Insatiable (25 page)

35

T
HE
P
RINCE OF
P
ORN AND THE
J
UNK-FOOD
Q
UEEN

I
WAS FASCINATED BY HIS STORY. I WANTED TO KNOW WHAT HAD LED JAMIE
Gillis, née Jamey Gurman, from a cum laude degree in English at Columbia University and then acting school to reciting Shakespeare while performing live sex at the Show World Center on Eighth Avenue. His father got the name Jamie from Tyrone Power’s pirate in
The Black Swan
and that’s how he spelled it, but his mother—the two were separated—insisted on Jamey.

“When I check into a hotel, I never know which name to use,” he confided. “I feel responsible more and more for Jamie Gillis, since I created him. I had no control over Jamey Gurman. I used to think I was a prince left by mistake. This couldn’t possibly be my family.” I watched him play Jamie Gillis out in public with me, turning on the self-conscious strut, the velvet confidence of his voice. Inside, I believed he still felt like Jamey Gurman, myopic, unathletic, failing at high school, no one to take to the prom. We were both Cinderella. Immediately, he became that deprived child, Jamey, to me.

Jamey was hungry. His hunger made my hunger seem quite tame. He was fascinated with tasting. He seemed to get an almost sexual thrill—his nose would twitch like a cat’s—from a new taste he had never experienced before. His dream, he told me in all seriousness, was one day to invent a fruit.

Does that sound goofy? I thought it was sweet and saw my role in this drama. I would be the cherished facilitator, setting untold delights on his plate, finding my joy in his joy. And he would open an underground world of sexual secrets to me. Granted, he was a porn actor. But here I was, at the peak of my own sexual power. It was just another ascent. So he fucked for money. Not nearly as much money as the women got, but top money for a guy, he boasted. But he had an innocence, a fresh way of looking at things, that I found appealing. And he seemed remarkably happy.

I don’t remember ever meeting anyone quite that pleased with himself. He filled his afternoons with pleasure—treating himself to a jar of lingonberries, slipping into a theater with the intermission crowds to see the second act of a Broadway play, signing an autograph for a fan on the street. What a turn-on, especially if the fan happened to be a woman. Evenings, he weighed his options, so many delightful options that he could never be bored. He loved his life. He was in love with his work. He never ceased being amazed that he was paid for making love to dewy young beauties and aging Lolitas. Even his tears were joyful. Telling me about an early love he’d lost when she fell in love with another woman, he began to weep. Then he wiped his eyes and smiled.

“That felt good,” he said.

After Don’s melancholy and the deep discontent I perceived in Andrew, Jamey’s talent for happiness was irresistible. To some people, the adult-film world might have seemed dangerous, a sordid scene with drugs and Mob money. But I saw a rather naïve guy, young for his age but smarter than I would have expected—Columbia, after all, and the
New York Times
with coffee every morning. He’d been moved by a certain passiveness into what seemed easy money, but he appeared no more sexually obsessed than I.

I took him into my world. He looked dashing at the Four Seasons or at Frank Valenza’s wonderfully outrageous Palace in that pinstriped brown flannel suit he’d worn in
Misty Beethoven
. I had to be subtle and diplomatic to convince him that the lapels of his shirt looked better inside the jacket, not open and out, à la John Travolta in
Saturday Night Fever
. He liked to wear a shiny floral tie that still had its strip of masking tape inside, labeled “orgy scene.” At gatherings of the lit clique, Gay Talese, immersed then in skinny-dipping research for
Thy Neighbor’s Wife,
his monumental opus on swinging in the seventies, was clearly fascinated. Jamey already knew Jerzy Kosinski from grungy cellars of sadomasochism downtown in the Meatpacking District. At The Literary Guild anniversary party at the Four Seasons, they shook hands, grinning, like comrades from a secret sect.

Jamey let me know he had a special girlfriend. She was smart enough to give him freedom to roam, he said. I was seeing him once or twice a week, shamelessly playing to his weakness. I am nothing if not competitive. I dangled Lutèce; he couldn’t say no. The Cellar in the Sky at Windows on the World . . . a different wine with every course. How could he resist? He’d grown up in poverty on West 103rd Street, one of six children. “The only white boy in my PAL group,” he said, referring to the Police Athletic League. He dreamed of one day buying the brownstone he’d grown up in and turning it into a castle. “I’d invite everyone I love to live in it,” he confided.

“What happened to your acting career?” I asked.

“I am an actor.” He was clearly insulted. “I make a living as an actor. Not many actors do, you know. Five percent, according to
Variety.
I really tried to find something I could do, something to care about besides acting. I took an aptitude test. I thought maybe law, or teaching. I almost did get a job once teaching in a school for bad boys.” He laughed. “If it had been bad girls, I would definitely have taken it.”

“And porn?”

“I was doing Shakespeare Off Broadway for nothing and driving a cab for a living. Then one day, I saw an ad for actors to do nude photos. The job paid forty dollars an hour. That was what I took home for driving a cab all day. And it was easy. It was fun. Everyone was sweet, and I loved the sex.”

For a while, it looked as if sex films were getting better and there would be a breakthrough, he said. Everyone in the business talked about serious actors doing explicit sex in big-budget Hollywood films. “I felt good about being in the avant-garde. I felt like a sexual missionary,” he told me.

His story was touching. I was impressed by that English honors degree. Originally, he’d gone to Hunter to enroll for classes, but he found the system too confusing, he said. A friend knew an administrator at Columbia. There, registration could be arranged. Second from the bottom in his New Jersey high school graduating class, Jamey found himself uncharacteristically motivated in college.

“At Columbia, I just decided to do it. I was at the top of my class. Got all
A
’s and
B
’s. Everyone said, ‘This kid has potential.’” He hesitated, aware that I might think he had squandered that potential. He looked away. “There’s a need being unfulfilled in me,” he said, turning back with a grin. “That’s part of my charm.”

That charm was working on me. I felt he’d never really had a chance. I wanted to do something to help him. I didn’t see red lights blinking. Or if I did, I didn’t care. I felt I could handle it. I found his dark world intriguing—the movies shot in two days, women rebelling against deeply religious homes and fundamentalist religions, the men mostly Jewish, all of them paid so little in an industry that raked in millions. He didn’t seem to think of himself as exploited. He accepted the limitations; indeed, he was proud that he was among the top-paid men in porn, didn’t seem to mind that work was occasional, unpredictable. He was happy. He made just enough money to support an unambitious lifestyle. And oh, the girls. “They were so sweet. So juicy.”

“You’re like a pig in shit,” I said one day. Jamey laughed. “I love what I do.” But he was a trained actor, after all, I reasoned. Perhaps all he needed was a little push, a few phone calls to open other doors.

“No one has crossed over from porn to straight film,” he told me. Did he seem dangerously passive? I dismissed the thought. With my confidence and connections, he would get the energy to pursue it, I felt sure.

“I was thinking about writing an article on pornography,” I said one evening. “But your story is much more interesting. It should be a book.”

“Funny,” he said. “Norman Mailer told me the same thing. I met him once at a party. What do you think? Should I let Mailer do my story?”

He wasn’t ready to trust me. Too many promises broken, I thought.

Whenever we went to dinner, we’d go dancing after at Regine’s or Xenon or the Ice Palace, a dark place with pin lights, butch lesbians, and great disco music. We danced apart, we danced close. Moving slowly to Sinatra, I’d put my hand around his neck, fingers tangled in his dark curls. I find it hard to explain what it was about dancing. The high school wallflower became the queen of the prom. I had great moves. I had the best-looking guy on the dance floor. I was transformed. I had never been good at anything athletic, although I’d always loved to dance, long before disco. Now I was a dancer every night of the week. I could imagine the physical abandon, the elation, the kinetic ecstasy of Cyd Charisse, Leslie Caron, of Ginger Rogers matching Fred Astaire step by step, only backward (as Gloria Steinem pointed out).

There would be a long line vying to get by the doorman at Regine’s. Someone would spot me. “Let Miss Greene in,” the hostess would call out. Someone would take my long fur cape and hand it to the cloakroom attendant over the heads of mere mortals patiently queued. I was given no coat check—two hundred coats, but no check for mine.

“It’s rude the way the woman who takes your coat doesn’t even see me,” said Jamey. “She doesn’t acknowledge I’m standing there. It’s rude to you.”

“You’re right. I’ll say something.”

“Don’t do it for me. I know who I am,” he said. “In my world, no one would know you, either.”

Camille, the very blond captain I knew from Le Cirque,
*
would put us at a table up front. Jamey would order Perrier. I would ask for ice water. Camille would bring fancy cookies. And we would wait for the movie star-handsome tuxedo-clad waiters, carnations in their lapels—Regine must have hired a casting director—to push back the screens that hid the dance floor during dinner. Then the DJ would switch vibes from supper-club mellow to jump-around disco. And there was the see-through Plexiglas dance platform, with its pulsating neon.

Jamey never seemed to be in a hurry to get home, unlike other men, normal men with jobs. He so rarely worked, he didn’t have to be anywhere at nine o’clock in the morning. As it got later, the after-dinner revelers crowded onto the Lucite floor, anonymous bodies pressing against one another. Jamey closed his eyes, losing himself in the orgiastic intensity of it. I saw his hand brushing a passing chiffoned ass. I let my hand wander, too. He smiled and closed his eyes again. One evening, Elizabeth Taylor danced alongside us, orchid eyes glued to her rangy escort as if he were the next Richard Burton. She seemed to move in a halo of light.

Often, it was two or three o’clock in the morning when we claimed my cape and then walked home. The sex was never hotter than the night Jamey spent dancing inches from the exquisite goddess of his dirtiest reveries, the adolescent Brooke Shields. “Oh, my precious baby,” he crooned, eyes closed—but so what?

His world, a crazy world. I’m writing a book, I thought. This is research. But in fact, I was being naughty and it was fun. I liked doing whatever it took to turn him on. It was hot. I was a new, more aggressive me. I was learning how many women had passed through his life. He spun the tales slowly for my little notebook and the book we’d agreed to write, but, of course, he was rationing his confessions, not sure what I could handle. One day, he spoke of us in the past tense and I got huffy. I realized I wanted to be the one he could never let go. I was sure we had a blockbuster book. “We’re going to be very rich,” I promised him. The book would bind him to me. I might never be the one woman, but I could be the one woman he really needed.

We were feeding quarters to the porno-flick machines in a cubicle at Show World on Eighth Avenue, a rare afternoon together (“for the book,” I’d suggested).

“I remember this film. Oh, these were my babies, my beautiful babies,” he moaned, masturbating as he watched himself flanked by what looked like a pair of Lolitas, rubbing against him on-screen. You didn’t buy much footage for a quarter. The machine flicked off. He added another quarter. “I can’t believe you’re taking notes,” he said, zipping up to run outside to the cashier for more quarters. Sticky world. I had a new dimension. I did my work. I met my deadlines. I tasted meals not worth writing about and set up photo shoots for the magazine’s issue on entertaining. I dated other men. I danced after dinner with other men. But I obsessed about Jamey. My friend Naomi couldn’t understand it. “He sounds to me like a giant mouth,” she said. Jean-Louis, at Le Cirque, warned me that he could only be trash and might have something contagious. My wise and permissive therapist, Mildred, thought Jamey was just another symptom of my unresolved neurosis. Don was concerned, “though I don’t really have a right to be,” he said. Why did nobody understand what I saw in Jamey?

Even as intrepid girl reporter for the
Post,
I had avoided the sleaze of Times Square. And now in the late seventies, the neighborhood was scabrous, full of desperadoes, dealers conducting brazen drug sales on Forty-second Street, scantily dressed runaways from Minnesota in white plastic boots offering themselves on Eighth Avenue. One evening, I found myself trailing Jamey through the tawdry scene, among the child whores and winos, as he stopped at Smiler’s for the
Times
and his morning grapefruit, my hair soaking wet from nonstop dancing till 3:00
AM
after some fancy benefit, wearing my mink, my black velvet gown sweeping the pavement.