My Trip Down the Pink Carpet (10 page)

I gave Billy Bob one of the best presents he ever received. I had somehow gotten ahold of this videotape of a televangelist from Dallas, Texas, who had some minor tics. Someone within his ministry had taken portions of his sermons and added fart noises. The preacher would holler “Jeeeeesus!” and his head would jerk in a slight tic—and then a real loud fart noise would thunder forth. Or he’d yell “O Lord, I sense thy presence!” and a long, slow one would venture out. I gave this tape to Billy Bob for Christmas. I have never seen anyone laugh that hard in my whole life. At one point, he lay on the floor holding his sides, begging me to stop the tape. I would put the tape on “pause” until Billy Bob caught his breath, and then I’d hit “play” and he’d guffaw and carry on like the town drunk.

But through it all, I could not get the size of his wiener off my mind. He’d be going on about something or another and all I could think was,
I wonder if we’re talking girth as well as length
? Or he’d be telling me a funny story about a man in his hometown they called “the fart sniffer” and all I could think was,
Cut or uncut?

It was a terrible obsession.

When
Hearts Afire
was cancelled right out from under us, I was sad beyond belief. All I could think about was Billy Bob marching off into the sunset with his big penis. I’d probably never see him again for a really long time.

And I didn’t.

Years later, I picked a visiting cousin of mine up at the airport. She immediately informed me that all she wanted to do was see movie stars. I told her I knew a few places where we might go, but first I wanted to take her to a restaurant near Malibu called Gladstone’s. It sits right on the ocean and has a real California feel to it. As we stepped out of the car and into a beautiful Pacific Ocean breeze, I heard an old, familiar voice.

“And then, there’s Leslie Jordan…. He’s a character if there ever was one.”

It was Billy Bob! My cousin’s mouth fell open. My mouth fell open. He looked so good! Thin, but very healthy and vibrant. There was a newfound calmness and serenity that I did not remember. He had his two sons with him; they were now practically teenagers. We exchanged pleasantries, but all I could think about was his big dick. And with my sweet cousin standing right there beside me!

I almost gathered up the courage to ask Billy Bob for a peek. Just so I could put it to rest. It had been been on my mind for years and years. Why deny me that? But I knew it was not meant to be. There are probably a lot of things I’ll go through life without seeing—the
Mona Lisa,
the Taj Mahal, the pyramids. And I’ll probably never see Billy Bob’s wiener, either.

I
SUPPOSE
fans of
Will & Grace
might assume that the role of Beverley Leslie was written for me. Not true. Believe it or not, the part was written for Joan Collins. As the story goes, Miss Collins was supposed to steal the maid, Rosario, away from the character Karen Walker, played by Megan Mullally—thus leading to a
Dynasty
–like catfight over a billiard table. Each actress was supposed to pull the other’s wig off. Apparently Miss Collins had backed out of the role.

Who knows why? Who cares? It was certainly advantageous to Mr. Leslie Jordan. That’s all that really matters.

I was told by my agent to put on the adorable white suit that John Ritter had given me when I worked with him on
Hearts Afire
and trot over to the
Will & Grace
production offices. The producers wanted a Truman Capote type. I walked in wearing my white suit and chattering away like castanets.

The producers took one look and said, “You’re it!”

I did one episode. This led to another, then to another. And all of a sudden, I was family. I became a real part of the show. When I won the Emmy, I was so honored. I have always felt that there are two ways to combat homophobia. One is through humor. I learned that during dodgeball in junior high school. Some redneck would holler “Smear the queer!” and I’d have to tap-dance or get creamed. And the second way to combat homophobia is to “put a face on it.” America welcomed these characters into their homes. We laughed. We loved. And progress was made. I was privileged to be a small part of that.

In the many years I worked on
Will & Grace,
I cannot remember a guest star I was more excited about than Matt Lauer. I was not around for Elton John, Madonna, or Cher. But not even Jennifer Lopez or Matt Damon excited me like Matt Lauer. (I do remember a slight crush on Seth Green. I remember wishing he had an overbearing mother and a weak father. We would make an adorable couple.) But Matt Lauer still won, hands down. When I first saw him, I got weak in the knees. The first thing you notice about Matt Lauer is how skinny he is. Skinny and tall as a Georgia pine.

Matt Lauer is also handsome, in a very unconventional way. You cannot take your eyes off of him. He’s got it in spades. Every time he came around, all I could do was giggle like a shy Japanese girl behind her fan. It was ridiculous. He introduced himself and I just giggled and simpered with my hand over my mouth.

I thought,
Get a grip!
But when I tried to talk, my voice held a fairy-tale quiver. He must have thought I was retarded. Or maybe he thought I was slightly autistic.

He finally put me at ease with his talents as a good interviewer. He asked a couple of questions about me and that was all it took. We actors love to wax poetic about our favorite subject—ourselves!

We were shooting one of the “live” episodes, which require a lot of rehearsing. There is no margin for error, so we did each scene over and over again. In one scene, Will (Eric McCormack), is at a party at the mansion of Karen Walker (Megan Mullally), and through a series of events ends up in the bathroom without his pants on.

Will storms out of the bathroom clad only in his underwear and immediately pops back in and sheepishly says, “In case anyone’s wondering, Beverley Leslie comes up to my penis.”

Then Grace (Debra Messing) was supposed to deliver the zinger: “Oh, so you just tea-bagged a dwarf!”

Well, there was much discussion as to whether that would get past the censors. And sure enough, the notes came in: “‘Tea bag’ can be used as a noun! It
cannot
be used as a verb! Period. End of discussion.”

We were all standing around tossing out alternate lines when Matt Lauer leaned in to me and asked, “Is that really a popular term with the general public?”

I thought he did not know what “tea-bagging” meant. So I said, “Well, it’s where you put your balls in someone’s mouth and go up and down.”

“I know what the term means!” he spouted. “What I’m wondering is, how many people out in TV land would even get the joke?”

I could have died on the spot. I was mortified. Oh, how I wished for the floor to just open up and swallow me! I would go down in infamy as the dummy who tried to teach Matt Lauer what “tea-bagging” meant. What if I ever got famous enough to be on the
Today
show? They’d never let me on!

“Good Lord, no, we can’t have Leslie Jordan on the show,” they’d say. “He has a terrible potty mouth.”

But let me tell you something about Matt Lauer. He has a great sense of humor and is perfectly willing to make fun of himself. He rolls with the punches. And that’s what makes him good at what he does. The whole tea bag joke was replaced with a joke insinuating that Matt Lauer sits down when he pees! Now that is a good sport. A manly man like that, letting people think he sits down when he pees.

I doubt he even remembers our conversation. I hope not. Because I still have a huge crush on Matt Lauer. When I see him on that morning show, all I can do is giggle.

I
F YOU
had asked me in 1997, the year I finally got sober, if I was a proud, openly gay man, I would have replied, “Honey, I’ve ridden floats half naked right down the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard!”

But when my medicine was taken away, the oddest thing happened. At forty-two years of age, I found myself completely riddled with internal homophobia. I had first started drinking and using drugs when I was fourteen years old and that was the same time I was coming to the realization I was gay. I found out pretty quickly it was a lot easier to deal with being gay when I was high. So I just stayed high (or sort of high) for about thirty years! Was there a problem with that?

One of my counselors in rehab was a real funny Mexican queen. He told me, “Girl, you are a fag-hating fag. Do you realize that?”

I replied, “I don’t hate fags. I only hate really effeminate fags.”

The counselor looked me up and down. “Hello!”

When, consciously or unconsciously, we recognize the things we hate about ourselves in others, that is when the finger pointing starts. I hated being a sissy. I have been a big sissy all my life. I was consumed with self-loathing. And who could blame me? What is the worst thing a kid can call another kid?

“Fag!” “Queer!” “Pussy boy!”

All my life, I have been told that I am self-absorbed. I can remember my mother telling me, even when I was little, “Honey, it is not always about
you
.” And every single time I have attempted any kind of long-term relationship, the person has walked out the door with those same words.

But I never believed that. I thought that to be self-absorbed you had to think highly of yourself. I thought only conceited people who loved staring at their reflection in the mirror were self-involved. Wrong. The most self-absorbed people are actually consumed with self-loathing. They really cannot see beyond their internal hatred, and it becomes all about them.

My journey into sobriety has been an amazing journey into my Queerdom. I realize now that my own homophobia had caused my self-loathing. There is a line in Del Shores’s play
Southern Baptist Sissies
that is an achingly accurate portrait of growing up gay in the Baptist church. One of the characters looks around the church where he was raised and says, “This is where we learned to hate ourselves.” It really struck a chord with me.

I now consider my “coming out” period to be the first ten years of my new sober life. Even though I had been living as an “out” gay man for over twenty-three years, it was all in an alcohol-and drug-induced fog.

My rehab counselor made an astute judgment. He told me that it seemed from listening to my story that my greatest fear was of groups of heterosexual men.

“No shit,” I replied. “It wasn’t exactly a picnic on the playground!”

He strongly suggested that I join an all-male, or stag, recovery group. He told me that gay men have no idea how to socialize. All we know how to do is sexualize. The thought of walking into a room full of heterosexual men—especially a room where you’re supposed to share your innermost secrets—made my stomach do triple backflips.

But at the time, thank goodness, I was desperate enough to do as I was told. I joined a stag recovery group. At the first meeting I sat in my chair, trying not to shake like a little Chihuahua. I was that scared. It didn’t help matters that I had forgotten to leave my precious “murse” in the car. A murse is a man purse. Plenty of straight boys carry bags, but it is the way the bag is carried that makes it a murse.

The room smelled of testosterone. Caveman testosterone. I felt so left out. I felt there was something going on that I have never been able to feel a part of, something that seems to come so easily to heterosexual men. It’s that back-slapping, loud-crowing, boot-thumping, crotch-grabbing, spitting-on-the-floor brand of masculinity that has always escaped me. We went around the room introducing ourselves and I fell into the old trick of trying to lower my voice.

It was useless.

I could tell that they were on to me. Near the end of the meeting, the leader called on me to share. I thought I was going to shit my pants. To make matters worse, I had to get up and walk to a podium. I tried not to walk like Bette Midler in concert. I was very self-conscious, trying not to swish. But as I stood there facing the enemy, something cathartic happened. I instinctively knew this was the jumping-off point. It was like when I had finally gotten up the nerve to mount the ladder to the high-diving board. I remember looking down knowing I had to jump. There was no way I was going to make all those kids behind me go back down the ladder to let me down.

It was sink or swim.

I took a deep breath. “My name is Leslie and I am an alcoholic and a drug addict. But more importantly tonight, at least for me and my recovery, I need to say this out loud: I am a homosexual.”

I paused. I was waiting for one of those guys to snicker and shout “No shit!” But nothing happened. The room was deathly quiet.

“And I am scared to death of you guys,” I continued nervously. “I am scared that you will be disgusted by me. I am scared that you will laugh at me behind my back. And I am real scared that you will shun me. But I am here tonight because of my sobriety. I was given direction to join this group and I am too scared right now to not take direction. I guess this is what you call a surrender.”

For the first time in my life, I told the truth.

I was swamped after the meeting. The unconditional love in that room was overwhelming. That night, I became a part of something very important. I never missed a meeting for years and years. It’s not as if we all went out together and bird-dogged chicks, but I became an integral part of that group.

I had always thought heterosexual men were fearless and shameless. I learned from the group that heterosexual men are more fear-and shame-ridden than any gay man I have ever met. I don’t think little boys are raised right. We are raised to not show our fear. We are raised to be the protector, and not to be protected. The emotional landscape of most men is a minefield of fear and shame.

When I heard some of these huge, butch men take the podium and talk, some with tears streaming down their faces, it was so poignant, I often forgot to breathe. A couple of times I realized I was not breathing and almost toppled over.

Oh, great,
I thought.
What would they think if I fainted out of my chair still clutching my murse?

One of the men in that group suggested I carry a card he gave me. It read:
WHAT YOU THINK OF ME IS NONE OF MY BUSINESS.

I carried that card in my wallet until it fell apart, and by that time I no longer needed it.

I remember when I was six years old, I walked out of Sunday school and told my daddy that I was never, ever going back. I stomped my foot to get my point across, as I was already a little fledgling drama queen.

“Oh, son, what are you talking about? You love Sunday school. You love Mrs. Townsend and all the Bible stories and games.”

“But, Daddy, they laugh at me.”

My dad got down on one knee and patiently explained to me, man to man, the difference between laughing “at me” and laughing “with me.” He told me that I had been given a gift from God, and that was the ability to make people laugh. What an amazing gift! My dad then told me a Bible story about someone hiding his light under a bushel. He made me promise that I would never hide my light, that I would always let it shine.

I learned to be myself in front of those straight men. I learned that there is no big shame in being somewhat effeminate. I learned that people are drawn to others who are comfortable in their own skin—that the most off-putting people are the ones who try to pretend that they are something other than what they really are.

I learned to let my light shine.

But most important, those men taught me what it means to be a man. They picked up where my dad had left off, when he was snatched away from me when I was just eleven. It was as if I had been in a holding pattern since his death, just waiting for someone to take up the slack. I became their eager apprentice. I learned that being a man has very little to do with how far you can throw a football, how much weight you can lift, or how many women you’ve bedded—all those things that I am such a failure at. It matters not one iota that I never learned to walk and to talk like a man. Those men taught me that a man just has to have a code to live by. And they helped me find that code.

As long as I remain true to my own code, I am a man.