Glamourpuss

by Christian McLaughlin

  ​“Assembly of God, actually, I think,” I laughed.

  ​“Anyway, it’s hardly a big deal. The Phalita scandal was much juicier.”

  ​As for Phalita, if she recognized Trevor from the photos, she never said so. Her only comment on the outing was to proclaim, “When they have to run a picture of two cute-as-hell guys kissin’ in L.A., it’s a sorry-ass day for gossip. And baby, I oughta know.”

  ​I went upstairs to the production office to pick up scripts for next week and ran into Executive Producer Linda Rabiner. “Hello, Alex,” she said, giving me the kind of close-mouthed smile one would usually reserve for plucky amputees determined to wheel themselves across the country in a human-interest news segment. She leaned in closer and rested her hand on my shoulder. “I just want you to know that any calls we’ve gotten or may be getting concerning… gossip items… are told that the show has absolutely no comment on anything related to your personal life.” The smile remained and I wondered if she was picturing me taking it up the ass.

  ​“Thanks, Linda,” I said, resisting a perverse urge to apologize.

  ​“Keep up the good work,” she actually said, before vanishing into her office.

  ​When I got home, I found a manila envelope that had been slid under the door. It was ominously stamped “CONFIDENTIAL” in red and double-sealed with clear packing tape. Expecting either a death threat or photos of me purchasing Erasure tickets, I slit it open and withdrew a pasted-up creation that could only be the work of one man.

  ​The entire note was constructed of cut-outs from the tabloid in question. Across the top: “Eye-Catching Buttocks Instantly!” Then, The Pictures themselves, over which had been glued letters spelling out, “This is stupid,” then the fragment “I’m sorry” and strung together “Tonight no cameras Promise”. He’d “signed” it with a photo of his mesh-encased ass clipped from the International Male catalog. Trevor got points for effort, anyway.

  ​I went to the phone to call him and saw that I had four messages: the Hearts Crossing production associate with dialogue changes for tomorrow. A titillation-heavy local gay paper requesting an interview. My mother, sounding worried, asking me to call her back. The tape climaxed with a guy saying, “Alexander… I wanna suck your dick… (grunt) — whack whack — “I want that big bad dick going in and out of my butt!… (sigh, groan)” — whack whack — “Lick my cock (grunt grunt)… yeah, lick…” Click.

  ​Playing it back didn’t help me recognize the voice. I’d have to get a new unpublished number (although the big bad dick part was sort of flattering), despite the fact that actors’ digits were notoriously easy to obtain by anyone peripherally associated with show business. Anybody walking through my agency or the Hearts Crossing office could easily flip it out of a Rolodex. Not to mention the Rolodex of every casting director who’d ever hired me, and everyone knew casting directors tended to employ an endlessly revolving list of dishy, often unstable assistants.

  ​I stretched out and dialed 3 to speed-call my parents. My mother answered on the first ring. “Hi, Mom.”

  ​“Oh, sweetie. It’s so good to hear your voice.” A few seconds passed before she said, “I suppose you've seen it.”

  ​“Yeah. I guess you must have, too.”

  ​“Someone put a copy in the mailbox last night. It’s Trevor, isn’t it?”

  ​“Yup… How’s Dad taking it?” My dad knew about me, but avoided the subject as a rule.

  ​“He’s fine. Angry. At the paper, I mean. The important thing is — how are you?”

  ​“Terrific. Really, Mom. It was a shitty, low blow, but it’s not going to have any far-reaching effects. Gay actors aren’t exactly rare.”

  ​“I had to go to the grocery store today, and it seemed like there were hundreds of the damn things. I just wanted to rip them down and light a match. How dare they — violate your privacy like that? It sucks!” She was the best.

  ​“Please don't worry about it, Mom. Or me. I’m still makin’ the big bucks. Trevor was freaked out at first, but he’s okay now.” Nick smiled down at me from the wall. I know Trevor didn’t like me having that picture up, but every time I considered taking it down, I’d remember Nick giving it to me before I left for L.A., handing it over like he was embarrassed about doing something so terribly immodest.

  ​“So you won’t forget all about me,” he’d quipped. I was of course bawling by that point and could do nothing but shake my head.

  ​“Honey,” Mom said, and I heard her draw in a long breath. “Your grandparents saw the thing.”

  ​“Oh, Christ.” That particular consequence had somehow escaped the flow of my anxiety. I hoped for an instant that she meant my father’s very liberal agnostic family in Maine, but…

  “One of their so-called friends in the building had to run right up and shove it in their faces, y’know. Anyway, they don’t believe it. They think you and Sara are an item, remember? Grandpa’s convinced the photos are fakes, and we thought it’d be best to let them believe that. Dad and I told them you couldn’t take any legal action because it’d just bring more attention to the whole thing.”

  ​“I’m sorry.” I felt worse than I had in months. To think of my eighty-six-year-old grandparents in their beachside condo devastated by that scummy tabloid was too much. If the “gossip editor” had been there, I’d have gladly pried his or her heart out with a tire iron, then shoved the gory pulsating mass down their hypocritically anonymous, weaselly little throat.

  ​“You have to live your life, Alex. They’re old and Catholic and they can’t understand. Not your fault, sweetie.”

  ​“Mom, can you hold on a sec?”

  ​I clicked over and Trevor said, “I’m sorry, okay?”

  ​“Yes. I was about to call you. I’m talking to my mother.”

  ​“I’m downstairs.”

  ​“Come on up.” I buzzed him in, then switched over. “Mom, Trevor’s on his way up.”

  ​“Good. I don’t want you to be by yourself.”

  ​“I really appreciate everything, Mom. I hope you and Dad don’t have to go through a ton of crap over this.”

  ​“Hey… that’s what happens when you’ve got a famous kid.”

  ​“I love you.”

  ​“We love you, too. Sleep tight.”

  ​“Bye.” I hung up just as Trevor began pounding out a tribal rhythm on the door. I opened it and he fell into my arms, wisely bracing himself with one hand on the doorframe so I wouldn’t drop him.

  ​“Please, Simon… your evil secrets are safe with me,” he panted. “Why kill me when you can… have your way with me?” He closed his eyes, tossing back his head. I debated whether to go for his bronzed neck or the hard ridge of muscle visible between his cut-off sweats and Fendi t-shirt. The neck was the best choice, logistically speaking. We ended up on the floor anyway.

  ​“Brought you something,” he said, when his mouth was free. He passed me an envelope he’d been hiding. In it was an eight by ten color photo of Muffin, inscribed by the star in precious childish scrawl “To Alex”.

  ​“You really shouldn’t have,” I told him. “I’ll have to send her one of mine.” We caught each other’s eyes, as I realized he’d want to downplay his association with me as much as possible where Dino & Muffin was concerned. “Or not,” I added, producing a quick smile to let him know I “understood.”

  ​He went into the kitchenette. “Can I have a Perrier?”

  ​“Sure. How’d it go today?” It’d been the start of Dino & Muffin’s second episode.

  ​“Awful. We had a table-reading and everyone was wincing. It made me want to write sitcoms. How hard can it be? I already have an idea: Muffin pulls one of Ky’s extra-large pre-lubricated Trojans over her head and when she runs out of the frat house, suffocating, the sorority next door thinks she’s a space alien. Hilarity ensues. What do you think?”

  ​“That you probably shouldn’t work with children.”

  ​He flounced onto
the couch beside me. “That little bitch racked me in the nuts today. I’m seriously considering sedating her frozen yogurt from now on.” The note he’d assembled for me was lying on the floor. He reached over and collected it, then settled against me and looked it over, obviously pleased with himself. “Doesn’t it scare you?” he asked a minute later.

  ​“What?”

  ​“Having everyone know.”

  ​“What do you mean? Scared of getting bashed?”

  ​“That’s part of it.”

  ​“Whenever I hear about violence, like that poor Navy guy who got stomped to death in Japan, I never think wow, that could’ve been me. I guess doing what I do, in L.A., makes me feel safe.”

  ​He sat up a little and put his arm around my shoulders. “I know. Me, too. The scary thing’s knowing just how few places there are for me. I can’t live with my parents in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and be myself. It’s dangerous for us to mingle with the general American population. We’re like exiles.”

  ​“I don’t know about you, Trev, but I don’t want to be anywhere but here. We’re not like everybody else. Our lives are what 99 percent of people can only dream about. And I don’t know if we can attribute that to being gay, but I think it’s involved somehow. And if it also makes a lot of things harder, and I have to be more careful walking around, that’s the way it is.”

  ​“Honestly. Do you think this is going to affect your job on the soap?”

  ​“No.”

  ​“It’s nobody’s business.” He folded the note and deposited it on my tile-topped granite coffee table. Then he said it again: “It’s nobody’s business.” He got up. “I’m tired. Why don’t we watch TV in your room?”

  ​“Okay.” He took my hand and pulled me off the couch. In my bedroom he kicked off his hightops and dropped the sweats. I turned on the TV as his bubble-butt vanished under the sheets. No sooner had I modestly stripped to my underwear and joined him, the phone rang.

  ​“Machine, machine,” he commanded, throwing an arm over me to restrain any answering attempts. I poked my index finger into his lightly haired armpit and grabbed the phone when he spasmodically jerked back, ticklish.

  ​“Hello?”

  ​“Well, hi.” Oh, my God. Nick.

  ​“Hi,” I said, striking the perfect tone between nonchalance and tender reverence.

  ​“I stopped by 7-Eleven for a Coke Slurpee and saw something pretty interesting in the National Inquisitor or whatever the hell they call it.”

  ​“It was quite a shock alright.”

  ​“You doin’ okay?”

  ​“Yeah. I’m sure it’ll blow over.” I hadn’t spoken to him since last fall at my parents’ house. The fact that it took something this vulgar to put us in contact was an apt signifier of the distance between us (his choice), but as always, with the warm, hickory-smoked tones of his voice, hope cascaded from places that had long since run dry. Of course I couldn’t explain the crucial point that nothing had been going on between me and the “unidentified hunk” with whom I was liplocked, at the time of said liplock, because he happened to be in my bed at the moment. Trevor had crawled to the foot on his stomach to better hear the TV, his balls playing peekaboo beneath the cleft of his sublime globed buttocks. I looked away, trying to concentrate on Nick.

  ​“If there’s anything I can do to help, you let me know.” Okay, sue their yellow asses for me. Then, with your share of the settlement, rent a villa within rowing distance of Venice (Italy) and ensconce yourself in the master bedroom while I take a humpy hiatus from show biz.

  ​I screwed my eyes shut and said, “Okay.” I could see him perched on the edge of his futon couch in jeans and a white shirt, the house dark except for maybe a light in the kitchen, and quiet, since Barney was obviously not around, which meant the TV had a chance of being off. My words sounded robotic and brittle — Trevor would definitely pick up on the stress: “How’s everything? The same?” I hoped Nick would interpret this as Are you still chained to that soulsucker??

  ​He must have, because several seconds elapsed, during which I thought I heard a slow, quiet sigh. “Yeah, Alex. It is.”

  ​Okay. Fine. Great. “That’s what I needed to know.”

  ​“I just…” The rest caught in his throat. I couldn’t or wouldn’t help him out of his frustration. I inhaled as deeply and quietly as possible. Trevor seemed to be engrossed in the Farrah-era Charlie’s Angels rerun where they go to prison and are abused by Mary Woronov, but I was sure one ear was cocked toward my conversation, laconic as it was.

  ​“I should really go. I’ve got company.”

  ​“The unidentified hunk?” he asked, a slight bitter trace in his voice shocking me as much as if the phone had suddenly turned to ice.

  ​“Thanks for calling,” I said. “I mean it.”

  ​“Was that supposed to sound sincere?” Mini-Kyle Chandler piped up from my shoulder. “‘I MEAN IT’?!’ What a stupid thing to say!” Before Kyle could chastise me further, Nick said bye and hung up.

  ​“Who was that?” Trevor asked immediately, muting Kate Jackson.

  ​“Chuck. From Austin.”

  ​“Are you mad at him and what’s-her-name?” I wanted to slap his ass and could have so easily.

  ​ “Vanessa. No. It’s hard for me to talk about it with my friends back home, that’s all.”

  ​“Good fuckin’ answer,” snarled Mini-Jeff Stryker.

  ✽✽✽

  I had been to my agency exactly three times before. The initial meeting had been set up by the director of my psycho-cop big-screen hit. After they agreed to rep me, I went in to sign the papers and was served croissants and “cappuccino” I suspected was actually a General Foods instant creation that eerily turned out to be a key Hearts Crossing sponsor. My third visit was merely dropping off the new headshots I’d splurged on after a guest lead on Quantum Leap. Two months later, I booked the “recurring/possible contract” role on the soap and they’d been happily commissioning every paycheck since.

  ​The agency was in a monolithic office building in Century City, West L.A.’s answer to midtown Manhattan. Luckily, they validated parking. One epic elevator ride later, I was greeted by Tiki, the atomic-permed receptionist who interrupted her perpetual rosary of “Will they know what it’s in reference to? — Please hold — Will they know what it’s in reference to” to buzz Connie and announce “Alexander Young’s here!” while smiling at me so perkily I immediately became suspicious. This was how Jessica Hahn must’ve felt every day for years.

  ​“Come here, doll,” I heard Connie call, as she paradoxically trotted to my side with tiny rapid steps. She was wearing a League Of Their Own sweatshirt over a wine-colored silk skirt and white sneakers. She initiated a hug, actually a maneuver to get her arm around me and propel me back into the silver-carpeted recesses of the agency. “We’re meeting with Edgar Black, the head of TV. Remember him?” Vaguely. “He has a tendency to blow hard, so bear with me.” She paused before a closed door and knocked once before cracking it. “Eddie, it’s us.”

  ​“There’s no goddamn way I’m sending anyone in without reading a fucking script,” Edgar was telling someone on the phone. “No. Thank you.” He hit another line. “Dana? Sorry, babe… No, of course I’m not mad… I dunno. If you skip the appointment, do you still have to pay for it?… Look, I can’t talk about it right now… Leave her outta this!… Fine fine fine g’bye.” He hung up. “Jesus. Come in, come in. Great to see you, Alex.” He leaned forward in his seat and sort of waved at me.

  ​Now I remembered him. By turns loud and faux-intimate, decked out in Armani Exchange, looking in the glow of his desktop halogen lamp from Z Gallerie exactly like the kind of guy who thought he was real class because he put five-dollar bills into the stripper’s G-string.

  ​“Tiki, tell Trish to hold the calls, okay?” Edgar commanded, via speakerphone. He tucked a paper towel into the collar around his just-so-slightly fleshy neck as Connie unpacked l
unch from Stage Deli. I tried to fit my mouth around one of their ridiculous sandwiches that consisted of three inches of sliced turkey between two slabs of dry, unmayoed bread. Meanwhile Edgar anally arranged potato chips and a kosher dill spear around his pastrami on rye.

  ​“You understand nobody here is judging your private life or preferences or whatever,” Edgar said to me, after discovering a chip much darker than the others and flicking it into his wastebasket. “We’re only interested in your career.”

  “And that you’re happy,” Connie added as soon as she swallowed her macaroni salad.

  ​Edgar pointed to a mini-fridge in the corner of his office. “Connie, can you hand me a Canfield’s?” She complied. “Now Alex, ordinarily these piece-a-shit tabloids are pretty harmless — rumors, gossip, blah blah blah — but when they start taking pictures is when you have to maybe start worrying. Am I right, Connie?”

  ​“What I think he means, dolly, is that photos are pretty tough to dismiss compared to random printed dish items.”

  ​“Like I said, we don’t care if you’re bi or tri or in or out,” Edgar went on. How cool of you. I nodded agreeably at the condescending prick. “And neither does anybody in Hollywood. The problem’s the rest of the country.”

  ​“We’re not publicists, Alex, and it’d be presumptuous of us to act like we are…” Connie was cut off by Edgar, who gestured with his half-eaten pickle for emphasis.

  ​“But we’ve got you started on a very nice career” — how silly of me to think my career started with the three movies and four TV guest spots I did before signing here, Ed — “and it’d be a real crime to ruin it over something like this. So we need to do a little damage control.” His voice sounded like the giant wasp in Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger, starring my grade school crush Patrick Wayne.

  ​“I’m not exactly sure what the damage is…” To sound less confrontational, I directed this to Connie.