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I graduated from the famous Actors' Academy last Thursday afternoon. Although she hated being there at the commencement exercise, my mother had taken her first airplane ride and had flown from home to New York to watch me, her only son, accept his diploma. Her thoughts were, now that my education is completed it was time for me to go back with her to assume the role of dutiful son and get this "show business" out of my system and put it away, once and for all.
To please her, I'd finished two and one half years of college in my home town. I hated being there so much, my only hope for survival was to "flunk out" and pursue the studies and the career that I was aiming for. I wanted to be a Broadway actor/singer/dancer...anything as long as I was on the stage in front of a live audience. I knew I had talent. I knew I was good at my chosen craft. Mother would rather I used my singing and acting skills for the Lord and become a Presbyterian minister. Once I was ordained, it was up to me to let her find the right wife, one who hated sex, but would have intercourse just to get pregnant and supply my mother with an only grandchild.
Yes, I was a "Momma's boy", and she knew just exactly how to manipulate my life in doing what she wanted me to do.
The one and only secret I'd kept hidden from her and my Dad, who was never around, was that I had discovered sex with my best friend, Doug, when we were both, only fifteen years old. I'd had gay fantasies consciously since I was about the age of six. When the "girl" kissed the "guy" in the movies, I was always jealous of the "girl" and just looking at the "guy" gave me a prepubescent hard-on. Good looking boys or men always turned me on. After I had done every kind of sex act imaginable with Doug, I ventured out and found other boys and men who could be interested in me sexually. In the gay circle of my home town, I'd acquired quite a reputation for being a "hot number". I loved the feel of a hot mouth working on my sex organ. What I loved even more was to have a hot sex organ in my mouth. By my own standards, I was no way in the world cut out to be a minister...not by a long shot.
Two years before, tuition at the Actors Academy was only $700 per year. One of the older men I'd shown a good time was a banker. He arranged for me to get a loan with a floating balance. I could borrow money for my tuition and ask for enough more to pay my monthly rent, utilities, and food for the two years it would take me to finish the school. When that time was up, my banker friend would total up the amount I had borrowed and he would arrange a monthly payment schedule to pay back the one lump sum.
I'd succeeded in flunking all my college finals by not showing up. My GPA was too low to be admitted back to that horrible institution. Now that I was free of that obligatory education, I had hopped a train to New York to audition for the Actors Academy. I chose two monologues, one serious, the Devil's long speech from Shaw's "Don Juan in Hell, and one comical, Cornelius' aside to the audience from Wilder's "The Matchmaker". I'd practiced and had my high school drama teacher coach me to polish my delivery and timing. I was ready to wow the directors at the drama school.
I wasn't at all nervous auditioning for the selecting committee until after I was through, When I had finished, I was told by Mr, Harbinger, the head of the committee, to go downstairs at the school and fill out my registration. I entered the office and Mr. Moore, the admission's director was on the phone, getting a report on my audition.
"Hello, I'm Alan Walker. I was told to come see you." I said, very confidently.
"I KNOW who you are. Do you mind telling me what monologues you used for your audition?"
I told him and his whole face smile.
"The reason I asked you that, Alan, is that you're the first person in the last 88 people who auditioned that got the nod of approval and acceptance by the audition committee. The other 87 didn't even get a 'call back'. You must've been extra special, because they're a tough crowd to impress."
It was only then that I realized what I had just accomplished. It was my first "proudest moment" I'd had in a long time. I had been chosen for my dramatic talent, not for what I could do in the bedroom.
Living in New York for two years had been a challenge after the bucolic lifestyle I was accustomed to back home. But I had made it through two miserably cold northern winters. I had learned how to get by on two hot dogs with sauerkraut or two slices of pizza for my daily sustenance. I'd learned how to make a fast buck hustling on Eighth Avenue. Whatever it took, I'd done it just to show all my skeptical relatives and friends that I was not some kind of "screwball", as I'd so often been called. I'd studied, worked hard, and learned the fundamentals of my craft...and now I had graduated, ready to walk down to my first audition and get "discovered".
Later in the day, after the graduation party, I met my mother back at my scanty 1 1/2 room apartment. When I walked in the door, she was busily packing my clothes and belongings.
"What are you doing?" I asked, trying to stop her.
"I'm helping you get ready to go home. Our train leaves in three hours," she replied.
"Mother, I'm not going home now," I said emphatically.
"Yes, you are. I stood by and let you have your way for two years, but it's time now for you to be practical and go back home and get a decent job. I hear they're looking for a choir director in one of the large Presbyterian churches. With your talent and ability, you should have no problem in getting the position."
"Mother, I'm not going back home to work in some goddamned church." I shouted.
"Watch your mouth! Is that the kind of language your heathen classmates have taught you?" she snapped.
"No, but I knew it was one way of getting your attention to make you listen to me."
"I've heard all that you have to say...and now it's time to go...home." she said, slamming the lid down on my filled suitcase.
"Well, I'm not! I'm over 21 years old and I no longer have to do what you want or obey your every whim and fancy!" I screamed.
"Go ahead...treat me like dirt! You've never cared about me. I've sacrificed for you all my life to give you everything you ever wanted, and this is the 'thanks' I get!" she whimpered. "One day when you have to look at me in my casket, you'll remember the way you just cursed at me. You won't have me forever. Most children would appreciate the things I've done for you."
"Mother, I am no longer a child! I don't hate you...I just want to live MY life, the way I want to live it...Mother, look! I'm talented. God made me that way, I have to use my talent. Otherwise, it's like throwing it back in God's face." I pleaded.
"You can use your talent for the Lord, instead of wasting it on show business. All those people you want to be around drink, do drugs, or engage in some kind of perverted actions....God will punish you for that...He'll take your talent away from you."
"Jesus Christ, Mom! Will you listen to me??"
I felt the sting on my left cheek when she swung and slapped me as hard as she could.
"How dare you to take the Lord's name in vain."
"Mother, I don't want to be disrespectful, but I want to tell you one thing. That's the LAST time I'll ever allow you to slap me. You and daddy have spanked and beat on me my whole life. but I'm an adult now and I will be treated like one....DO YOU HEAR ME?"
"I hear you, but if I decide to slap you again, then you'd better duck, because as long as I'm your mother, I have the right to discipline you!!"
"Then maybe it's time you stopped being my mother. Daddy stopped being a father to me years ago. I hope he rots in hell!"
"Alan, can you hear yourself? When did you learn to say these things?"
"Maybe I've felt them for a long time, but I was always afraid to say them out loud!"
"If I were you, young man, I'd go to the nearest church and get on my knees and ask God for forgiveness. Don't ask ME to forgive you, because I won't!!"
"I have no intention of asking you, OR God, for forgiveness. In the past few minutes, I've learned quite a lot of who I am and what I really want to do...and it doesn't involve my getting on a train with you and going back home to be a "nothing" for the rest of my life...Now if you want to catch that train, then I suggest you get your little suitcase and go outside and flag down a taxi and get yourself to the train terminal...but you're going alone! I'm not coming with you!"
"God's gonna punish you for what you've just done. You'll know what the word "sorry" means by the time He gets through with you."
"Mother, do you have anything else to say?"
"No, I think you've said enough for both of us."
"Then get the hell out of my apartment...better yet, get the hell out of my life.!!"
She started crying loudly as she picked up her weekend valise and went out the door, slamming it.
"Well, I played that scene well!" I thought. Once I know she's back home safely, I can start to live my life in peace.
I had no liquor in my apartment because I didn't like the way it burned my mouth, but for the first time I felt as though I needed a drink. I went to the kitchen cabinet and found a bottle of salty cooking sherry. I put it to my mouth and drank the entire bottle before removing it from my lips. This is the way I had seen characters solve similar situations in the movies. Maybe it worked better with bourbon or scotch because as soon as the salty liquid hit my stomach I got the dry heaves and ran to the toilet to vomit it back up.
Around 7:30 PM, I felt better and took a subway to 42nd Street to go to Flame Steak, which offered a wilted salad with my choice of watered down dressings, an over-baked potato sloshed with buttery grease, and a paper thin steak, rumored as being horsemeat, all for a buck-nineteen plus tax. I ordered a small coke which almost cost as much as the meal. But, hell, it was graduation night and I wanted to celebrate! After I choked the food down, I sauntered over to 44th and Eighth Avenue and went into the Manhattan Hotel bar, sat and listened to Cy Walters play the piano. When I was studying music at home, I'd bought a couple of his arrangements. They were difficult but I had learned "Body and Soul" by heart. I ordered a cocktail and walked closer to the piano.
"Would you like to request a tune?" the greying gentleman asked.
"It took me three months to learn how to play your "Body and Soul". I told him, shyly.
"Do you still remember it?" he asked.
"Of course," I replied.
"Want to sit down and play a duet with me?"
"I'd love to?"
"Which do you want, the right hand or the left."
"The right...the one with the melody, if you don't mind."
"Then sit," he commanded.
I sat down to his right and soon our four hands were roaming all over the keyboard, playing his difficult interpretation of the piece.
We were half finished and a crowd of 15 to 20 bar patrons gathered around the curve of the baby grand to listen. I had an audience. My hands were secure in their duty, I played better than ever before. When we played the final strains, there was a roar of thunderous applause from the entire bar. Mr. Walters gave me a hug and shook my hand.
"Very good, young fellow," he said to me. "If you ever need a job, let me know. With your talent, I think we can find something for you."
"Thank you, sir, but 'no thanks'. I'm an actor, not a pianist."
"You must be a good one, to turn down a job with the musical talent you have."
"Thank you, again, but I AM a better actor."
I downed my cocktail and exited the lounge, feeling pretty darn cocky. My graduation celebration was getting off to a good start! Now all I need was a good blow job to further enhance the evening.
It was still too early for the good tricks to be out on Eighth Avenue, but if all I wanted was a "quickie", I could get satisfied fast and cheaply at a 42nd Street movie house. There were nine theaters to choose from. I had learned the safest and the best gays hung out at the better Hollywood features or dramas. The gays were exceptional at a foreign film with subtitles. I saw a marquee advertising "La Dolce Vita" and "8 1/2", a Fellini double feature. That meant a bunch of good-looking Italians would be inside...waiting...with open mouths. I paid my thirty-cent admission, went to the concession stand and bought a package of "Kool-Mints". They were always good to refresh your breath or disguise the funky Clorox cum odor if someone shot off in your mouth.
The cops frequented the movie houses to arrest derelicts on the main floor, the loge and the lower balcony. They seldom went to the top of the theater to the second or third balconies. Anything "went" there. Guys would even take their trousers completely off and do all kinds of "nasties" without fearing to get caught by New York's finest. There was more action up near the ceiling than there was at any of the bathhouses. It was safer, cheaper, and more accessible.
The standard attire if you wanted to be picked up consisted of tight jeans, a long sleeved black turtle-neck pullover shirt, white socks, and black penny loafers. If you wanted to get particular, there were all kinds of signals you could give by the way you draped your handkerchief hanging out of your back pocket...pulled to the right, left, hanging straight up or down...right pocket or left let everyone know if you were a top, bottom, sucker or fucker. No one had to say a word. Everyone knew your likes and dislikes by the way your hankie was hanging.
Between getting sick by the sherry and the unsettled cheap meal, my stomach wouldn't let me settle for any kind of activity other than getting a blow job. I didn't feel well enough to display any of my sexual talents.
When I reached the top balcony, I stood at the doorway to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Slowly everything focused into view and what I saw looked like Dante's Inferno without the inferno. There must've been 50 guys engaged in all kinds of sexual activities and assuming a wide variety of positions. There were sounds of lips smacking and balls slapping being drowned out by moans and "oh's". But hell, it was a foreign film and no one could understand the dialogue anyway. So it was just a matter of picking out the mouth I wanted to pleasure me.
Halfway across the balcony and about six rows up. I saw a signal. Some guy had flicked his cigarette lighter three times to let me know he was "available" for "whatever". The second time he flashed, I caught a quick glimpse of him, He was Italian, about 25 years old. His hair was nicely cut and combed which was a good sign I wasn't being invited by "Shaggy McNasty". He looked cool enough in the dark, so it was worth a trip up the aisle to meet him.
I had to crawl over two couples of bodies to get to him. He put his arm on the vacant seat and motioned for me to sit.
"Hi", he said.
"Hi". I replied.
"Whatcha into?" he asked.
"Something short and sweet, down and dirty." I told him.
"Are you short and sweet and you want me to be down and dirty?"
"I may have phrased that wrong, because, if you go down, what you'll find will be sweet but it's not short."
"You just gave me a chill by arousing my expectations."
My God, the guy could speak with big words!...Yeah, he could do me if he wanted to.
With swift dexterity soon he had my fly unzipped and had sprung forth the treasure I was concealing beneath my blue jeans. This guy was either a professional or he was very well experienced in the fundamentals of giving oral sex. There was so much activity going on in the rows of seats in front, back, and both sides of me, I had no difficulty in getting aroused. It wasn't even 10:00 PM yet, and on a week night, but the balcony was packed with gay debauchery. My Romeo was giving just the stimulation I had sought. I wanted it to last longer so I concentrated less on his actions and focused more on the movie. "La Dolce Vita" had always been one of my top five films of all time. It wasn't shown in my home town because of the sacrilegious and sexually perverted content. I had to sneak off one weekend and go to a larger city in the next county to see it. When I arrived in New York two years ago, it was always playing at some art house in some part of the city. So I had managed to see it many times. I didn't use the subtitles any more. I knew what everyone was saying in every scene, even though they were speaking Italian. The gamut of my Italian vocabulary ran from spaghetti to pizza. I got involved with Anouk Aimee's "feather" scene and completely forgot I had a hot Italian mouth latched onto my lower torso. It didn't occur to me that my "lover" was getting exhausted by my "staying power". Eight minutes later, the scene ended and I came back to reality in time and place. All I had wanted to do was find someone to service me and get my rocks off. I had no plans for doing anything to anyone else. So I decided to go ahead and reach a climax and make the Italian hunk think he'd done a fantastic job on me. I came. He swallowed. I whispered a "thank you" to him and left.
I had eaten, drunk, performed in a bar, and relieved my sexual drive and the evening hadn't really started yet. What a fun way to celebrate my graduation. I really didn't know where to go or what to do next. So at the corner of 42nd and Broadway, I stopped at the news stand and bought a copy of "Show Business" for 35 cents, folded it under my arm and walked across the street to Nedick's where I bought a big orange slush and sat down at a table for two to read the casting calls in my paper.
There were many ads for summer stock...singers, dancers, actors, directors, musicians, stagehands, and apprentices for all parts of the country. If there was nothing casting for a New York show, it might be fun to try to get a stock job in a city or state I'd always wanted to visit. I was still confident enough to believe that no matter what job I auditioned for, I was a cinch. Shit, what other 21 year old was as talented as I? I could act rings around all my fellow students at school. I thought instead of auditioning for the jobs, I'd let the producers and casting directors audition for me...just see how badly they wanted my talent to make their shows look better. Did I seem cocky? You're damned right I did! From the first day of school at the Academy, you were constantly stopped in the hallways, the classrooms, the bathrooms, etc, and asked by your teachers or upper-classmen, two questions. The first was, "Are you an actor?" Of course you replied "Yes". The second question was a "trap". "Are you good?" The answer to this question had better be and emphatic "Yes". Otherwise they would tell you, "If you're no good, then get the fuck out of the acting profession". So it was instilled in all the students to KNOW and BELIEVE you were a good actor...NO ONE was better than you. That conditioning convinced me that I would be the best qualified for any acting job, and if the director couldn't see that, then he was too fucking dumb for you to work for in the first place...if he couldn't recognized genuine talent when he saw it!!
As I perused the stock casting calls, California, Massachusetts, and Illinois sounded the most exciting to me. Next, I wanted to see what shows and how many they were doing for their summer season. One of the ads caught my attention. The company was doing ten solid musicals, These would look good on any resume..."Pal Joey", "Camelot", "My Fair Lady", "South Pacific", "The Pajama Game", "Gypsy", "A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Forum", "Guys and Dolls" and "Stop the World, I Want to Get Off". If I decided to join this company, this list of shows on my credits would go farther in landing me a big role on Broadway in the fall. I looked at several of the other ads and wondered why anyone would want to waste their fucking time doing a season of "Harvey", "Arsenic and Old Lace", or "John Loves Mary". Hell, you'd be better off going home and playing leads in high school productions of "Our Town".
There was one ad beaming at me. "Open call for a new musical based on Rostand's "Les Romantiques" to be called "Romantics Revisited"...not to be confused by an earlier off-Broadway adaptation of the same play called "The Fantasticks". This was to be like "The Fantasticks" except it was played in period costumes with full chorus, dancers, and orchestra. If it was anything like the off-Broadway version, hell, I was suited for the lead. I'd played "Matt" in "The Fantasticks" in an amateur production and knew the part inside and out. This was just the role and the big break I needed to bust Broadway wide open!!
The audition was to be held Tuesday at the Broadhurst Rehearsal studios on West 46th. Like Sondheim wrote in "Gypsy", "Gangway world, Get offa my runway!" or Bob Merrill wrote in "Funny Girl", "Hey Mr.Ziegfeld, here I come."
I was ready. The enthusiasm I felt about the upcoming audition and casting was a good way to end my evening. I didn't want anything else to drink or eat. I didn't have the urge for any kind of sex. I might as well go home to my apartment and wait for fate to take its course come Tuesday.
I spent all day Saturday and Sunday rummaging through my stack of old original Broadway cast albums, looking for "the" perfect audition song. I knew once I had made the right selection, I then had to go down to the Colony or Drama Book Shop to find the sheet music, making sure it was arranged in MY key. Any show tune written by Newley and Bricusse was right up my alley, but usually only their ballads were recognized and EVERYONE auditioned with "What Kind of Fool Am I?" I'd heard from a number of chorus-boy tricks I'd encountered that at most large "cattle-calls" the stage manager would tell the applicants, "All you got time for is to sing the last eight bars and out. So make 'em count." I heard of one girl who kept being told to sing the last eight bars of her song, she got so frustrated, one day she chose to sing the last eight bars of Rodgers and Hart's "Johnny One Note". So she slammed the sheet music down in front of the piano player and took her place, center stage, and held one note for eight bars, took a bow, and started to exit. According to the story, the producer laughed so hard he fell in the floor laughing.
"Miss Tyler, would you be so kind as to tell me what you just sang?"
"I just delivered the final refrain of "Johnny One Note". Did you like it?"
Again, the producer convulsed in laughter. Tears were actually rolling down his cheeks.
"Miss Tyler, would you please do me the honor of singing the entire song?" he asked.
"I thought you'd NEVER ask!" she replied.
This time she got an eight-bar "intro" from the accompanist and she belted out all thirty two bars. Her "gimmick" worked because she got the job. That's the same advice Sondheim gave to all of us when auditioning by writing, "You Gotta Have a Gimmick" in "Gypsy".
That's what I needed...a "gimmick"...something to make the casting director notice me above all my rival auditioners. Lots of times you're only given one quick shot to show 'em what you can do. Also, at the end of the day, when the selecting committee had heard, "You'll Never Walk Alone" or "Climb Every Mountain", five thousand times, you wanted to make sure that YOU were the one they remembered. That's why the selection of a song is so goddamned important!
I dismissed the complete Rodgers and Hammerstein songbook. Lerner and Lowe were good, but over done. Whatever song I decided to choose shouldn't be funny or have four-lettered words in the lyrics. I had to make the director SEE me as the boy in Rostand's play, which meant in addition to the right audition material, I wanted to comb my hair differently in a way to match the period. Blue Jeans were definitely OUT! A brown turtle-neck shirt might be all right with plain brown trousers...maybe a red scarf around my neck to attract attention. I wanted them to say..."Oh yeah, I remember him! He was that kid that auditioned so well...the one wearing a red scarf." I didn't have a red scarf though. I had an orange one. Would that be good enough? Fuck no! It HAD to be red!! That meant a trip to Korvette's to the kerchief department...the RED kerchief department.
Monday, I picked up the sheet music for several tunes. I HAD my red scarf. I decided to go to a bar on Eighth Avenue, where a lot of the Broadway chorus guys hung out after their show, and listen to some scuttle-butt and quiz a few of them on what song they had used to get a job.
It looked as though there were sixty to seventy Broadway dancing queens were gathered around the bar. When I finally got through the doorway, I elbowed my way to the center of the bar so that I could see and hear everything they had to say. Chorus kids, even though they're working in a show, ALWAYS go to every new show's audition with hope of landing a bigger part, I imagined all of those surrounding me would show up tomorrow at the Broadhurst Studios. I was getting to see my competition the night before. These guys are the ones I would have to beat out on my road to success.
At the end of the bar, I saw a guy who reminded me a lot like me...only about ten or fifteen years older. I assumed he'd "been around" a long time, trying to make it on the Broadway scene. He would probably be the perfect one to learn some of the ropes from. It took me fifteen minutes to order a beer, but once I was served, I looked around and HE hadn't moved. So I pushed my way, inch by inch, down to stand by him. I knew by his age, if he WERE auditioning tomorrow, it wouldn't be for the same part I was trying for, therefore I felt it was safe to talk with him, knowing we were not competitors.
Even though the crowd was large, they weren't noisy. They seemed to respect the singers on the juke-box which was playing show tunes by Merman, Martin, Holliday, Carroll, and Streisand. It was quiet enough to start a conversation.
"Hi. My name is Alan." I began.
"Hi, Alan. I'm Howard." he replied with a soft smile.
"Are you an actor?" I inquired.
"No, no, I gave that up years ago. What about you?"
"I will be, once I get a show." I said."I'm going to an audition tomorrow."
"Oh? What show?"
"A new one called 'Romantics-Revisited'. Have you heard of it?"
"I think I read something about it in the trades...Are you going for the chorus?"
"Oh, no. I'm auditioning for the young male lead."
"Nervous?" he asked.
"Kinda. I know I'm right for the part, if I can only convince the powers that hire."
"Is this your first audition?"
"My first BIG one. I just graduated from the Actors Academy last Thursday."
"And you're going after the lead with no experience?"
"Oh, I've got loads of stuff on my resume...mostly hokey things from other cities, that no one can check up on."
"Is that the way you guys do it...lie about what you've actually done?"
"It's the same with any job...show business or otherwise. Everyone lies on a resume."
"Well, just suppose they see a show on your resume you lied about and they ask you something about the play or even ask you to sing a song from it...then what?"
"I got that covered. I only list shows that I've listened to the albums about a million times and know every word to every song."
"You think you can get away with that?"
"Sure, I'm an actor. I can convince anybody of anything."
"Well, I hope so, for your sake."
"What do you do for a living?" I asked.
"Oh, I've been sorta idle for the past few months. I'm supposed to start a new job tomorrow."
"What do you do?"
"I sorta work as a job-finder. People come to me looking for work and I interview them, so to speak, and see if I can place them."
"It must be nice to be able to hand out jobs as opposed to trying to find one."
"That's the best part in my line of work. That's why I was curious when I asked you about 'lying' on your resume."
"Don't you think people who come to you looking for work, do that all the time?"
"Sometimes, but usually I can see right through them. I can always tell when someone is trying to pull a "fast one" on me."
"Remind me NEVER to apply for a job from you," I joked.
"Why not? It might be fun to see how good an actor you are...See if you can convince me to hire you by lying about things you haven't done."
"Don't get me wrong, Howard, please. To me, what's more important is showing you what I can do NOW. What I've done in the past should have no bearing on how I could help you."
"Touche'". he said, "Are you here alone?"
"Yes, I always go out alone at night,"
"Anyone home waiting for you?"
"No, I live alone...cheaply...but alone. I had a couple of classmates who lived with me for a while, but we didn't see eye-to-eye on who could have the apartment all to himself when needed."
"You mean like for over night sex partners or something?"
"Sorta, Mainly we had "gender" disagreements."
"Oh? What kind?"
"The two guys always wanted to bring some girl home. Sometimes they even brought the same girl home to share her."
"And they wouldn't let you in or their activity?"
"I chose NOT to join them. I'll let my hair down, If they'd let me go to bed with one of them or some GUY they'd brought home, then I wouldn't have seen things differently."
"That's one way of letting me know you're gay."
"I thought YOU were. I thought only gay guys frequented this bar,"
"That's not true."
"Oh! You're straight then?"
"No, I didn't say that. It's just that I know a lot of straight guys that come in here for a drink and the atmosphere...Sometimes Broadway stars come in here and a lot of tourists stop by hoping to catch a glimpse of one of them."
"Look, Howard, I apologize if you think I was trying to hit on you."
"I didn't think that you were...not in the least."
"Good, because I wasn't."
"Why not? Am I not your type?"
"Sure. You could be anyone's type."
"But you're saying that I just don't turn you on?" he said, looking at me carefully to see how I would answer.
"I could be turned on by you." I replied.
"What would it take?"
"Nothing more than you've shown me already."
"What if I told you I was attracted to you?"
"I'd be flattered." I said, after a pause.
It was his turn to pause. He took a sip of his drink and turned back to me.
"Well, I am."
"You are what?"
"I am VERY attracted to you."
"Thank you." I managed. I wasn't sure if I wanted to know where this conversation was leading.
"How about you? Are you attracted to me in the least bit?"
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't."
"There you go with that "lying" again."
"I didn't lie. I was implying that I was attracted to you the moment I noticed you standing down here. Why do you think I plowed my way just to get closer to you?"
"Maybe you wanted me to buy you a drink?"
"Nope. I seldom drink. I hate the taste of alcohol."
"Do you do drugs, then?"
"God, no. I was brought up by a very strict religious mother. I've never had a marijuana cigarette in my mouth. I've sure as hell never snorted anything up my nose...and I hate needles. So why would I want to do any kind of drugs?"
"Don't make a speech. I just asked very simply."
"And I answered you as simply as I could about the way I feel! Besides, I want to be an actor...and an actor is MEMORY. Why the fuck would I want to mess up my mind with liquor and drugs?"
"Good point!...You convinced me."
"What about you? I'll bet you DO do drugs."
"Don't kid yourself. I lost an older brother to coke and heroin. I swore I would never try either of them...and I never have."
"Well, at least we have THAT in common." I said,
"Do you have an aversion toward sex, the way you do with drugs and alcohol?"
"No...with sex, I have an addiction. I like guys...all kinds of guys."
"Even older ones?" he asked.
"Only if they're good-looking."
"How about me? Do I meet your criteria?"
"To NOT like you would be saying I don't like myself,"
"What do you mean?"
"The minute I laid my eyes on you, I thought I was looking into a mirror...we look so much alike...or hadn't you noticed?"
"I think that's know as Narcissism."
"Perhaps. Are you narcissistic, too?"
"Most definitely. When I saw you I thought I was looking at a younger version of myself."
"Howard, do you want to stop all this bullshit and let's go to your place or mine and have sex?"
"My God! You're blunt, too."
"Well, do you?" I pressed.
"Do you think I would let the night go by without trying to find out how much we look alike from head to toe...undressed?"
"I've been about to die to find out what you're hiding beneath those expensive trousers." I answered.
"So you noticed the cut of my weave? I'm impressed. You're becoming more like me every moment."
"Your place or mine?" I finally asked.
"Where do you live?"
"On West 75th between Columbus and Amsterdam." I replied.
"Let's go to yours. I live all the way over on the East Side and I don't want you having a long way to go home. After all, you want to look your best for your audition tomorrow."
"First, you've got to realize that I'm not in your financial bracket. My place is not fancy or much to look at, but you're welcome to come to my place if you like."
"Who said I was rich? I know you've been a student. I was one once, myself.
You DO have a bed, don't you. We don't have to make out on the floor, do we?"
"I have a double bed with a good firm mattress. It's held two people before. I guess it'll make it through one more time."
"Then, YOUR place it is. I'll pay the tab, while you go out and get us a taxi,"
"Thanks. I'll meet you outside."
Ten minutes later the cab pulled up to my apartment. We entered my one big room and I turned on the window air conditioning unit. The best way to describe the atmosphere of a tightly closed dwelling in New York is "dead air". I offered my guest a soda. I somehow didn't think cooking sherry was apropos to the tone of the expected activity. Coca-cola on the rocks was suitable for him.
"Let me open the door to the bedroom to let some cool air circulate in there." I said.
The dimensions of the tiny bedroom was only about 10'x 12'. It was large enough for a double bed with about a foot and a half space on either side. Before I started inviting guests, I kept the bed moved to one side of the room giving myself a wider walkway, but with a guest, this meant one person would have to crawl over the other in case he wanted to use the bathroom sometime during the night. My large room had a fold-out sofa and one chair. At the south end of the room, there was a small built-in kitchenette with sink, small oven stove and a counter-high refrigerator. The door next to the sink led to a tiny bathroom with a toilet, shower stall, but no lavatory. I had to use the kitchen sink to shave and brush my teeth. But hell, this apartment was built to live in not entertain guests.
I thought some cool jazz might help lower the temperature of the room, so I went over to my stereo and selected an album by Paul Horn. Saxophone music was always personable and intimate because the "sax" has been called the instrument closest to the human voice. A good sax player such as Horn, Paul Desmond, or Johnny Hodges could sometimes say things you wanted to say without a spoken word. I fixed the cokes and brought them over to join Howard on the couch. I'd only turned on one 50 watt lamp, so the lighting and the low music could speed up the romantic foreplay. I put the drinks on the coffee table and sat on the far end of the sofa away from him. He patted the sofa cushion separating the two of us and hinted, "Why don't you come over here, a little closer?"
I scooted across the seat, stopping where he had stretched out his arm on the back of the sofa. Once I was settled, his arm went around my shoulder and pulled me into his chest and shoulder.
"You wanna smooch a while or just get down to business?" he asked.
"Let's just sit like this for a little while and listen to the music while we drink our cokes. Maybe then, the bedroom will be cool enough to be bearable."
"Tell me, Alan, why don't you have a steady boyfriend. I mean, you're young, good-looking, sure of yourself, and according to what you said, 'talented'?"
"I don't know. I've learned by living in New York for the past two years, everyone is always bustling...in a hurry. No one takes the time to get to know one another. It's always, 'wham! bam! thank you ma'am!...see ya! or I'll call you some time.' I've never met anyone who wanted more than just a few rolls in the hay...and then it's 'off to the next person or victim', whichever the case may be."
"You've never had a long relationship...not even in high school?"
"Nope. How about you?" I asked.
"I've had a couple. One lasted about five years."
"What happened? Did one of you get tired and looked for greener pastures?"
"No, he died."
"I'm sorry."
"It's quite all right. He was a little bit older than you. He was a dancer with lots of talent and lots to give to the world. One night he came home with a splitting headache after a long day of rehearsal. I gave him a massage, fixed him a nice hot bath, and I left him to soak while I went to the kitchen to prepare his supper. I stayed in the kitchen about a half hour and went back to the bathroom to dry him off and he was slumped down in the tub...dead. I tried to revive him. I called 911. The paramedics worked on him for almost an hour, but it was futile. A couple of days later when his parents came to get his body, the doctor who performed the autopsy said he'd suffered a brain aneurysm. No warning. 'Snap!'...just like that and he was gone."
I knew Howard wanted to talk, but a discussion about death and dying was no way to start off a romantic evening. I wished I had picked livelier music...something like Sousa's "Stars and Stripes Forever" or the overture to "Gypsy".
I sat there silently to let him continue or change the subject if he liked. After all, I was born and raised in the South and we do show our manners. especially to older people. What the fuck was I saying? Howard was NOT old. He was quieter and more mature than I was accustomed to tricking with, but certainly not old.
"Sorry, Alan, I didn't mean to be a 'downer'. You brought me here for fun and games, not an evening of reverie."
"It's O.K. Say whatever you want. It's just that I'm not used to this kind of conversation. Keep talking, I might learn something."
"You mean from a wise old sage?"
"You're not old." I said. "When the lights are low, age is not a consideration."
"You don't normally go out with older guys, do you?"
"I haven't made a habit of it." I said. "But remember, I told you in the bar that I was attracted to you."
"That's right, you did, didn't you?...Come here...do you mind if I kiss you?"
"I wouldn't mind at all." I said, moistening my lips against the side of my Coke glass.
He pulled my head close to his and kissed me more passionately than any kiss I'd ever known. My body seemed to melt the longer my lips stayed on his. His tongue began to explore every hidden crevice of my oral cavity. His right arm went around my back and chest, pulling me even tighter into his. I had to turn my body to steady myself. My leg crossed over finding its way in between his. I inched my knee upward to nest in his crotch, finding a firmness growing there. He retrieved his hand from my back and started tugging at the front of my shirt so that he could go underneath and explore my chest, tweaking my nipples with his delicate pinching finger-tips. He didn't want to break the kiss...neither did I. I wasn't sure what the record was for holding a kiss in Guinness' book, but who was timing? I almost got tickled. This was one verse Irving Berlin had left out of Annie's and Frank's duet, "Any kiss you can hold, I can hold longer...I can hold any kiss longer than you." Was if possible to get undressed and have some form of sex without interrupting a kiss? Probably, if my shirt had had buttons...of all the nights to be wearing a fucking turtle neck!!
I felt his hand unbuckling my belt and unsnapping then unzipping my jeans. His fingers edged their way beneath the waistband of my briefs and plowed through my pubic hair to grab my rising organ. It was he who broke away from the kiss to comment.
"Ahhh, very nice...very nice indeed." he said, as he squeezed tighter on my penis. "It feels just the way I imagined it."
"Would you like to see it?" I asked in my sexiest voice.
"You show me yours and I'll show you mine." he whispered back, imitating Bogart.
We slowly stood up and began removing our clothing.
"Hey, does this couch fold out into a bed?" he asked.
"Yeah, but it doesn't have sheets on it?"
"Who cares? It's dry and clean, isn't it? I mean, I won't lie down on any wet semenal spots, will I?" he joked.
"No, you clown, I don't run a bordello here, you know." I joked back.
"Too bad. Lying in wet spots can be very erotic."
"Well if you need a wet spot to turn you on, go for a walk around the block and when you get back, I'll see if I can accommodate you."
"So you DO have a sense of humor! I like that. You become more attractive to me by the minute." he said.
"Speaking of minutes, we'd better decide what we're gonna do and where because you have to get some sleep. Didn't you say you were starting a new job tomorrow?"
"And you have your audition. Do you know what song you're gonna use?"
"I have it narrowed down to three...Why? Do you know anything about music..."auditioning" music?"
"Just what I learned from my friend, the dancer. He used to audition for parts, but the kid couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. He was one of the best dancers I'd ever seen...great rhythm...but not vocally."
"He should have auditioned with 'Johnny One Note'." I kidded.
"He did! Goddammit! That's the VERY tune he used."
"Are you serious?" I asked.
"No, but it makes a good story."
"Come on...decide...bed or sofa-bed?"
"Sofa bed. It looks like there's more room in here...and this room's had more chance to cool off."
"O.K., but don't say I didn't warn you about the mattress buttons."
"I'll brave it. If we get hurt, we can lick our wounds...among other things." he said, smiling.
This guy was so fucking charming. He had told me how more attractive I was becoming to him, but the charm seemed to be working both ways. He was looking more handsome and younger by the minute. I was stupid to think this might become more than just a one-night-stand...but some day or some night, something like this would happen and I WOULD meet the right guy...but why not tonight? Was I not ready for a relationship? Probably not. I had my career to think about first...THEN I might consider settling down with someone. I quickly dismissed the idea, knowing I would never see Howard again after tonight...so I would just have fun and make the most of it!
I unfolded the couch, went into the bedroom and gathered up two pillows and threw them on the bare mattress of the sofa-bed. I went over to the stereo and placed about six LP's. The mood changed slightly but was better when the next record started to play George Shearing's "Blue Chiffon". The first tune was one of my favorites, "Love Wise, You're Perfect". I walked toward the bed and stood about three feet away from him. We were both naked, but the light seemed to make mysterious shadows on just the right places of our bodies. We stood there for a moment, not moving, just sizing up each other. We looked more alike nude than we had fully-clothed...even our sex organs looked identical in width and length. I hoped that he could see the same similarities that I could.
He stretched his hand out for me to take and slowly led me to the bed. We lay down facing each other...every part touching from our lips to our toes. As the kiss progressed, our bodies seemed to mesh into one. Something more than "just sex" was happening to me. I suddenly cared what I was doing and I cared what he was doing to me. Was this what love felt like? I'd never been in love, therefore, I guessed I had never MADE love.
The next hour and a half was Neverland, Disney World and Dorothy's 'Oz', all rolled into one.. We ran our lips and tongues over every conceivable part of each other's body. We stopped once in a sixty-nine position and maintained it until we both felt an eminent climax, so we stopped and went on to other explorations. It was his eyes, not his words, that asked me to fuck him. I was lost in his gaze as I put on a condom. My eyes never moved as I went on to enter him. He was sending me a message in some intimate language I'd never heard. I wanted to please him more than I wanted to please myself. This was new to me, too. He didn't offer to reciprocate the intercourse afterwards. Instead, he went down on me and made love to my aching member. This was not a blow job. Howard was worshipping my penis with licks and kisses.
I don't remember how many orgasms each of us had because the whole session seemed like one long climax. I don't know when I came or stopped...I just kept going and going...and so did he. The only noticeable way we had of knowing that one of us had climaxed again was when we stopped to kiss again.
The night had just begun, but it was endless. It must have been 12:30 AM when we decided to stop. The music had played non-stop throughout our session. Barbara Cook was singing now. The song was from the Broadway show, "Plain and Fancy".
Howard and I were lying side by side on our backs, looking at the ceiling and listening to the lyrics, "All at once the room is reeling...Bells are pealing...Butterflies are fluttering inside. All at once I get a feeling...just like a new born bride...This is all very new to me."
"I really have to go." Howard said. "I don't want to, but I have to."
"I know."
"I had fun." he said.
"So did I."
"Thank you."
"No. Thank you."
"Would you like to do this again."
"Maybe...some time..." I said.
"Would you like to exchange phone numbers."
"No." I said, tentatively.
"Why not?" he asked, quietly.
"Because I never exchanged numbers with anyone. I'm a great believer in fate. If we're supposed to meet again...then it will happen...it won't be the result of us making it happen."
"I can understand that...Do you go to the bar often?"
"Not really...but I'll make a point of going more frequently...and then if we meet and feel something happening between us...well, we'll just let it happen."
"Fair enough."
Howard got out of bed and put his clothes on. I propped my head up with my elbow and watched. I was trying to get as many pictures of him as I could in my mind. Once he was dressed he patted his chest and legs.
"How do I look? Freshly screwed?"
"Only to someone who's just experienced the same thing. I wouldn't worry about the cab driver putting the make on you if that's what concerns you."
"How do you know that I don't keep a log with the names of cab drivers I pick up nightly."
"Huhn uhn! Cab drivers are not your type." I said.
"And just what is my type...young budding actors?" he asked, grinning.
"Sometimes...but not always." I replied. "Hey, before you go...do you have a cigarette?"
"Yeah...I didn't know you smoked."
"I don't...just sometimes...to relax me."
"You're worried about your audition?"
"Not really?"
"What, then?"
"I'm not sure. I've got a nervous feeling in my stomach but it's not audition butterflies. It's funny but I started feeling it the moment you said you had to leave."
"You don't want me to go."
"Yes and no. I know we both have important things to do tomorrow...but I felt better...safer...being around you tonight."
"You're not getting a school boy crush on me, are you? I don't have to worry about you stalking me, do I?"
"Nothing like that...It's just something I've never felt before. For the first time...when you started to leave...I started feeling alone. I've been a loner most of my life...I've felt lonely before...but never felt 'alone'. This may sound strange to you...but you're the first person I've ever gone to bed with that I was sorry to see leave."
"Uh oh...Looks like I've created a problem for you."
"It's O.K. I'll get over it. Maybe it's best if you DO go. I don't want to feel any kind of attachment toward you."
"You're feeling this way after one romp in the sack?"
"Please don't put it that way. To me, this was more than just a romp...and I can't explain it."
"I'd better go and leave you with your thoughts. Concentrate on the song you're gonna sing tomorrow."
"O.K."
"I hope we meet again...soon."
"Me, too."
"Good night." he said.
"Goodbye." I replied.
He left.
I lay there smoking the cigarette, staring at the ceiling, and listening to Judy Garland's soundtrack of "A Star is Born". She was just finishing, "It's a new world I see...a new world for me" and segueing into, "The night is bitter. The stars have lost their glitter. The winds grow colder and suddenly you're older...and all because of the man that got away...". The music fit my mood exactly. I was beginning to cry, for I'd met someone, unexpectedly, that perhaps I could care for and the thought was gnawing at my insides. Did I like Howard because he reminded me so much of myself...or did I like him because he possessed all the things I was lacking? I couldn't be sure. I don't know how long I lay there before falling asleep.
The next day, I awoke feeling tired and empty...like the morning after you'd heard your best friend had died the night before. I shaved, showered, brushed my teeth and drank a Carnation's Instant Breakfast. The auditions started at 11:00 AM. The mood I was in...I didn't care if I went or not. Fuck the show!...Fuck the song!...Fuck the audition!...Nothing seemed important this morning. I wished now that I'd gotten Howard's phone number. That was stupid. It could be days...weeks...months...before I might run into him again. I didn't know where he lived. He hadn't said where he worked. I only wished I knew why I felt the way I did. I went to the closet to get the brown shirt and pants I had decided to wear to the audition. I looked at the autumnal ensemble and said, "Fuck it!" as I put on a pair of jeans and a black turtle neck. I went to the mirror and combed my hair in the usual way...no 'period' hair-do's today! I just sorta ran my fingers through it, grabbed the three pieces of sheet music, and went out the door. I would decide on the subway which audition piece to use. Fuck it...it didn't matter!
I got off the subway at 50th Street and walked down toward the audition on 46th. When I turned the corner off Broadway, I saw a line about a mile long. Everyone and his cousin had come to audition. I saw most of the guys already had numbers in their hands, so I made my way up to the door and saw a guy sitting at a desk, taking names and handing out cards with numbers on them. The number he gave me was 721. That meant, the producer and director had to sit through 720 songs before it was my turn. Fuck that, too! What the hell? I was already there. I had my music. I had a number. I remembered all the scads of jobs I could still get in summer stock. So what if I didn't get this show. I was taught at school you could always learn a lot just by experiencing the process of an audition.
It was now 2:30 PM. The line was getting shorter. Instead of "eight bars and out", at the speed the line was moving, everyone was probably only getting to sing "four bars and out...Hurry!". Fifteen minutes later I was inside the door...only 25 or so to go ahead of me. I soon got close enough to hear some of the other guys. The pianist wasn't even giving them an "intro". He was hitting one note to give the guy his pitch and then the guy just sorta "cut loose" and started singing "cold". I was right, before the guy even sang eight bars, I could hear a voice from beyond yelling, "NEXT!". Goddamn, this was humiliating! All these guys representing millions of hours rehearsing and zillions of dollars on lessons and they were hustled off with no chance and with no respect. No wonder they called auditions "cattle calls". That's what we were...cattle...being herded off to the slaughter house. I suddenly hated all directors and producers I'd never met...and never hoped to meet.
Only two more and it was my turn. My butterflies had turned into Mothras from some Japanese sci-if movie.
"NEXT!"
Only one more to go.
The poor kid in front of me had started the refrain of "There's No Business Like Show Business" in the wrong key from the piano players. I cringed, gritted my teeth, and held my breath in embarrassment for him. The director didn't have the courtesy to say "thank you" to him. Instead he shouted.
"NEXT!"
With wobbly knees, I walked out onto the stage into the spotlight.
"I see your name is Alan Walker." a voice in the blackness of the seats said.
"Yessir."
"Well, Mr. Walker, I see on your resume, you've done quite a number of musicals."
"Yessir."
"Where have you performed this massive list in your short lifetime? Most guys twice your age only have half the shows you done on their resumes."
"Oh, everywhere from New York to California and as far south as Miami." I lied,
"Well, with all this abundance of material you have to choose from, just what have you chosen to entertain us with today?"
"Sir?"
"Mr. Walker...what song are you going to sing?"
"Oh...that...wait and I'll give my music to the pianist."
"That might be nice. The pianist possesses many talents but mind-reading is not one of them."
"Sorry, sir...do you just want the last eight bars?" I asked nervously.
"Why don't you begin at the beginning and I'll cut you off when I've heard enough."
"Yessir."
I walked over to the piano and handed the little man one of my sheets of music. I had settled on "Just Once in a Lifetime" from "Stop the World."
I went back to center stage and looked at the pianist who promptly hit a b-flat to give me the pitch of my first note.
I took a deep breath to support my tone and let it flow out as I sang the first word.
"Just..."
"NEXT!" I heard in a loud voice.
GOD DAMN!!! I'd only sung one note and I was through...finished...and mad as hell. I didn't move. I just stood there looking into the darkness at the unknown assailant who'd just killed my chances. I was in shock due to disbelief.
It was at that moment I heard a roar of boisterous laughter. Now the shithead was making fun of me. This might have been my first and last audition, but I was going out into the seats and knock the shit out of the one who had just defiled my talent. The laughter grew louder as I got angrier. I suddenly jumped off the stage and ran toward the laughing asshole...I drew my hand up into a fist as I charged. As I approached. I could see three men sitting at a tiny desk illuminated by a 25 watt goose-neck lamp. I didn't know which of the three had humiliated me, I would smack all three of them with one swing.
I was less than six feet away from them when they looked up and saw the anger in my eyes. They also saw my clenched fist and became aware of my intention to use it.
"Alan, Alan, Alan, calm down," one of them said. I was so angry I didn't know who of the three had spoken. Before I knew it, two of them had gotten around to the back of me, grabbing each of my arms and holding me in a restraint lock. The third walked up and put his arms around me as if to embrace me.
Had I gotten into the wrong theatre for the wrong audition? And why was this guy holding me?
He finally put his hands on either side of my face so I could stare at him in his eyes.
"You little shit. It's me, Howard. I was just playing a little joke on you."
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
"I'm doing job placement...trying to cast my new show."
"But..." I tried to say.
"You never asked me my last name last night...and I would've been afraid to give it to you any way for fear it would upset our evening and your audition."
"Then what is your last name?" I demanded.
"I'm Howard Grosbardt. I'm the director of this show. This is Mr. Siegel, the producer and Alex Whitehead, my stage manager."
"Hello." I squeaked.
"Now would you like to audition for real?"
"If you think I stand a chance."
"I happen to know the producer AND the director and I are very close. I think you stand a good chance."
"Let me calm down a minute. If you weren't the boss, I'd be mad as hell at you." I said.
"Go back on stage and tell Larry what you want to sing and in what key. He knows practically every song ever written."
I smiled and went back up to the stage. I walked over to the piano and whispered to the pianist and he looked surprised and then gave me an understanding smile. I moved back to the spotlight while Larry played my "intro". In my mellowest baritone voice I began singing to the director.
"What a day this has been!...What a rare mood I'm in!...Why, it's almost like being in love..."
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