FLAVOR OF THE WEEK: ACTORS ARE SO GAY

WRITTEN BY ROBERT A. PALMER
FEBRUARY 23, 2011

I don’t want an undercover brother. I don’t want anyone on the DL. The term “straight acting” makes my effeminate skin crawl. I often wonder about the significance of this term as I’m searching the Manhunt profiles. I mean how can a gay man possibly be straight acting with a dick in his mouth?

At the end of the day, I want a sure thing. Let’s be honest—I find it difficult to even secure a third date with an out-of-the-closet homo, so why would I want to up the difficulty level by fantastically going after someone who barely even wants his girlfriend sticking a finger up his butt? But Lord knows I’ve tried. Oh boy have I tried.

I met Scott when I was in my mid twenties, so I had no excuse. With actors, it’s so hard to tell if they are straight up or with a twist. Actors have to cry on command, express their emotions through physical action and really like looking at themselves in mirrors. Needless to say, in an acting class, I never know who’s straight or not.

Scott was in my acting technique class in graduate school. He was from the Bay Area and had a classic face, very James Dean. Plus: he smoked; he wore leather; and he was a great actor.

When he smiled, I melted. Of course, he had a girlfriend.

Still, that didn’t stop me from endlessly flirting with him every day in class during our sound and gesture exercise.

“You do a really good monkey noise, Scott. Like, so real. It’s like you’re really in the jungle or something.”

“Really? Thanks. Yeah, I mean, I watched, like, a 12-hour documentary on monkeys. I’m really trying to work on getting into the soul of the chimp.”

OK, shut up, Scott. God, actors are so fucking lame (myself included), but I liked Scott. There was something tragic about him. I wanted to save him—from himself.

We started having coffee after class.

Then coffee turned to wine. Then wine turned to Jack Daniels. We never talked about his girlfriend.

One night, he called me. I was sitting in my underwear in my apartment on Thompson Street, a place I shared with a certifiable actress from Scotland. She was out for the evening, and I wasn’t expecting to see her until morning. I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home when the phone rang.

It was Scott. He sounded drunk. And he said he wanted to see me. He also wanted to get high.

“Coke?” I asked. “Sure, I can make a call.” I instantly got an erection.

I called my Puerto Rican drug dealer, and he gave his typical 20-minute delivery time.

Scott was on his way, so I lit some candles, trying hard not to make it look romantic. In fact, I always burn a hundred votives in my apartment when watching reality television on a Wednesday night. What can I say? I like ambiance.

Within the hour, Scott had arrived with a bottle of rum. Marco had arrived with a vial of coke. And we were sitting on my sofa, listening to Portishead, cutting up two fat lines. It really is amazing how cocaine can bring the straights and the gays together.

We snorted. We talked. We made plans.

We drank. We smoked. We snorted. We paced. We drank. We made more plans. At some point Scott cried. And I held him. I got hard. And he felt it. He kissed me.

Yes, that’s right, he kissed me. And I totally kissed him back.

By now, it was around 1 a.m. The bottle of rum was almost empty, and I’m sure I would have been in a total blackout had I not just snorted a gram of really bad coke. With total runny noses, we made out on my couch.

I didn’t even think about the fact that he was straight or that he had a girlfriend. I guess I’m a total home-wrecker.

We moved to my bedroom and I took off his clothes. His eyes were like slits, and he looked a little dazed. Maybe he was in a blackout. Perfect: He won’t remember a thing.

Naked, we both sat on my bed, chain smoking, simultaneously playing with each other’s bodies. The whole experience seemed very beatnik-Allen-Ginsberg-On-The-Road. Had I been wearing a beret, everything would have made perfect sense.

He said he wanted me to fuck him.

What? Me?

I didn’t think it was an appropriate time to mention that I usually liked it deep in my ass, with my feet hitting the ceiling. Be a man, Robert. If he wants to be fucked, fuck him.

I grabbed the bottle of rum and swigged out the final bit of alcohol. Scott got onto his side in bed, his back to me. He looked like a little fetus. I tried not to think about how sad he looked, as if he was trying to punish himself or something. I tried not to think too deeply about anything.

Like the fact that he was straight and had a live-in girlfriend. Or that we were in the same graduate program.

Needless to say, all of these things, plus the fact that I was now sliding my dick into his hairy butthole, made for the possibility of a totally awkward situation. I came. He came. Then, we spooned for six hours in my twin bed, moving in and out of consciousness. In the morning, I woke up with a splitting headache and immediately, upon seeing the straight boy next to me, regretted the night before. Hell, I regretted being born.

But Scott was totally cool.

He gave me a sleepy smile and actually gave me a hug. I was expecting him to run screaming from my apartment. We casually dressed, and grabbed a coffee on the corner. He gave me a hug and said he’d see me next week in class.

Wow. How adult was this?

Maybe it’s because he’s from the Bay Area? Or maybe he’s not really straight.

I felt liberated. I felt hung over. I felt like maybe Scott could be the one.

But next week, Scott wasn’t in acting class. He wasn’t in class the week after that. By the third week, I was concerned. By the fourth week, our instructor announced that Scott would not be returning to class—ever. I tried calling his number, but it was disconnected.

I never spoke to Scott again. God, Robert, you have such a way with men, I told myself. One date with you and he’s dropped out of graduate school, disconnected his phone, fled New York and, quite possibly, tried to commit suicide.

What can I say? I’m a total catch. I’m starting to realize that the straight boy accessory thing just doesn’t work with any outfit. No matter how cute, they just clash in a major way. Tragic.