Until he died, whenever I went to New York, I always reserved some time in my schedule to spend with him. I’m not going to name him because ultimately this page is about me, not him. And there’s a lot more about him in this memoir. If you guess who he is… you’ll probably be right. He had a terrible reputation, but in all the decades I knew him, we never had a harsh word between us.
One night it was clear and crisp and there was snow on them ground. I don’t remember where we went— maybe nowhere in particular— but I recall passing 14th Street. Somewhere in the West Village, I asked him if he wanted to go into a bar. Neither of us drinks but it late and I was getting cold. And it was a gay bar. He hesitated and said no. We had never discussed the topic before but suddenly he blurted out that he couldn’t handle, or didn’t want to handle, desiring young flesh when he was the desired young flesh in the past. Desire’s dance with time had left him behind— and kind of unkind metamorphosis, life evolution. He seems to have accepted it and moved on.
That was a very distant past but I understood what he meant. He was an international super-star. When Seymour signed him there were two strains of thought in the building:
1- OMG! The greatest artist ever is coming here.
2- Ugghh, another washed up old artist whose best days are behind him.
Door #1 was right. He immediately made one of the best selling and most critically-acclaimed albums of his whole career and was invited to perform at the White House. The album hit #1 in Switzerland and went gold and platinum is a dozen counties. It was followed by a huge world tour. I went on part of it with him.
But the thing he told me that night stuck with me and I’ve never written it down before or told anyone, including none of our mutual friends. Last night I was at a party at a disgustingly opulent estate in Beverly Hills. When we left I felt ill because of how overdone everything was and it made me sad. My friend asked me if we should stop at a male brothel. The idea repulsed me.
Later, in the car, I said I didn’t even know there was any such thing, at least not in L.A. He described how they work. It made me even sadder. I remember when I was doing that work, but on the street on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I liked the money but it was mostly waiting to get picked up and lots of rejection before a score. That must be so much worse in a brothel. And the workers must be under pressure to do things they didn’t want to and accept customers they didn’t want to accept.
Now I don’t even get horny… and certainly not horny enough to go to something like that. Last week I went to the supermarket, an expensive one, at 3:30. I never go at that time. I normally go in the morning or the evening. It was filled with young kids. Marshall High, down the street a few blocks had just let out. I saw one guy order a sandwich at the deli bar. He was very specific about what he wanted and what he didn’t want. He was very handsome and I wondered if the server was attracted to him. The kid took his sandwich and walked out the door without paying. No one seems to notice but me. I went over to the fresh produce area, which was why I had come anyway. I noticed another kid standing near the apples. But he wasn’t looking at the apples and he didn’t have a cart or anything; he was just standing there. I didn’t think much about it except how hot he looked. I was trying to get two avocados for that night that were ripe but not too soft. I found them.
I moved on. And a minute or two later he circled around and was staring at me again. It’s been so long that I forgot what cruising was. I remembered when I got home and ran what had happened through my mind. He was cruising me. He must have thought I was a john. I would have at least talked with him if I wasn’t so obtuse. It makes me feel bad to think he might have felt rejected. Days keep passing and I keep forgetting to go back there at 3:30. What would I do anyway? I don’t remember the last time I had sex with anyone. Years and years and years...
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