On Making Off: Misadventures Off-Off Broadway (4 page)

Instead of relaxing and learning the role, I rattled through every possible mistake, convincing myself that my fate lay somewhere among the possible disasters. Luckily, the Soothsayer hitched a ride and arrived five minutes before curtain. Pushing this memory aside, I reminded myself this was
All Male Peep Show
, not
Hamlet
.

“
Go sit down, and Beth will bring the script to you,” Karen said.

Bobby and I descended into the small theater and found our seats. Beth appeared shortly, annoyed and out of breath.

“
Thanks. You didn’t have to run it over,” I said, trying to comfort her. “It’s not like I can read it during the show.”

“
I know,” she replied with a snap, turning to leave.

“
Um, excuse me, Beth,” Bobby said. “Did we order this with a side of bitch?”

And he released a wicked laugh as the lights went down on the very stage I would be gracing in 48 hours.

Ninety minutes later, the lights came back up and we sat, dumbfounded, for a good minute. Finally, Bobby looked at me.

“
Randy, I can’t believe you’re going to be in this show.” I couldn’t tell by his tone if he was excited or disgusted. “I mean, Randy, that show is… fleshy. I might need to go home and masturbate right now!”

“
Yeah,” I replied with a sigh. “It’s pretty fleshy all right.”

The next night, fighting the “
hides
of March” fears, I reported to the theater to shadow the departing actor. I arrived two full hours before curtain and began my warm-ups. Since I wasn’t performing that night, the warm-up was unnecessary, but I wanted to set up a routine to help me maintain focus.

The other actors started wandering in, and they all looked at me as if I were some exotic animal performing an elaborate mating ritual. It took a while before I realized their odd glances weren’t because I was a new addition to the backstage family but because I was warming up. Karen had taken to calling me the “real actor,” and, flattery aside, I wasn’t sure what she meant until this moment. Most of the performers—good-looking, hard-bodied model types—had little or no acting training. A few of them, I would find out later, actually made their living as male escorts. This was not the warm-up crowd. This was the fluffing crowd. I was completely out of my element. If I was going to share the stage with models, I had to bring something else to the table. Good acting, it seemed, would be my only option.

A half-hour before the show, the star walked backstage, noticed me right away, and came over to introduce himself.

“
You must be the new guy,” he said, extending his hand toward me. “I’m Jeff Stryker.”

His hair was perfect. His bronzed face exhibited excellent proportions, and his handshake was confident and firm.

“
Randy Anderson. Nice to meet you.”

Jeff Stryker was a movie star. I had heard of him, but aside from last night’s show, I’d never seen any of his work, something I would not disclose to any of my cast mates. I needed to fit in.

“
Welcome to the show. Have you met everyone yet?”

I was taken aback by his charm and friendliness. And his eyes were so…sympathetic. I found this odd because he’s famous for his prison videos, and sympathetic eyes are not what you’d expect from someone sodomizing an inmate.

“
No,” I replied. “You’re actually the first person I’ve met. I’ve been warming up.”

“
You mean, like yoga?”

“
Well, yes. Kind of. Just getting my instrument warmed up.”

“
Oh, I get it! Cool. I don’t get my instrument warmed up until the second act,” he said, laughing at his own joke. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the cast.”

He took me around and introduced me to everyone. I’m not shy and had no trouble saying hello to my cast mates. But the conversations quickly became labored. These fellas lived in “gay land,” and I was clearly a tourist. I was, and still am, a terrible dresser. Show tunes aren’t my thing. Fire Island sounds to me like another name for hell. I just didn’t get half of what they were saying.

“
Are you a friend of Dorothy?” they’d ask. Sure, I was a friend of Dorothy. She was our receptionist at the bank. The deeper we got into it, the more foolish I felt. It was as if they spoke a different language. I’m just not that kind of gay. I’m a guy who sleeps with guys.

The next night, I made my debut. It’s doubtful I was any good, but I hit all my marks and said all my lines, and even if I didn’t, nobody noticed. I settled into the show though, and by the end of the first week, I seized ownership of the role.

Each night, after the curtain fell, the cast would descend on a restaurant followed by an all-night excursion to a trendy Chelsea nightclub. Due to a severe lack of funds, I never participated in these ritualistic post-show outings. Instead, I would munch on a homemade peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich as I walked the 70 blocks back to my apartment. The next night, in the dressing room, I would hear stories of drug-induced dance marathons and torrid sexual escapades with good-looking strangers. Even if I had the money, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t fit in, but the fact I was financially barred from this world filled me with envy.

All that changed with a very special invitation.

One of Jeff’s celebrity fans had arranged for the cast to occupy the VIP room with “everything taken care of” at a sizzling hot nightclub on the West Side. This would be my chance to peek into, if not fully participate in, this other world.

After the show, we ran into the dressing room and got out of our costumes, which for several actors just meant slipping out of their thong underwear. Nice pants and loosely buttoned shirts flew onto chiseled bodies, and the air quickly filled with hairspray and heavy cologne. A marijuana pipe began floating around the room. I took a few puffs, and Jeff poked his head in.

“
Guys, the limo is here. Let’s go!”

Limo! I hadn’t heard about a limo. I could barely contain my excitement. Apparently, when someone says, “everything is taken care of,” they mean they’re sending a limo. I finished combing my hair as fast as I could. I had never been in a limousine in my life. Despite my measly 200-dollar-a-week salary and the decrepit state of this theater, I felt I had arrived. I was being picked up in a limousine and taken to the VIP room of an exclusive club.

I hit the sidewalk as everyone was piling into the car. Jeff brazenly took a puff from his pipe on the street and handed it to me at hip height. I took a drag, exhaling the smoke into the warm summer air while absorbing the bustling nightlife around me.

“
This is great, isn’t it?” Jeff said, as his beautiful lips curled up, part Cheshire cat, part schoolboy.

“
Thank you for sharing this,” I replied. “This is a real treat for me.”

“
My pleasure,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re finally coming out.”

Just then, the limo driver called Jeff over to the passenger-side window. I stood on the sidewalk and lit a cigarette. The city still felt new to me, and I loved letting the energy play off my senses. Jeff stepped back from the window. His mood had changed dramatically.

“
This sucks,” he said.

“
What? What sucks? What’s going on?” I asked in rapid succession.

“
The driver says we can’t go with this many people. He was told he’d be picking up eight people, and we’ve got 12.”

“
Well, how many people can fit in the car?” I asked.

He was Jeff Stryker after all. He must know something about limousines.

“
I don’t know. He just said he’s only taking eight. That’s what he was told, and that’s what he’s doing. People are going to have to get out.”

I quickly calculated. With 10 people in the car now, Jeff and I made it 12. So four people would have to be left out. There was no way I’d be getting in.

“
Hold on a second,” I said with certainty. “I’ll take care of this.”

This was my first limo ride. I was not about to be left behind. I don’t know if it was the pot or the city, but suddenly I became the very person I’d always imagined: a confident, fast-talking New Yorker.

I knocked on the passenger-side window with the middle knuckle of my middle finger, something I’d never done before. The driver looked over and lowered the window. I opened the door, sat down, and closed it behind me. I was going to have a private conversation with this man face-to-face, like a mobster.

“
Look, I can’t take you all,” he said.

“
What’s your name?” I asked, hoping to get personal.

“
I can only take eight people,” he replied, obviously not wanting to divulge his name.

“
I’m Randy. What’s your name?”

“
Paul.”

“
OK, Paul. Why can’t you take 12 people?”

“
I was told to pick up eight people. And that’s all I can take.” Paul was determined to follow orders. I noticed a plaque on the dashboard that read “maximum occupancy 10 people.”

“
Well, it says there you can take 10 people,” I said barely recognizing myself. Where did this attitude come from?

“
Yeah, the car can take 10 people, but I was told to pick up eight.”

“
But, technically, you can take 10, right?”

“
Yes.”

“
Great!” I was making progress and my knees pulled further apart as I settled into the leather seat. “So, listen, we’re a cast of 12 people, and we’d really like to go to this party together. It’s only a few miles. Can you please make an exception? Nobody is going to know.”

“
Fine. I’ll take 10, but legally I can’t take any more than that,” Paul said with finality.

“
Do you watch porn, Paul?” He looked at me with confusion. “Because right out there is quite possibly the most famous porn star in the world.

“
That’s a guy,” Paul shouted.

“
Well, you need guys in porn, too!” I exclaimed, knowing now Paul was straight.

“
I thought Ron Jeremy was the most famous porn guy,” Paul replied with only moderate certainty.

“
Great. So, you do watch porn. Who doesn’t, right? Anyway, that man there is Jeff Stryker, arguably the most famous male porn star in the world. And much better-looking than Ron Jeremy, wouldn’t you agree?”

“
He’s all right.”

I knew I was wearing Paul down with the porn talk and decided to bring it home.

“
Did you know that his dildo is the best-selling dildo in the world? More women, and men for that matter, are getting off solo with a model of that man’s dick. Pretty cool, wouldn’t you say?”

“
No,” Paul stated simply.

I had gone too far, and it was time to wrap this up. Snapping my knees together and sitting forward, I locked eyes with Paul.

“
Listen, this is supposed to be a really fun night for us. We just want to get to the party. If you could squeeze one more person in the back, I’ll ride up here with you.”

Paul thought about this for a moment and, afraid I’d start talking about porn again, he agreed.

“
But you have to ride up here,” he reiterated.

“
Not a problem. Thank you,” I said, as I exited the car.

“
What happened?” asked Jeff, anxiously. “What did he say? Can we go?”

“
Get in the car. He’ll take us all.”

I saw Jeff’s eyes leap with excitement. And I watched them carefully as they came back down to meet mine.

“
Man, you’re so cool,” he said as he kissed me on the lips, which made me feel good and weird and sexy. Jeff isn’t gay, but folks in the sex business are a tactile bunch. I stood there on the sidewalk and savored the tingle.

“
Be careful,” he continued as he walked to the back door. “The one-eyed snake will be gunning for you on closing night!”

And with a wicked grin, he jumped into the back of the limousine. I smiled at a stranger passing by and took my place in the front seat next to Paul, who would dominate the conversation with sports. Together, we drove “those gays” to the ball.

Once at the club, I learned pretty quickly my PB&J walks provided a far more satisfying post-show experience. The club was crowded, the private room was loud, and my cast mates spent most of their time running around looking for hookups. So, I settled on the couch and listened to Jeff’s stories about his life in Hollywood.

Closing night came sooner than I expected. While I had only been doing the show for a month, my cast mates had been at it for almost six, and they all seemed eager to move on. I’d miss the money and I’d miss Jeff, but that was about all. This wasn’t my kind of theater. I needed more brain and less body. I was still thinking about that beggar and how I wanted to make theater that would create a deeper impression. But, boy, was I going to miss that 200 bucks every week. This dominated my thoughts as I moved through our final performance.

As the last scene approached, Jeff came up to me backstage and whispered into my ear, “You’ve got 10 minutes. Ten.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it couldn’t be good. Jeff had wanted to deflower me on stage in some way since I joined the show.