Year of My Sticky: A Novel

Copyright © 2009 by Sebastian Long

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-9500-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-9498-6 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-9499-3 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 2/1/2010

Contents

Part One

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Part Six

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Part Eight

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Part Nine

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Part Ten

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6:00 a.m., Los Angeles, Julio, a Chateau Marmont gardener, looks up from deadheading hydrangeas. Sees an object fly off the top-floor terrace. Shiny square object glinting past espaliered pear trees, dive bombing the begonia beds.

Big thud.

Nobody calls out, nobody descends from the upper floors of the hotel. Julio crawls across Korea grass, eyes clenched, trying to be invisible. Minutes pass. Julio moves his prey to the shelter of a princess flower gazebo.

It’s a computie, a silver laptop. Two-inch duct tape seals the lid, triple thickness. Julio runs pruning shears through the tape. Madre de dios, instant ugh, the laptop’s snapped shut on a load of shit. Poo-poo drips off the keyboard, Como guac off caisadias, Julio groans, or butter from a waffle.

Julio speed dials his fence for celebrity items. Quiza importanto, senor. Come quick.

6:21, the fence guy screeches his Nissan to a halt outside the back gate.

Julio, fence guy shoots twenty digitals of dripping shit, why’d you even call me? Fence guy offers Julio a C-note. No can do more, broheim. Screen’s smashed, nothing works. The fence pulls on latex gloves. Talk about worthless, amigo.

8:14, underground parking, Virgin Megastore, Sunset and Crescent Heights, Julio’s fence hands the laptop in a sealed bag to a stringer. Price: $5,000 cash. The stringer burns rubber up the exit, rushes to his techie, shoves a venti soy latte in her face plus $1,500 in cash. Ten minutes, then bingo, Techie Gal retrieves 540 pages, YearofMySticky.doc.

10:15, the Star outbids the Enquirer, $250,000 without guaranteed author identity.

11:00, Bonnie Fuller, Star editor-in-chief, click-clacks acrylic heels across the Marmont lobby.

We need a name, Michael, Bonnie crosses her stair master legs in the manager’s office. It’s nothing without the writer’s name.

The Marmont does not release personal information of that nature.

But are the initials S.L.? Wink or roll on the ground for me if it’s yes.

Here’s what I’ll confirm, the Chateau manager’s smile is vinegar. An actor of considerable fame booked into a top-floor suite for an indefinite stay under unusual circumstances – his hands and arms and face were streaked with mud, Miss Fuller. His shoes and pants were badly burned. Our house doctor had to cut his melted sneakers off his feet. God knows what he’d been doing.

Year of My Sticky

by Sebastian Long

To protect my legal-ass:

This Be Fiction.

But I make salacious reference to a number of real-life people, places and companies.

Salacious, in case you forget, means pump it up by showing crude erotic stuff. About People Whose Names Appear In Print. Or on the Net.

Characters and companies and events included in these pages are bald-faced lies, even if you recognize some of their names.

Except for the Big True Confessions About Me. They’re true.

Love,

Sebastian Long

Part One

In which you meet me – our hero – and learn my condition

-1-

[Note to publisher. I need a plastic overlay.

Right here, front page, clear plastic like in biology textbooks.

On the overlay I want letters. No frog veins or muscle structure from bat wings. Just alphabet letters done up like the notes the killer leaves in movies. Cut from newsprint and glued sloppily on the page.

The letters spell S-T-A-R-T, red bold. Red letters, clear plastic.]

This S-T-A-R-T-S when I S-T-O-P-P-E-D.

I was all, Leave me alone, can’t you?

After being in three American movies, two Moroccan fight features, one weird documentary, plus Freakkkky Fashion Shit.

I quit. I quit. That’s me. Squawk-Squawk-Squawker Voice.

But can I quit? That’s the question.

Can I resist the shitlift of being interviewed and photographed with no shirt on? Can I refuse cover shots for Maxim, GQ, Huomo Vogue — pants slipping down, Mr. Low-Slung Art-Directed Open-Pants-Guy.

How ‘bout the thrill of going places? I’m not talking around the world, sweetheart. I mean check this out.

70-millimeter lens aims right at me, lights on, smoke set, camera rolling, our lord and master cries ACTION, the crew freezes. Will he nail it? Slo-mo suspense. Can we get doughnuts after this take?

No dialogue, just my eyes forty feet wide on the big screen, deranged and passionate.

Humiliation, the director whispers in my ear, is power. Now show us.

Takes 1 through 8 suck real bad. It’s a bad-assed reaction shot, funky and deep, so what’s the problem? Why can’t I deliver?

Hel-lo? The director beats his forehead against my chest. Anybody home?

9 through 14 are better. 15 is total bingo, beguiling mystery rushes out my eyes, hurt and power, power and hurt. Braids Of Grief And Strength.

Print the jolly fuckers! All three cameras, check your gates! The director French kisses me.

A thousand more shots, a thousand more scenes – and I end up the Details January cover guy, pants slip-slip-slipping down. Veins on my lower abdomen, Blue Highways To Heaven.

-2-

Now come close, darlings, come here.

Don’t be frightened, take a look.

Checkmate is on 2,200 screens across America. And I’m The Star.

Oops, stop, wait.

Rule Number One, as given to me by my very own Paramount Pictures P.R. team, Do not brag, they scolded me in a stage whisper before the Today show. Meredith Viera hates braggarts.

Bryan Lourd, my CAA agent, never scolds, see. Bryan’s always cheerful, always at my disposal, doesn’t care how early in the morning, doesn’t mind how phony the dealio. Know what you are? Bryan’s Got A Mantra. The best goddamn actor of your generation, that’s what.

Bryan discovered me in Morocco. Blond/blue, 6’1," swimmer’s bod, doing cheap fight pictures, kick-boxing my way to hell. Bryan got me two B movies in the States, that were basic fight shit, and then he got me Checkmate.

You’re terrific – he’s text messaging right now – let’s line up another film.

Bryan’s buzzing outside my house gate –or if he calls on any of my phone lines– nobody’s allowed to answer. Cuz I’m like, No thanks, Bry. I don’t want to. Squawk-Squawk-Squawker Guy.

Now here comes why.

Fasten seat belts, take a deep breath for this. No plastic overlay interruption. No note to publisher, ain’t got time.

Academy Award For Best Actor. This year.

Yikes, yikes, yikes. I mean, Jee whiz, How Fucking Insane. Why’d they choose me? Stupid Assholes In Hollywood, Stop Screwing With My Life.

OK, sorry, wasn’t gonna freak out, but this is the truth. As you pretty much kinda know.

I mean, Mr. and Mrs. Reader, you breathing?

Yes? Yes, you are? Then you know me. This is Sebastian Long, Captain for the Ride. Live from the upper terraces of the Chateau. You should see the searchlights and sirens from up here, nighttime Godzilla glitzville.

Sebastian Long, you say? Yes, hon, pleased to make your acquaintance. And you, babe. Don’t you look nice.

Sebastian, is it? Yes, darling. As in Saint Sebastian, Lord Sebastian, Lost Soul Sebastian.

Last name Long? As in what do I have on me that’s long. MSD-D. My Sweet Dickie-Doo. Go ahead, ma’am, touch it. M-C-C. My Cool Cock. Maybe you should suck it.

Oops, that’s rude, I apologize.

But listen. Sebastian Long’s not my real name, see. Big fucking doi, Sebastian Long isn’t anyone’s real name, is it?

Someone gave me this handle, Sebastian Long, and I had to make up reasons why I liked it. Academy Award for Best Actor, this year, three weeks ago – that is not one of the reasons, believe me. Award for best performance? Me?

Shi-i-i-i-t. W-h-o-a. Je-sus. How’d that even happen?

I mean let’s be honest for a sec, my career before Checkmate was punching meat. Take after dumb-ass sweat-flying take. Most I ever did before Checkmate, I mean for dialogue, was grunt before letting fly with a killer punch.

Guy Who Could Not Express – That’s Always Been My Deal.

Now here I am. Doing Musical Chairs with Robert, Colin, Ethan, Jude.

You already know the whole world has a hard-on for Jude and Robert. But surprise, surprise, I swiped Oscar out Jude’s ass. I won the Golden Nude Dude at the Kodak Theater.

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For playing Hans. In a film called Checkmate.

Case you don’t know, we’re talking one crazy picture, Checkmate’s Freakkkin’ Weird. Nazi European history drama, 1940’s Europe.

So, shit, jeez, yawn-yawn, I hate history movies, don’t you? What’s the fuss about? Why’s Checkmate making waves? It’s not about aliens, it’s not about baseball.

Here ya go, babe. Lemme spill the news. Here’s the Big Why. I’m naked onscreen for more than one hour – that’s the Real-Deal Bingo.

But not always sexual naked, see. More like Out-There Naked. Pure Survival Naked. Biggest Tragedy in the Whole Wide World Naked. Doomed Naked. Ruthless Naked, and Terrible Naked.

But not Harvey Keitel naked. We’re talking cute guy naked. Young guy naked. Dolce & Gabbana type guy naked.

For this one scene, see, I have Nazi generals throwing whiskey at me. I’m slobbering and shivering on a banquet table, Trying To Get Away. Begging To Live. All my nerves go pop-pop-pop through my skin.

Clear snot droplets slide off my chin. Drool snot parades down my tits. Rivers Of Emotion. Fear And Panic. Panicked Eyes.

The director filmed whiskey rivers streaming down my tits.

He shot droplets of snot suspended from my chin — different angles, different light, different filters.

Real tears down my left cheek. Fake tears down my right. Combo-tears on my upper lip. The scene took a week of 16-hour days, four cameras, ten miles of Kodak 5218, enough electricity to tart up Romania for a year.

Beauty craves punishment, the director kept licking in my ear. And … ACTION!

Whoa, terrific job, folks on set were applauding. Magnificent performance. What A Scaredy-Cat Guy I Look On-screen. Plus you see my dick. The director makes sure my dick’s in every master.

How long was Richard Gere naked in American Gigolo? Three seconds? I never saw that movie, but people say it was some kinda big new deal. Try one fucking hour, man, that’s me in Checkmate.

Times change, see. Show the guy, show the guy. We’ve seen the girl, please show the guy. We Wanta See The Guy. Last Frontier In America. Male Movie Star Naked On Screen. Is Cock Fun To Look At?

It must be.

Golden nude dude, Academy Award Winner, zero to a hundred. Long story short, my performance made quite the impression. These days there’s hyper demand for my prof-fes-sion-al ser-vic-es. Sir Vice, Sir Vice, please be in our next picture.

Famous directors banging on my door, Brett Radner, Brad Silberling, Mike Newell. The Coens, Miss Smarty Pants Coppola and her dad, Senor C., speed dialing to set up meetings.

Me An Academy Award Winner – it’s a freakish, freaky thing-thang-thing. I call it AAW. As in AAW, shucks. AAW, gimme a break. Or AAW, go fuck yourself.

Delicious. Brilliant. Sublimo. That’s Joe Roth, Amy Pascal, Warner Bros., the Weinsteins at their new joint – old time Tom, Dicks and Harveys ready to slick my balls with cash.

If I repeat the naked thing.

-4-

And –get this, this is important– if Paramount greenlights a new project starring me.

Which is a very big deal, major IF scenario, let me tell you.

Paramount has me in legal chains, see. We’re talkin’ major legal knot tangle, doesn’t matter which studio wants to make a picture starring me, Paramount still has final say.

Legal shit done hit the fan. Which a lot of people claim is my fault. So now I’ve got 90 days to straighten it the fuck out. Do Or Die In 90 Days.

Which I’ll explain later-later, if you don’t mind.

Too early in the set-up now for legal detail.

-5-

Next tidbit you need to realize, My Oscar ain’t really for Best Actor.

More like Best Gay Actor.

Which we better abbreviate into initials like we did with AAW.

So how’s about BEGAAW? Sounds right even if it looks weird.

Say it with me, please, let’s practice. Pronounce begaaw, guys, repeat after me. "Begaaw." Ladies, you, too. "Begaaaaw." Let me hear you, "Begaaaaaw. In unison, gents and ladies, Begaaaaaw, begaaaaaaaaaw."

Everyone agreed, see – time for the first Begaaw.

Gay Guy has to dance. Has to be an actor who’s OUT. Has to be REAL LIFE. No more straight guys pretending. We need AN AUTHENTIC COCKSUCKER. Bill Conti composed a special intro theme, Fag Oscar Melody.

Hans, my character in Checkmate, see, Hans gets butt-fucked on-screen – so he looks pretty darn gay. And I look the part, too, cuz that’s me up there getting reamed. And the Begaaw recipe required a major studio release with a famous director and a decent budget, no two-bit Strand Releasing Thing for this important Oscar.

Paramount was the very cunning studio that said, Ready, Set, Go. Paramount agreed to pay $60 million to shoot Checkmate. And wouldn’t you know, no other studio had a gay-themed, male nudie pic ready for Oscar consideration. Starring A Real Live Gay Guy Who’s Out.

Paramount sent Checkmate DVD’s to every voting member of the Academy. Slick photo booklets of yours truly. Hair tousled, eyes smoldering. And wouldn’t you know it? A centerfold nudie shot, full body in shadows, Sebastian Long with his ass to the camera.

-6-

Heal-The-World.

Make-It-Fair.

End-The-Discrimination. That was the subtext anthem. That was the drum beating.

Now let’s pretend you’re an eighty-year-old Academy member, trying to choose this year’s Best Actor. Let’s say you’re J. F. G., I’m talking James Fucking Garner. Who you gonna vote for, Big G?

Harrison Ford, Air Force One, Jack Nicholson, About Schmidt, those are your heroes. Why vote for me? I mean, Yeah, right – why should you?

Then big surprise, your agent fucking calls you.

Bigger surprise, your agent sounds cheerful.

Biggest surprise, he wants you at The Grill in one hour. First time you’ve had a lunch invite since The Notebook, which was what, 10 years ago? 15? You shave, get dressed, alligator belt, cashmere socks. You arrive on time. Valet Boy takes your T-Bird.

You walk in The Grill, humongest surprise of all, your agent’s not alone. Six young guys smile up at you, CAA, Endeavor, ICM — Hotshot New Hollywood agents wearing Diesel shirts, Thom Browne jackets, track shoes, bleached hair.

They order you a Long Island Iced Tea, cheeseburger, cheesecake – you protest but they keep insisting.

What’s your opinion of Sebastian Long, Mr. Garner? New Hollywood gets right to it.

You haven’t seen Checkmate, you can’t really comment. So you ask their opinion.

Drool City, your agent slurps Diet Dr. Pepper. He’s incredible, second guy in the booth. Talk about gorgeous, third guy. It’s a way fantastic performance, fourth guy.

In the old days a secret meeting like this woulda helped Sophia Loren win the Oscar – was she too Italian for Hollywood, was that it? Or Bogart, was he too short? Now it’s Queer Sebastian Long.

You’re sure? This is the man? It has to be him? That’s you, James, forehead creased, voice full of doubt.

Yeah. This year. Year Of The Queer. Sebastian Long. Group ADR, wa-wa reverb, New Hollywood Boys. It has to be Sebastian.

But why did he show his dick on billboards? Disdain drips from your mouth, James-O. You need a lobster bib.

Cuz he’s Sebastian Fucking Schlong. Endeavor guy looks you in the eyes.

This isn’t the underwear model who went to television and played Tarzan? Good comeback, Jamesie, quick on your feet. The Academy doesn’t endorse TV. Yee-eeesh, James, they know. Look at you, man, Rockford Files Galore, how many years?

That was Travis, ICM guy’s impatient. This is SS: Sebastian Schlong.

Sebastian Schlong? Sticks in your throat, doesn’t it, Jamesie. You serious?

Quit fooling with us. Smiles Go Bye-Bye, one, two, three, around the booth.

Game over, your agent’s the referee. Crowd wants Sebastian Schlong. What do you say, Garner? Can we count on your vote?

You’re remembering my CK underwear ads, camera up my crotch, black and white exposé. Sebastian’s queer? You whisper. We’re sure?

Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back? Your agent’s chuckling.

OK. Sad-voiced James. You have my vote.

Woohoo, the boys leave for Oyako Sushi over in Santa Monica, hungry for arame salad.

Possible part in Altman’s next, your agent pats you on the shoulder as you wait for the valet to bring your T-Bird. I’ll call you.

Altman died years ago, Mike.

No shit, your agent’s fingering your coat. What is this? Vintage Members Only?

-7-

Here’s what I say.

Thank you, Mr. Garner. And thank you, Calvin Klein, for putting me in your underwear campaign – not that I’m proud of the work, but let me say thanks very much. A Lot.

Old Guy Calvin Klein wanted one last fling, see.

In particular Old Guy Calvin Klein wanted to ace out Tom Ford, designer who made Gucci so sexy way back when in the 90’s.

I don’t know what kinda Texan you gotta be to double dip Paris fashion houses, but Tom Ford had balls, he was working Gucci and YSL, both joints simultaneously. Gucci as the top designer, YSL more like part-time. Tom figured he had enough clout to shoot a naked guy for YSL M7 perfume.

This naked guy ad was the talk of Paris and New York and the whole Internet, grabbing YSL all kindsa important headlines. Which hit Old Man Calvin Klein in the fucking gut, knocked his wind out.

Perfume’s worn on the skin, Tom Ford was gay pushy in the YSL press release. Why should we hide the guy’s body?

Mr. Klein Rushes Back From Retirement. Takes him a year to negotiate a tiny slice of his own name back. Phillips Van-Heusen, Inc. doesn’t want to surrender any Klein rights, but Old Guy CK knows a thing or two about negotiation, he prevails. He cooks up CK-Dickie, a new line of briefs, CK Mesh Man In America. We’re Gonna Show Cock In The U.S. Calvin Klein’s ecstatic.

And whose cock were they gonna show? Mine. Big doi.

CK chose me for the campaign. Big duh. But why’d they do that? Why’d Mr. Klein choose me?

People say it’s cuz I’m uncut and the Ford guy was uncut. Other folks say it’s cuz I’m Euro Flair Distinctive plus American blond preppy all at the same time. Other people say it’s cuz I maneuvered it, CK had no choice, I forced them into choosing me. But that’s bullshit.

First thing that goes down, Team CK bleached my pubes platinum blond. Then they used eyebrow pencil along my dick veins. They packed my junk inside see-thru mesh. They hired Bruce Weber to shoot me. Bruce turned me into The Biggest-Assed Sensation, Worldwide Dick Guy, United States, Europe, Asia, South America, The World.

Which was basically against my will. I mean I hated doing brainless shit for money. I Totally Hated It, Believe Me.

Meanwhile, CK sales went through the roof. Which made folks in Hollywood sit up pretty fast. Fancy-assed Hollywood folks started thinking, How is Sebastian Long gonna look without the CK peek-a-boo mesh fig leaf? Twenty-four frames per second on the big screen. A Naked Exposed Guy. Which –you see?– is why I gotta say thank you, Mr. Klein.

-8-

But here’s the French tickler. I mean, dig this. Cocksucker’s not my real AKA.

Big secret. Don’t Tell. Nobody’s Supposed To Know But I Pretty Much Never Even Sucked A Cock.

Claire and me, we’re married, see. Guy and his righteous fine lady, 100% In Love. But Private, Ssh-Ssh. Don’t Tell A Soul.

Right now Claire and me are fighting. You Can Listen In. You Can Hear Our Marital Spat. Concerning WHO I AM. Not like if I’m a fag, Claire knows how to untie that square knot. More like if I’m t-h-e d-e-v-i-l. Try this on for size. We’re in our bathroom, 7:00 a.m., Claire starts it up, Why’d you skip yesterday with Dr. Meredith?

Grrrrrr! I do pump-pump hip and butt moves, first pee of the morning.

Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Claire’s right at me. You hear? Three times a week you gotta see Dr. Meredith.

Watch this, Claire, look here. Angry Monkey Pees On The Wall, Pees On The Floor. Mini Marital Revolution.

You shouldn’t be around the kids. Claire holds my hips, gets me to piss straight.

Stop it, Big Mommy. Tiger Man Roar. Grrr-grrr! Grrr-grrr-grrr!!

Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Sebastian. Get in there, tell Dr. Meredith what you did, tell everything that happened, for once in your life tell the goddamned truth.

Lemme explain the dealio, why Claire’s so upset, what did I do. But later, OK?

Right now I gotta say Claire and me have two kids, America’s four, Wyeth’s going on six months. Claire and me do the Man-Woman Thing, We Make Humans. I glide my cock in/out, I shout/spurt, Home Free, that’s how it feels, spazzed out Total Expression.

I Love Eclaire. We’ve been together since I dragged my ass home from Morocco, which is five fucking years now.

Bow-wow-wow, it’s the real thing, Claire ‘n Me.

-9-

But don’t get me wrong, I qualify for my Begaaw Checkmate thingie.

The Best Gay Actor Award.

Even with Claire in my life, see, I qualify.

Which I’m gonna tell you about. Full detail, man. Like if you bought this book cuz you’re hot for my sexy-assed gay picture on the back cover, I don’t mind.

Be My Guest is how I feel. Stroke It, Bro, I’m Here For You.

I mean, Check this out, buckeroo.

Bad-assed stories showed up in the press about me and some guy named Jackson Barnes. Items were on the Net, too. Repeated mention of private male body parts. And the bad shit I did to them. Et Cetera, Et Cetera.

Jackson’s this younger-than-me, hot-hot-hot guy Paramount Pictures hired to be oh-so-with-me on my Checkmate publicity tours.

Paramount execs made sure Jackson was next to me in every press photo. And on TV. And in hotel suites. Room service jockeys were supposed to find Naked Jackson On My Bed. Like he just finished sucking me off one minute ago. Room service monkeys were supposed to dial the Enquirer and the Globe. Famous Gay Actor Doing Gay Nasty. How much you wanna pay for his room number?

Paramount mapped out the Checkmate Oscar campaign two and a half years before they even met me. They drank espresso and munched cream puffs in their war room. Did the numbers, commissioned reports. Laughed out loud, how easy was this gonna be, Make A Gay Guy Win The Oscar, What A Fucking Breeze.

Checkmate was the first picture Brad Grey greenlighted when he took over from Sherry Lansing. Cuz Bryan Lourd, CAA’s kingpin, kept nagging him to.

We need a gay guy winner, Bryan kept chanting. C’mon. Make a gay guy win.

Then They Found Me.

-10-

But don’t get me wrong, see, I deserve full Oscar credit for my acting. My performance in Checkmate does not actually suck.

Miracle Of Miracles. My Oscar is not 100% For Showing Dick. It’s not totally for schlong. Not really.

I mean watch Checkmate. You’ll be moved and impressed. You’ll cry for Hansie Boy’s sake. Watch how I pull back the veil. Watch how I deliver human pain. In buckets. On-screen. I’m A Very Talented Actor.

But you don’t have to take my word for it, listen to the critics across America.

"Sebastian Long Scores! Checkmate Is An Historic Achievement!" – David Fucking Denby for The New Yorker. Unlike Anything Before! –William Bad-Ass Arnold, Seattle Post-Intelligencer. Rawest Performance of the Decade! Oscar! Oscar! Two Oscars! Sebastian Long’s That Great! – Michael Bitch-Face Wilmington, Chicago Tribune. New Gay Movie God! –Ingrid Cunt-Breath Sischy, Interview magazine.

Critics were shouting loud and very clear.

Sebastian Long. Sebastian Long.

Big. Bow. Wow.

B-O-W W-O-W.

-11-

Paramount did cartwheels soon as the reviews hit the street.

Paramount hopscotched.

Then they got their attorneys to write up Secret Gay Contracts deleting Claire and my kids from the planet. Then they hired twenty-year-old Jackson Barnes to be my love interest. Slim-Hipped Jackson Barnes agreed to go around the country with me to do Oprah, Letterman, Conan and Saturday Night Live.

Photographers shot special portraits – Me And Jackson, like lacrosse-players-in-love.

My torn sweatpants co-mingled with his. My square jaw next to Jackson’s. My Blue Eyes laughing into his.

Paramount released us to the tabloids, splashed us across TV.

Newsflash. Newsflash. Newsflash.

***MALE LOVERS***MALE LOVERS***MALE LOVERS.

-12-

Meanwhile, Claire was driving Paramount nuts.

Cuz Paramount approved me for Checkmate kinda way too fast. They got greedy soon as they saw my Checkmate screen tests – he looks great, he talks good, he moves nice, let’s hire him. Please.

Paramount was already nervous. The Best Gay Actor clock was ticking, what if another studio got wind of the plan, what if some other studio hit bingo first? Delay after delay, who was gonna play Hans, who could be raw enough? Who had nothing to lose? Who was gonna be OK doing that much nudity?

I shot my screen test at 10:00 a.m. on a Wednesday. By 1:00 o’clock it was, Hire him. Jann Weidner, the Checkmate director guy, demanded Paramount sign me lickety-split. One, two, three, Impulse Buy, Stop The Delays.

I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. And no, you’re wrong. I wasn’t nude in the screen test. More like 100% see-thru. Panic, fear, lust, joy — major see-thru revelations. They should put my screen test on YouTube for wannabe actors to study. A Lesson In Emotional Transparency.

The other thing is Claire and me weren’t fully married, not at that second. Our wedding came together after Checkmate wrapped in Budapest. Claire and me were buzzed about Checkmate being in the can, we were happy my work was turning out so fucking good, we tied a happy Budapest love knot.

I wore a peasant blouse borrowed from one of the Checkmate wardrobe assistants, deep dish to the navel, shark tooth on my chest, suede pants, lace-up crotch. Claire pranced around in Versace.

Row, Row, Row Your Boat, I was holding Claire’s hand at the Byzantine alter. Merrily, merrily, merrily. Nervous Man And His Fine Woman.

Claire and me purred into lavolier body mikes, You save me. I sure do. Yeah. Amen. Hallelujah. Jittery cottonmouth vows that we wrote.

Everyone roasted us before the ceremony was even finished.

Apollo and Ariadne, Max the Checkmate D.P. was cheering in the church aisle.

Apollonia and Prince, the key grip stood on the back of his pew.

Guinevere and Lancelot! Jann’s King Arthur! That was Makeup Artist #1, punching the air.

The script supervisor was best man, she passed Claire and me our rings.

With this ring, I mumbled into Claire’s eyes.

With my body, Claire whispers back.

I thee worship. We said it in unison.

-13-

Next week, I’m back in L.A.

Lookee here, Braddie Boy, I wanted to show rushes of our marriage to Brad Grey, head of Paramount. Check this out, dude. The wedding DVD slides into Brad’s media system.

Brad’s busy planning my gay junket, New York, Boston, Chicago, San Francisco. Angels-In-America for Checkmate, soon as post-production’s gonna be finished, which won’t be for like another year.

Brad glances up, first shot on the DVD is Me And Claire Kneeling By The Altar. FUCK YOU! Brad throws his coffee mug at the TV. What the hell? Brad’s screaming. What came over you?

Coffee’s dripping down the plasma screen onto white milky carpet.

-14-

The other thorn in Paramount’s side was MR. JANN WEIDNER, Checkmate director guy.

True confessions here and now, ladies and gents, Jann and me were tied up in our own private movie-making Star-Slash-Director Dirty Fucking Sex Scene, Lick, Kiss, Hump – male monkeys Rubbing Each Other Up.

You’d think this would be desirable, an actual male couple doing it, exactly what Paramount wanted for their Checkmate publicity tour. Except Jann wasn’t photogenic enough.

Hey, hold on a sec, time out. Slow down. Going too fast, I hear screams from my readers. We need clarification, please, sir.

OK, dear reader, what’s up, how can I serve?

Why were you boning the director? You said you’re married to Claire.

I am married to Claire, I’m in love with Lady Claire.

"Yeah, but you said, ‘I was fucking Jann Weidner, Checkmate director guy.’"

Yeah, right. I was fucking Jann.

We don’t get it.

You mean, ‘What’s happening? Where do I stand?’

Yeah. We’re confused.

Lookee here, man. I want my double share for passing go, no matter what. Number Two Point, exceptions exist for every rule, I think you know that. Third, I wasn’t married to Claire, not yet, not until Checkmate wrapped.

Fourth, Jann’s brilliant, talk about a creative genius. A joker guy like me banging Jann Weidner equaled wow, major privileged opportunity. Fifth, Jann’s got a wife, three sons, who knows if he ever even kissed a guy before. I mean that’s cool, isn’t it? Jann popped his gay cherry for me.

So you’re saying you used him?

Yeah, you could say.

Mr. Long, you were willing to sleep with Jann Weidner simply to advance your career?

I know. Ain’t that the oldest story in the book? But Jann used me too, babes. So how ‘bout we don’t waste a whole lot of time on ethics and shit?

-15-

Twelve months later Me-And-Jackson-Barnes were golden retriever puppies across America for Checkmate’s Gay Oscar Campaign. And Jann was hidden from the press.

I was like, Shit – how’s this gonna end? I was checking my watch in NYC. How long before I can get back to Lady Eclaire?

First sign of my impatience was a blue toilet brush that somehow showed up inside Jackson’s asshole, my bed, my hotel, New York City, same time we’re due at the Good Morning America studio for makeup.

Big Whoops. Not What You Would Call Cool. Bad move on my part.

Jackson had to be rushed to a Park Avenue clinic. Three doctors worked four and a half hours to tidy him up. Paramount had to apologize to Robin Roberts, sorry, we’re postponing.

Then a medical assistant leaks the incident to the tabloids. Funky gossip is beside my picture in all the rags. Toilet brush explosion. Paramount wants to bitch slap me. Paramount says I gotta be insane, derailing the Begaaw campaign with shit like that.

But you know what? Checkmate moved from 1,200 to 1,900 screens that same week. Go figure, 700 more screens.

All Thanks To Evil Sexy Me.

I Took Over The Publicity Campaign, Toilet Brush In Hand.

-16-

Cut. Time out. Stop.

[Note to publisher: we need another transparency page right here, like in anatomy textbooks, like how they show the Diagram Of A Canine Scrotum. Or Insect Ova.

Except this transparency should have letters cut from newspaper and glued on haphazard and anonymous. The letters spell M-I-S-S J-U-D-I-T-H.

Lime green letters on clear plastic.]

One week after the Oscars, see, I’m chugging mango tango at home, pinching my tits, watching the kitchen phone ring.

This chick who moved her operation from New York to L.A. is on the line. She’s a book editor, she’s a publisher. She’s a talk show host.

Miss Judith Something-Or-Other, Sounds-Like-A-Dead-President, the editor-slash-publisher who got in trouble with that OJ Simpson book, you know the lady, she’s on the line.

Mr. Long? Miss Judith shouts. Autobiographies of young guys drive the market. The speed of her words is like a bullet train. How do I know? I know cuz I was Catherine-Deneuve-Blond-Pubes-Boy for the CK/Tokyo/Publicity Machine, I rode bullet trains back and forth across Japan a few years ago.

What’s an autobiography? Me Play Dumb On The Phone.

New York lady wants to send over a ghostwriter, supposed to arrive that afternoon. Cute boy, Sebastian, and smart. For you, darling. Adorable and sweet. He’ll write your story.

No thanks, not interested. Pause. Pause. I let three dramatic beats pass. How about I fool around with it myself? Huh? How ‘bout that?

What do you mean, Mr. Long?

How ‘bout I write the book? Fake coughing fit. What about it, Miss Judith?

-17-

Rule #1, Miss Judith explains to me over the phone, I gotta talk about my dick on every page.

Wait. Are you sure?

Absolutely.

Rule #2, tell the world I do guys.

C’mon, I’m married, don’t you know?

You have to say you slept with men. Rule #3, remind everybody you’re cute.

That’s stupid to keep saying.

#4, tell about Oscar.

Mention Oscar, got it …

5, keep it simple, stupid.

That was Miss Judith’s recipe for success, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.