Going Down in La-La Land

by Andy Zeffer

  The wench had pushed me to the brink. And I let it rip. Getting up in her face and baring my lower teeth I seethed, “Listen you miserable, used-up, has-been cunt. I know all about your little games—you pile of shit. Bribery, payoffs, scams, the whole the fucking deal. But I’ll tell you one thing that looks worse in the press than a closet-case actor. And that’s a has-been starlet that has turned to bribery and dealing drugs to maintain her Hollywood lifestyle, you pathetic excuse for a human being. So now I’m going to make a suggestion. And that is you never show your botched-up, plastic surgery–ridden, yellow-green face in this house ever again. You got that?”

  I pointed at the door just as she had pointed me to the bar. The stumpy little bitch looked at me with wide-eyed horror. Evidently she wasn’t used to people lowering themselves to her playing field where they could get that dirty. But she hadn’t known what Candy and I were capable of, especially when we put our heads together. She would rue the day she messed with us.

  “Who do you think you are, you pretty-boy faggot? You have no fucking idea who you are messing with!”

  “Oh I think I have a better idea than you know, bitch!” and with that I marched over to the coffee table where my briefcase bag was, newly bought at Prada care of John’s generous Christmas gift.

  “You see, I’ve been on to you for a long time,” I said, and with that pulled out a laser copy photo of the wench passing her narcotics outside the gym. I practically slapped her across the head with it.

  Zinnia’s face turned from yellow-green to blazing red.

  “Is that what you do on the clock?” she seethed. “Spy on people?”

  “I didn’t have to,” I said in satisfaction. “There are other people you’ve screwed over who will do the work for me. Now, I don’t know what you’re lording over John. He didn’t even want to talk about you. But it’s over. I want you to get the fuck out of here and never come back, you understand me? Because if so I’ll make sure your picture is pasted over every front page in the country as a washed-out coke whore, and I’m sure the police department would just have a field day tormenting your spoiled ass. So let’s call things even, okay? You get lost and we’ll forget this little episode ever happened.”

  Zinnia stood there enraged, tears of anger in her eyes. It was actually more disturbing than enjoyable to witness her reaction. The bitch obviously had some deep pathological disorders. It was a frightening reflection to think that that there were people like her in society. I swear if she had a knife in hand she would have stabbed me right then and there.

  Thankfully, she grabbed her bag from where she had flung it on the couch and made her way to the door instead.

  “You better watch yourself, you fucking queer,” she turned around and snarled before leaving. “You see, this little exchange here, this was nothing,” she twirled a long red lacquered nail in the air to illustrate her point. “I’ve been playing at this kind of game for a long time. You have no idea who you just messed with.”

  With that she slammed the door, her heels clicking loudly down the front walk. I went to the front window, watching her climb into the driver’s seat of her black Porsche, practically squeezing out of her tight low-slung jeans, rhinestone appliqué crop top sparkling in the late afternoon sun.

  I tried not to reflect as much on her ominous threat and instead enjoyed the battle I had just won.

  Playing Stupid

  For the next week I worked as usual, enjoying life. John was in good spirits, having just signed on for the lead in a major studio film that was to shoot in the summer, while Life’s Lessons was on hiatus.

  I hadn’t seen Zinnia since our confrontation, and as far as I knew, John hadn’t heard from her either. I decided to keep the details of what I found out secret. If John brought her up, then I’d tell him about it, otherwise why give him something he might worry about— though in reality having something on her should have made him happy.

  By the time the week flew by the day of the cast reading for The Voyeur arrived. Most of the cast showed up. The leads were all attractive and in their twenties, the kind of types you’d expect to see on The OC. There were two male leads, one playing the hot and straight porn star and the other the young camera guy obsessed with him. Also there was the female lead, a pretty girl with a dark sultry look who had the role of the suffering stripper girlfriend of the gay-for-pay porn star. The rock legend wasn’t present for the reading, but I expected that. Somebody read the part in her place, and I read a few of the other bit parts as well. The male lead playing the porn star had done mostly television work, and once had a reoccurring role on a popular globally syndicated tits and ass TV show.

  Between Candy and myself, I think we had come across half the cast of this same show in one way or another, maybe because cast members on that show rotated more often than inventory at a supermarket.

  The same night of the reading I attended a party with John and his “beard” I liked best, Olivia. It was a charity affair at Morton’s, and the paparazzi were outside snapping away with their cameras. Once at our table John and Olivia immediately joined the rest of the table in showbiz talk while I sat on John’s other side. At one point I grew bored and decided to take a walk to the bar and check out the exquisite ice sculpture.

  “Adam, is that you?” a voice asked me from behind.

  I turned around to find HUNG Video’s very own resident photographer Brian standing behind me. Looking handsome and polished in a black suit, he was certainly a different vision from when I’d seen him last, spun out on crystal with his beet red face flopped on the bed while his ass got stuffed by Dale.

  “Hello Brian,” I said stiffly.

  “What brings you here?” Brian asked in a bubbly manner. He must have had no idea I had witnessed his drug and sex fest with Dale.

  “A friend,” I said curtly. “And you?”

  “I’m here with Robert Gleisman.”

  Just then Gleisman himself came up from behind and gushed, “Why if it isn’t Adam the perfect Oscar! You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

  “No, I’m still going to have to pass on your offer,” I said. I could just see myself the next day, running between William Morris and the set of Life’s Lessons with remnants of gold paint all over my body, the symptoms of pneumonia setting in from subjecting myself to the frigid air clad in nothing but a gold lamé thong.

  “That’s too bad. You don’t know what you’re missing!” Gleisman said with a toothy smile.

  Sure I do, I thought—a skin rash and a lung infection. I was just about to excuse myself when Gleisman noticed my Cartier watch and exclaimed, “What a beautiful Cartier! Santa must have had his eye on you!”

  I brought my hand back in self-consciousness. It was only the second time I wore my watch.

  “Oh, it’s just a good fake,” I scoffed.

  “I know watches my boy, and that is no fake,” Gleisman responded.

  I was at a loss for words.

  “So what are you doing with yourself these days?” Brian asked, now looking thoroughly intrigued. “Ron said you’re no longer hanging around HUNG. We’ve missed you.”

  “Oh, I have a job as an assistant,” I said.

  “Really? An assistant for whom?” Brian coaxed.

  I paused for a moment, wondering if I should divulge who I was working for to Brian, especially seeing as he knew Dale. Candy swore she had seen him driving past our building some time ago, though I had yet to run into him in person.

  But at the same time why should I have to keep my life a secret? Why should I have to keep running from the past, especially people from the past? Still, I decided against it.

  “Um, for a few producers,” I fibbed. Before either of them could ask me for names, I quickly added, “I really should be getting back to my table. It was good seeing you guys. Bye.”

  I took off faster than a road runner with a bad case of diarrhea.

  “Where have you been?” John whispered affectionately under his breath while
the rest of the table was in conversation.

  “Oh, just admiring the ice sculpture,” I kidded.

  Later that evening, Brian came meandering near our table. From the side of my eyes, I could notice him peering inquisitively at my table, checking out who I was with. Since moving to LA, it seemed as if paranoia followed me everywhere.

  The Voyeur

  In addition to my job, my little part in The Voyeur helped me keep my mind off my worries. One of my scenes was scheduled during the first week of shooting. The location turned out to be the same house where the cast met for the reading. And it was the perfect setting, tucked in a canyon with a gorgeous pool in the back that held a breathtaking view of the city below.

  A few large trucks were parked out front. Inside the house many people were milling about, and cords and wires ran across the floors. Gruff-looking crew guys walked past with lights and gels, and I was careful to stay out of their way. A friendly production assistant with a walkie-talkie directed me to the holding area upstairs, where most of the other actors in the scene were waiting.

  An older actor whom I recognized from playing a lot of character roles on television was sitting nearby. I knew from the cast reading he was playing one of the porno company producers. A pad of paper and some watercolor paints were in front of him, and he was doodling to pass time. He asked if he could paint me, and I told him to be my guest.

  “So do you have a background in porn yourself?” he asked coyly.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, immediately self-conscious.

  “Well, the other day we had some actual porn actors on the set, so I thought maybe you did that kind of thing as well,” he murmured while dipping his brush into a cup of water.

  “No. I know Perry from New York, and since I’m in the Screen Actors Guild he thought I would be good for this part,” I answered assuredly.

  Feeling heat rising up the back of my neck, I was determined to be treated as a professional actor. And why shouldn’t I? I had an expensive theater background and was in the union, just like these other people. The only difference was I didn’t have an agent. If this jerk thought he was any better than me, he’d better think again.

  His masterpiece was interrupted when one of the production assistants grabbed me for makeup.

  I had smeared self-tanner all over my body the night before, so I wouldn’t look like a plucked chicken or Dracula on camera. Somehow it didn’t take that well, even though I put on a lot. It wasn’t streaky or blotchy; I just didn’t look that tan.

  Since most porn stars do have a tan, I suggested to the makeup artist that he might want to put a darker or more orange foundation on my face.

  “We don’t want it to clash too much with your body,” he dismissed, brushing aside my idea.

  So much for looking like I had a little color on camera. Forget The Voyeur. I might as well be in Casper the Friendly Ghost, or better yet, Night of the Living Dead.

  I went back to the holding area, determined not to let my pasty complexion get on my nerves. I was going to make this a positive experience, come hell or high water. The whole time I kept reminding myself this was my first speaking role in a major film, and I was going to enjoy it.

  When I got back to the holding area the snotty old queen of a character actor was gone and the hunk of the movie was there instead.

  “Hey, what’s up?” he nodded casually, in typical macho form.

  I said hello and went over to the other side of the room to grab some hair gel out of my bag, which I brought with me knowing only I could fix my hair right. My hair grows in more directions than one would find on a compass. Oh well, as long as it doesn’t all fall out I’ll be happy, I thought.

  The studly lead actor was doing his best impression of being chill. I had to give this guy credit. He didn’t strike me as being remotely gay, or having any gay tendencies, but then again, my gaydar wasn’t the best. In the script it is clear his character only has sex with men for money.

  But still, it was pretty brave taking on the role of a man having sexual contact with another male, period. I suppose he took it because the script was well written, and lead roles for relatively unknown actors are far and few between. And in Hollywood, there is no shortage of buff, pretty-boy actors like the one sitting in front of me.

  Now it was on to wardrobe. In the beginning of the scene I was to wear a bathing suit, in the middle a business suit, and in the end a towel wrapped around my waist. But the costume designer, a funky Dutch girl who lived in Silver Lake, hadn’t decided on a bathing suit.

  To my horror, out of a box she pulled out a few of the most hideous thong bathing suits I had ever seen in my whole entire life. One was especially ugly, and consisted of a black string around the waist, a black string up the butt, and a black and yellow zebra print on the barely there material that was supposed to hold in the crotch. My eyes grew wide with fear as I imagined it on my pale body.

  “You’re not going to make me wear that one, are you?” I asked. At least I prayed not.

  “I don’t know. I kind of like that one. I think it’s perfect for the scene!” the designer said with her thick Dutch accent and a wide grin on her face.

  “Why don’t you try both on, and I’ll take you outside to show Perry and see what he thinks,” she decided.

  Needless to say the crew was given their first big show of the day when I walked out to the pool twice in two different G-strings. I could tell more than a few were less than thrilled, glancing at me uncomfortably. When I had to parade around the second time there was less reaction. They knew what the film was about, so they must have been prepared to see anything. After all, they weren’t working on a Disney production. Unfortunately Perry went for the hideous black and yellow bathing suit. Then again, it didn’t really matter too much. I wouldn’t be wearing it in the scene for too long.

  Meanwhile, back in wardrobe, the leading man was throwing a little fit about his bathing attire.

  “I’m telling you. I’m not wearing shit like that. My character isn’t like these other guys!” he said to the designer, with a disgusted look on his face.

  The bathing suit in question was actually a more conservative silver Speedo, cut very wide. The U.S. Olympic swim team wore less than that.

  Here he was giving the designer grief when I had to wear something even Richard Simmons might consider too gay.

  Furthermore, this guy had been on show where half the wardrobe consisted of bathing suits with less material. This little tantrum over swim trunks was the first display of discomfort from the hunky lead. The designer was not amused, telling him that is exactly what his character would wear during a porn shoot, and the wardrobe was already approved.

  Apparently she won the battle, because when we were told to take our places he was wearing that bathing suit over those rock-hard buns of his. Before being led to the pool, I had been given a fluffy terrycloth robe and was escorted by one of the PAs. The take in the pool went well. I was now Kurt Bottoms asking the lead if he was a fast fuck, because I had to go dance in Las Vegas.

  “I hope you’re quick because I have a gig to get to in Vegas,” I sneered the line in my most nasal voice.

  After Perry yelled “cut!” the crew erupted in laughter, so I must have been amusing.

  “The bored and petulant expression on your face was priceless Adam,” Perry said.

  When it was time to get out of the pool, the assistant designer held my robe open for me to step into. It was kind of cool, and I felt like I was being treated like Rudolph Valentino.

  I’d better enjoy this moment while it lasted, because it sure as hell didn’t happen every day.

  Sometime later the cast and crew broke for lunch. After lunch the rest of the afternoon didn’t go quite as smoothly, and consisted of me being bent over while the hunk is supposedly fucking me up the ass.

  In this take the viewer wouldn’t see anything except my head and his upper body, and then they were planning a long shot where you could see us going
at it from the side, but with our lower bodies covered strategically by a reflector.

  I was literally hunched over grabbing onto a railing with the hotshot lead actor pressed up against me from behind.

  We each had our bathing suits on the whole time. The hard part was getting the rhythm of our movement right. Perry was trying to get us to gyrate in such a way that it looked like I was really getting it up the ass, but it just wasn’t happening. Instead his groin and my ass were smacking into each other like two bumper cars on the Santa Monica Pier. Perry was getting a little impatient, and in his excitement over instructing how it was done in actual porn he ended his lesson with, “You know what I’m talking about, right, Adam?”

  Perry knew I had “dabbled” in gay porn since my arrival in LA, but I wasn’t expecting him to bring it up on the set.

  “You mean you’ve done this before?” Mr. Beefcake leading man asked, standing behind me in surprise. At least someone had thought of me as a legitimate actor, until now.

  I gripped the railing tighter in frustration.

  “Uh . . . sort of,” I answered, dismissing his question. I was still hunched over and now getting agitated. Imagine standing in front of tens of people trying to simulate a sex act with you as the recipient, and an uncomfortable costar. Not an easy feat.

  It still didn’t go right. Again Perry gave us some pointers, and once more, ended this time with, “You know what I’m saying, right, Adam?” in an encouraging tone, as if I was the porn expert and could take matters into my own hands and show Mr. Baywatch how it was done.

  Perry had no clue that I had no desire to be considered the porn expert or thought of as an experienced porn actor, much less be reminded of the fact I appeared in an actual porno. I simply wanted to be treated as just a legitimate film actor. Was that so fucking hard? Too much too ask for after years of appearing in plays, taking classes, and even joining a goddamn union along the way?

  “I don’t know!” I snapped, obviously irritated and catching Perry off guard, but at this moment I really didn’t give a shit.