arrangement we had with Frankie, and wasn’t a bit surprised when Frankie and I sat her down and told her about it. Although the old bra-burning, afro-wearing, student-protesting sensibility of her youth had been mellowed by motherhood and general satisfaction with her idyllic life, that conspiratorial sparkle in Mother’s eyes and the proudly mischievous smirk on her face as she patted my hand spoke volumes. Although the flame of radical thinking and fierce liberalism was not as bright, the sparks were still present and hot to trot.

  “Son, you do what you have to do,” she counseled me. “Just like Malcolm said, by any means necessary. Being with the one you love is your civil right.”

  She also cautioned us not to discuss our situation with too many others. I couldn’t help but think this was something Frankie should have realized earlier, before she detailed her nuptials to Sylvester Winfrey. But that’s water under the bridge.

  Even family was on a need-to-know basis, according to Mom. “Loose lips sink ships,” she carefully pointed out, reminding us that our big, proud, loud tribe liked to spread good news like Oprah on one of her “My Favorite Things” segments.

  So this lie by omission, endorsed by my mother, would have to be seriously maintained during the two years of Étie’s immigration probation. He would stay quietly married to Frankie, unbeknownst to those who knew the three of us. And for the benefit of those whose knowledge of the marriage was as cursory as their acquaintance with the couple—Frankie’s nosy neighbor across the street, her mailman, the building’s gardener and pool man—Étie made routine appearances at Frankie’s place. He would lie up by the pool with her often, bring in the mail and take out the garbage. Frankie even had her building’s management company put Étie’s name on the lease. It all seemed so Machiavellian, and yet we all knew—Étie, Frankie, Mom and me—that this was what we had to do.

  Marriage, without the intrigue of our attended deeds and actions, is a rather precarious institution in Hollywood anyway. More often than not, spouses don’t take the last name of their betrothed. And though the proliferation of blogs, search engines and Perez Hilton-type electronic rags make it harder for celebrities to keep their marriages—or anything else for that matter—under wraps, a lesser celebrity like Frankie could slip under the radar quite easily. She was still just a working actress, albeit a successful one. People knew her face, if not her name. She easily pulled down an annual six-figure income.

  But there weren’t a lot of gushing Barbie doll entertainment reporters thrusting microphones in her face waiting for her to explain the hot Latin hunk on her arm. She didn’t witness the “Entertainment Tonight-Access Hollywood-TMZ” hoopla from a red carpet vantage point. She experienced it just like the rest of us, in rollers and a bathrobe sipping Diet Coke instead of champagne in her living room, perched in front of her big-screen TV. In fact, as an industry photographer, I experienced a lot more frontline red carpet action than she did.

  That being said, there were times when she enlisted Étie’s arm-candy services. That way, if she met some hot piece of Tinsel Town testosterone at some Hollywood shindig, which she usually did, she could hook up without heart-breaking her date.

  Étie found these ritualistic charades absolutely hysterical, and couldn’t wait to get back home and describe the three-ring circus of activities to me.

  As I listened to his gushing regales, I realized that something strange and not so strange was beginning to happen to him and me. He began returning home from these parties with business cards and phone numbers from producers, directors, casting directors and agents. They all seemed eager to help launch him into a modeling and/or acting career. I suspected they all seemed eager to help launch him out of his pants.

  I should not have been surprised. After all, my baby is as drop-dead gorgeous as he is loving and charismatic. Who wouldn’t want to work him, on or off screen? My God, my own sister tried to have him.

  Nor was I surprised by the slight twinge I was beginning to experience, one I was well aware of and would have to address in a mature way. Étie attracted admirers effortlessly and without any pointed attempt, and if his natural sex appeal was turning Hollywood heads and could possibly lead to a wonderful career opportunity for him, then I should be thrilled for him, which I was.

  Still, there was the matter of this twinge. And it was time for me to call it by its name. It was the beast that dare not speak its name.

  Jealousy.

  Chapter Three

  “Yo Étienne, it’s Hardy, man. I met you at Tichina Arnold’s party last night. Remember? Well, maybe not…”

  I recognized the voice right away. It was Hardy Ferrell, the hunky heartthrob who had a recurring role as a womanizing undercover cop on the new TBS series Precinct Ten.

  “How he get my number?” Étie asked, eyes widened with annoyed confusion. He had handed me his phone so I could hear the tawdry message. “I no give it to him, Papi. And I know Francesca no give to him. How he get it?”

  “You came with Frankie Templeton,” the oily voice continued to singe my ear. “She introduced us, but we didn’t get a chance to talk much after that. Ah, listen, straight out…you are fine as fuck. I’m gettin’ a boner just thinking about you. I gotta piece of ass over here with your name on it. Hit me back so you can claim it. Holla.”

  The message ended. I handed Étie back his phone. I tried a small dismissive smile. I don’t think it was very convincing, at least not to me.

  “I see him look at me,” Étie fussed. “But I say nothing more to him. I could see what he was saying in his look.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What?”

  “When you got home last night.”

  “What was there to t
ell? Men look at me all the time. You know that. Just like men look at you.”

  “Not the way they look at you, Étie.”

  “Yes they do. You just no pay attention. I no pay attention either. But his look was unavoidable. I ignore him. I do not think of him. But now he call me.”

  “I see.”

  “So how you think he get my number?”

  “This is Hollywood, baby. People in this business have all kinds of ways.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “So why you have this strange look on your face?”

  “Do I?”

  “I need call him and tell him to fuck off.”

  “No, Étie, don’t do that. It’s no big deal.”

  So if it wasn’t such a big deal, why was I feeling the way I was feeling? Men did look at Étie all the time. It was just a matter of time before somebody was going to try to take it a step further.

  And Étie was right. Men looked at me too. I mean, I’m certainly not hard on the eyes, and I’m not blind to my looks or the glances they sometimes draw, glances that don’t seem to bother Étie. Maybe it doesn’t bother Étie because none of these knuckleheads looking at me are blowing up my phone.

  Jealousy.

  * * * * *

  “You’re fucking shitting me!” Frankie blurted out a bit too loudly over lunch at The Ivy when I told her about Hardy’s call. Even Tracey Edmonds, two tables over, had to look up. “You know I’ve been trying to get some of that Hardy Ferrell dick for days?”

  “No, Frankie. I didn’t know.”

  “We even have the same agent and I still couldn’t hook it up. Well now I know why,” she laughed. “Damn. I really gotta do something about my gaydar.”

  “I don’t think that’s funny, sis.”

  “Sure it is, Junie. It’s funny as hell. When hot-ass trade like Hardy Ferrell stops lookin’ at your man, then you need to worry. And believe me, Hardy certainly won’t be the last Hollywood dawg sniffin’ at Étie’s crotch.”

  I sat there quietly, grimly.

  “Hey, Étie can’t help it if God made him gorgeous,” my baby sister continued. “Hell, look at me. I’m one drop-dead-gorgeous diva, and I deal with it. So my advice to you, Junie, is to chill. Take it as a compliment, unless you think you got some reason to worry.”

  “What do you mean worry? I don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “Okay, if you don’t have anything to worry about, then stop worrying.”

  “I’m not worrying, Frankie. I just thought I’d pass along a little information, that’s all.”

  “You are such a lousy liar.”

  “I’m not!”

  “What? Worried or a liar?”

  “Okay, so maybe I was a little worried. I mean I don’t like the idea of some other dude fawning all over my man.”

  “Okay, then go marry Urkle. And besides, what are you going to do when your man’s cute little face and ass and smile and bulge…”

  “Frankie,” I warned.

  “Junie, you need to face the fact. Étie’s got fuckability.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Fuckability, Junie. Fuckability.”

  “What kind of fucking term is fuckability?”

  “It’s a perfect term.”

  “It sounds insulting.”

  “It’s just the opposite.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Look, remember when we went to see How Stella Got Her Groove Back, and the first time you laid eyes on Taye Diggs, especially in that shower scene? Honey, I thought you were gonna come on yourself right there in the theater.”

  “Frankie!” I whispered to her harshly. I was embarrassed. My God, Tracey Edmonds was trying to hold back a snicker.

  “Well, that’s called fuckability. You didn’t care whether Taye could act or not. All you cared about was sucking his dick and sticking your tongue up that firm chocolate ass of his.”

  Was Tracey nodding? Oh my God! I was dying in my skin!

  “Okay, okay, okay,” Frankie apologized, witnessing my death. “Sorry, but it is what it is.”

  “God, it’s such an ugly term.”

  “Well, whoever said sex is pretty? It’s nasty and funky and sweaty, hair stuck up all over your head, weave comin’ loose, gruntin’ and grindin’ like pigs sloppin’ in a mud puddle. Folks look their worst when they’re busting a nut.”

  “Jeeze.”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You know you been there done that. Fuckin’ ain’t pretty. But it sure the fuck feels good.”

  All I could do was shake my head and sigh. My poor baby sister’s pseudo ghetto-fabulous debauched little soul was truly lost.

  “So you’re just going to have to get a grip, Junie. Because when Étie starts showing up on billboards and TV, in movies and videos, guys and dolls all over the planet are gonna have nasty, funky-ass wet dreams about fucking him.”

  “I’ll deal with it.”

  “Yeah, you’re gonna have to, baby. Étie can be really big one day, and you can either let your love help him on his way up, or let your selfish insecurity tear him down before he even gets started.”

  * * * * *

  It was a short drive from Beverly Hills back to our apartment in Country Club Park. But during that drive, I thought long and hard about what Frankie said. And I thought long and hard about me. Was I really capable of allowing my insecurities to cock-block a career opportunity for the man I loved? Was I really that selfish?

  I began to once again think about all my failed relationships and seriously considered my own culpability in their demise.

  I checked my watch right before the light changed at Crenshaw Boulevard. It was a quarter past two. Jay’s Market was just a couple of blocks ahead. Étie would be going on break soon. I crossed Crenshaw when the light turned green and drove the short distance to Jay’s and pulled into their parking lot.

  As I parked, I could see Étie, cute as can be in his bib apron, bagging groceries. He looked up and saw me as I stepped out of the car. He beamed like sunshine and waved at me, not missing a beat in his packing. I waved back and signaled him that I’d meet him in the carnicería next door when he went on break. He gave me his familiar thumbs up.

  I sat there, across from the Mexican pastry display case, undistracted by its sumptuous appeal or the delectable aroma of whole chickens being grilled right outside the open doorway, and tapped my foot.

  I had to be realistic about this whole thing. Sex sells in Hollywood. Hell, sex sells everywhere. And all the producers, directors, casting directors and third-tier TV stars Étie was meeting during his party-hopping with Francesca would not be showing any interest in Étie if he didn’t have sex appeal, like I didn’t know that already. It was time for me to set aside my petty insecurities and appreciate and respect that. In fact, if there was a chance he could have a career in this crazy business, then it was up to me to support him any way I could.

  “Hi, honey,” he said brightly, startling me out of my deep and decisive thoughts.

  “Hi, baby,” I said, smiling at him as he sat down across from me, his knee flirting with mine.

  “How was your lunch with Francesca?”

  “Oh it was fine, just fine.”

  “Good, good. Guess what, baby?”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Nahng, my boss, say I am a good worker, and he wants me to train to be a checker.”

  “A checker? Wow! That’s wonderful, Étie. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Listen. I was thinking.”

  “What?”

  “About you and this showbiz thing.”

  “You mean about me be a supermodel?” He laughed.

  “Yeah, and acting and the whole nine yards.”

  “It be nice, I guess.”

  “Yeah, it really could be. Do you think it’s something you
’d really like to do?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  “I think you’d really be good at it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I mean really really.”

  “Wow.”

  “So if you go for it, let’s make the most of it.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “You’re going to need a kick-ass portfolio.”

  “What is that?”

  “A book full of photographs. A big book filled with beautiful photographs of you. And I’m going to take them.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Oh Papi!”

  “You’re going to have the best damn portfolio in Hollywood, Étie. And you’re going to be a star.”

  “I will?”

  “You will. Good-bye Jay’s Market and hello bright lights!”

  “But I like Jay’s Market.”

  “But you’re gonna love being Étie Saldano. Superstar!”

  “You mean, Etie Saldano-Templeton,” he said, surprising me. I was touched.

  “Étie Saldano-Templeton?”

  “Yes, Papi. Etie Saldano-Templeton.”

  “Étie Saldano-Templeton,” I said, touching the knee that was touching mine, wanting so badly to make love to him right on the table between us, the table that hid my raging hard-on. “I like the sound of that.”

  Chapter Four

  I decided to prepare a make-up dinner that night, not that Étie was even vaguely aware there was something I needed to make up for. Still, I wanted to make a silent apology.

  He got off work at seven and was home fifteen minutes later. I surprised him at the door with a dozen yellow roses. Although I’d given him flowers before and often, he was still surprised, as my horticultural gifts were always spontaneous and unexpected.