Hollywood Flames

by Stanley Bennett Clay

“I don’t know.”

  “Look, when was the last time you were at an industry bash and you weren’t paparazzi?”

  “I’m not paparazzi, doll. I’ve never been paparazzi. I’m an entertainment photo-journalist.”

  “And you’re one of the best,” she said, suddenly making me want to spill the beans about Oprah. I fought the urge. “But you need to get out and have some fun.”

  “I have fun,” I defended. “And besides, do you really want your big brother tagging along with you on a date?”

  “Étie’s my bait.”

  “That is so Suddenly Last Summer. Are you sure you’re not a drag queen?”

  “You changed enough of my diapers to know otherwise.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “He’s actually like my beard.”

  “Yeah, you know and I know, but if everybody else knows, doesn’t that sort of defeat the purpose?”

  “Look, all I’m saying is that you need to get out more.”

  “Well, thanks, sis. I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t think about it, Junie. Just say yes.”

  I thought about it anyway. Finally, I said yes.

  “Good,” she sighed with relief.

  “Thank you, Francesca.”

  “Don’t thank me,” she then said. “Thank Étie. It was his idea.”

  Chapter Eight

  Contrary to popular belief, there are all kinds of Hollywood parties on all kinds of levels. The industry caste system demands a separation of socializations, of kingdoms, like Disney World. Hollywood parties are divergent cliques rumbling to their own tunes, fulfilling specific designer needs, flying against the notion of a monolithic industry bash.

  However, what’s mostly true is no one throws, craves or attends a Hollywood party just for the hell of it. Behind every guzzled cocktail, cracker slathered with pâté foie gras, botoxed smile, engraved invitation and Oscar-worthy air kiss is, at the very least, a see-and-be-seen photo op.

  What’s also most common at these gilded shindigs are the deals to be made, favors asked and curried, and the appearance of old casting couch jockeys trolling for the next sexual conquest. And of course, you’ll find young silicone-breasted starlets and horse-hung beach bumming boy-toys looking to make the jockeys’ work easier, or at least ante up some old sexual IOU. Who’s doing who is as nipple twisting as who’s doing what. Not being in the know in Hollywood is worthy of banishment to the Mojave.

  Even celebrity funerals and memorial services are carefully calculated must-attend affairs. I’ve known of less-than-A-list talent showing up at Forest Lawn burials with their headshots and résumés. I’ve seen old-time A-listers who haven’t been seen in years show up at graveside gatherings just to rest assured they’re not the one in the coffin.

  And like Frankie said, the official word in Black Hollywood is that the DL is passé—well, except for the hip-hop thug camps where low-riding jeans make for easy access.

  Still, there are those sex-sumptuous soirees where celebrated brothers publicly known for their prowess with the ladies—and we all know who they are—can still privately get their same-sex groove on without threat of exposure.

  Of course, I’ve never been to any of those parties, at least not that I know of. Those are not the kind of get-togethers welcoming to an openly gay man like me. My presence would completely defeat the clandestine purpose. As surely as all are equally culpable in a shooting when all shoot to down the same victim, exposing a partner in slime is indeed exposing one’s self.

  An openly gay man would be the last person on earth these undercover brothers would even think about entertaining in a group setting. By definition, an openly gay man like me is an unworkable component in the sexual conspiracy of silence. Still, these DL parties are urban legends that just so happen to be as real as Ru-Paul.

  Now as far as Trudy Amberson’s party was concerned, Frankie explained to me it was going to be strictly C list. That meant the food would be good and down home and the BYOB drinks would flow freely. Also, the know-the-face-but-not-the-name crowd would be less than guarded. It wasn’t the kind of party any self-respecting industry blogger/gossip columnist would report on, or any paparazzi worth their flash would want to shoot. In other words, what happened on the C list stayed on the C list simply out of a lack of interest. Oh sure, there would still be the routine bartering for ass, cash and grass, but transactions would be less predatory. Or so I thought.

  The evening promised to be idyllic. It was unusually warm and balmy for Los Angeles. The usual cool desert spring weather had been subdued and seduced by a tropical warmth and humidity. It reminded me of the many nights Étie and I spent laid out on the beaches of Punta Cana, Juan Dolio and La Romana. So we dressed accordingly. I threw on a floral dupion shirt, some jeans and sandals. Étie was resplendent in a cream-colored linen short-sleeve shirt and matching cream-colored linen shorts.

  I grabbed the three bottles of Chardonnay I’d picked up at Gourmet Chalet earlier in the day, kissed my man, then we got in the car and headed toward Frankie’s. Étie called her to let her know we were on our way. We got to her place around nine o’clock. Étie went to her door to get her. She stepped out looking fabulous. Étie gave her a well-rehearsed hug and kiss—something for the neighbors—then linked her arm and escorted her to the car, where he opened the front passenger door.

  “Look at you, doll, looking your fabulous knock-out self,” I marveled, giving my sis a peck on her well-rouged cheek as she scooted in next to me. Étie shut the door behind her, then climbed in the back.

  “Well I have to keep up,” she smiled ravishingly, “now that I’m in the company of you two fine hunks.”

  We skidded off laughing.

  “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I have to tell you,” she said, squirming anxiously to share with both of us.

  “What?” I frowned, eyes keen to the road ahead.

  “Hardy Ferrell is a beast!”

  “That fucker,” Étie grumbled.

  “Yeah, you can say that again,” Frankie smirked. “Brothaman fucked me sore. I can barely close my legs.”

  “You know, I think you sometimes say shit like that just for shock value,” I fussed while Étie tried to contain a giggle.

  We arrived at Trudy’s place minutes later. It turned out she lived not far from us, in one of those lovely old gentrified homes in the historic West Adams District. She was a couple of blocks away from the former Hattie McDaniel estate and around the corner from Marvin Gaye’s last home, where he was shot dead by his cross-dressing pastor father.

  Cars lined both sides of the wide residential street, portending a crowded affair. Finding a parking spot would be a challenge.

  “You guys go on in,” I said, pulling up in front of Trudy’s house. “I’ll find a spot and join you in a sec.”

  “I wait for you, Papi.”

  “No, Étie. Escort your ‘wifey’ in, and I’ll be in in no time.”

  “Come on, Étie. He’s right,” Frankie agreed, unlocking her door. “I need to make an entrance, and nothing like making an entrance with a hot-ass piece of arm-candy.”

  “Okay,” Étie surrendered hesitantly.

  “Just remember who this hot-ass piece of arm-candy belongs to,” I joked half-seriously.

  “I’ll tell Trudy you’re parking the car,” Frankie responded, reassuring me with a sigh.

  I found a spot two blocks away. The scent of the orange and pear trees dangling their fruit over low fairy-tale fences rode the warm night. There was eucalyptus in the air as well, and jasmine. The night smelled of flower fields, smelled of Los Angeles.

  I found myself strolling, enjoying the night, when suddenly I was startled out of my reverie by the jarring sound of a detested voice.

  “Jesse?”

  “You know, you should really be careful about coming up on somebody like that,” I said. “I could have done you some real harm.”

  “You? Real harm? I doubt it,” Sylvester said with a
smirk. “So I assume you’re going to Trudy’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Me too. Where’s your boy? You two didn’t break up, did you?”

  “No. We’re still very happily together. He’s inside. I parked the car.” I started down the street. Sylvester followed.

  “Oh. Well, you never know. You know how gay relationships are. They never last.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Trust.”

  “So what brings you to L.A.?” I asked with little interest.

  “You know I’m always in and out of L.A.”

  “No I didn’t know that. It’s not like we’re blowing up each other’s phone all the time.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. God, I haven’t talked to you since I hung with your sister down in the DR.”

  “Yeah, it’s been awhile.”

  “Yes it has. So how is Frankie?”

  “She’s fine. She’s inside too.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I mean she actually invited me. I don’t really know Trudy.”

  “So she’s inside with Étie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How very cute. I see the ménage à trois lives on.”

  “Frankie and Étie are very good friends.”

  “Yeah, it always helps when a husband and a wife are very good friends. By the way, how’s that working out?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Étie’s immigration.”

  “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  “Yes he is. Well, congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  We reached Trudy’s door. Sylvester rang Trudy’s doorbell, then turned to me with that shit-eating grin of his.

  The door swung open, releasing a roar of music, talk and laughter. Behind the big and beautiful woman with the big crimson smile was a packed house.

  “Giiiiirl!” Sylvester wheezed, stretching his arms wide enough to give the plus-size diva a full tight hug.

  “Sylvia!” she shrieked, hugging him back like a doting momma bear, squeezing the breath out of him, lifting him off the ground, and then dropping him back in place. “And who’s this gorgeous piece of trade you brought with you?” she asked, eyeing me like barbecue.

  “Well actually, Miss Trudy, this is an old friend I haven’t seen in months. Ran into him walking up to your place. Jesse Templeton, Trudy Amberson.”

  “Hi, Trudy. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Jesse Templeton? Miss Frankie’s brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, damn! Girlfriend walked up in here with a cute-ass man and now I see she gotta cute-ass brother too?”

  “Well, actually, Trudy, that cute-ass man Miss Thing came in with is his cute-ass man,” Sylvester said, pointing at me like a suspect.

  “Really? But isn’t that Miss Frankie’s husband?”

  “And what’s that got to do with anything?” Sylvester smirked.

  “Well come on in,” Trudy laughed. “Party’s been jumping for hours and y’all got some catchin’ up to do.”

  As we squeezed past Trudy all I could think about was how I was beginning to really dislike Sylvester more and more. Man oh man, how I wanted to tell him about my upcoming meeting with Oprah. Yo, Sylvia, want me to tell your cousin you said hi? God, it would have been worth it just to see him shit in his pants. But I stayed cool, worked myself away from him, fought my way through the thick crowd and found Frankie and Étie holed up in the kitchen. They were chewing the fat with what’s-his-name from ER and a woman in her late forties who sort of fit Frankie’s general description of her agent, Pam Stiles. Great, I thought to myself, Frankie was making the hook-up as promised.

  I was determined not to let Sylvester ruin my evening.

  Chapter Nine

  “Hey, Jesse!” Frankie beamed, handing me the plastic cup of wine she had poured for me. “Quench yourself.”

  “Thanks,” I said, draining the cup without thinking.

  “Pam, this is my brother Jesse. Jesse, this is my agent, Pam Stiles.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Pam,” I said. “I’ve heard great things about you.”

  “Thanks, Jesse,” she said, shaking my hand but eyeing Étie’s crotch. “The pleasure’s all mine”

  “By the way, this is Rick,” Frankie chimed back in. “He’s also with Pam. He has a recurring role on ER. Rick, Jesse.”

  “Hey, Jesse.”

  “Hey,” I responded, still eyeing the cougar eyeing my man.

  “Rick was just saying what a great name Étie has,” the agent said, not veering her gaze.

  “Yeah man,” Rick gushed, “Étienne is a fucking kick-ass name, and to go along with that fucking kick-ass face and that fucking kick-ass bod of his, he could be the next big fucking kick-ass one-name wonder.”

  “Really?” said I.

  “Yeah, man. Trust. Think Beyonce’, Cher, Janet.”

  “I no think so,” Étie spoke up graciously. “I think I stick with Étie Saldano-Templeton.”

  “Hey, I think it’s cool that you wanna add your wife’s name, but that’s a helluva mouthful, bro. What do you think, Pam?”

  “Helluva mouthful,” she crooned, licking her lips. Not only was it pissing me off personally, but if the bitch thought my sister was Étie’s wife, she sure didn’t seem to have much respect for their marriage.

  “Oh fuck!” Rick said, looking up in a sudden panic. “My ex just walked in. Let me go duck somewhere before he tries to start something. Nice meeting you, Jesse. You too, Étie.”

  “Same here, Rick,” Étie and I said almost simultaneously.

  “See ya in a bit, Frankie, and don’t scoot outta here without a holla, Pam.”

  “You’re covered, star.”

  Rick smiled and pecked the ladies on the cheek before slithering out of the kitchen and losing himself in the crowd.

  “So back to you, handsome,” Pam said to Étie, turning to him with a smile. “I think I can make a buck or two off you.”

  “You think?” I interrupted, trying to hide the attitude in my voice.

  “Latin is the new black, Jesse, and gorgeous never goes out of style,” she lectured me before turning back to Étie. “So drop by my office, say Monday? We’ll talk terms and do contracts.”

  She handed him her business card.

  “I no need audition?”

  “Honey, your face is your audition,” she said to him, pinching his chin. I was beginning to seethe. “Listen, let me get out there in the sandbox and see what kind of trouble I can get into. Call my secretary, Étie. Set up a time for Monday, okay?”

  “Okay…” He smiled at her nicer than she deserved.

  “See you in a bit,” the agent then said to my sister.

  “Toot-a-loo, Pam,” Frankie larked, sharing an air kiss with Pam before Pam sashayed off as if she’d just had an orgasm.

  “I thought you said it was the queens I’d have to worry about,” I complained to Frankie.

  “Believe me, Junie, Pam’s come-ons are stronger than her throw-downs. She’s an old flirt who just can’t help herself. She’ll leave here in an hour or two after checking out all the eye-candy, go home, put on some gay male porn, finger-fuck herself silly and call it a night.”

  “Yeah,” I fussed. “I just don’t want her to pull some casting couch shit when he goes to her office on Monday.”

  I refilled my cup and took a hearty gulp before I even set the bottle back down on the counter.

  “You’re just being paranoid,” Frankie said, eyeing my near-empty cup.

  “I’m just being observant,” I said, finishing my drink and noticing the new replacement blond kid on Beverly Hills 90210 peeking in the kitchen and vibing a subtle undress of Étie.

  “Thirsty, are we?” Frankie asked snidely with a smile, as she watched me refill my cup again.

  “Perdóname, por favor,” Étie interrupted.

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “You think I am just infant who can no take care of mysel
f?”

  “No, no, Étie. It’s just that…”

  “It is just what, Jesse?”

  “I think you should quit while you’re ahead, big brother.”

  “I’m sorry, baby. That’s not what I meant at all. I know you’re very capable of taking care of yourself.”

  “Sometimes I am not so sure.”

  “Listen, honey. It’s just that, I don’t know. I gotta bad vibe. And I gotta warn you. Sylvester Winfrey’s here.”

  “Warn me?” Étie asked, genuinely baffled.

  “All of us.”

  “Is that what’s got you drinking like a fish?”

  “Two glasses. And I’m not drinking like a fish, Frankie.”

  “Three, but who’s counting?” Frankie fluttered.

  “Obviously you are.”

  “So what’s there to warn us about?” Frankie asked, ignoring my feeble snap.

  “You know what an asshole he can be,” I said, the thought of my own violated asshole salting my words.

  “You keep saying that but frankly, Junie, I don’t see it.”

  “That’s because you don’t know him like I know him.”

  “I knew him well enough for him to hook me up with that hot-ass donkey-dick Edgar. Sorry, Étie.”

  “No problem.”

  “Well, that’s what Sylvester’s good for, hooking folks up, with trade, drugs, shade, you name it.” And just as the words slithered out of my mouth, there he was, up close and personal, arms outstretched for a Hollywood hug.

  “Well as I live and breathe,” he wheezed. “Frankie! Étie!

  “Sylvester,” Frankie said, surrendering to his hug. Étie nodded with a weak smile. “I didn’t know you knew Trudy!”

  “Honey, I know everybody,” he chirped. “And everybody knows me.”

  “Well all right, mister,” Frankie chuckled.

  “Étie!” he marveled, trying to maneuver an unsuccessful hug. “Look at you. You look so fed and fit. My God, Edgar would hardly recognize you.”

  “It is no problem Edgar not recognize me,” Étie answered with a polite stiffness.

  “Well, I’m headed down to the DR next week. I must let him know I ran into you.”

  “No need to.”