Laid Bare: Essays and Observations (12 page)

So many friends gone. But with Henry Mancini’s help they occasionally do unexpectedly reappear. Why, there they are now, just waitin’ ‘round the bend for Moon River and me.

“…
SO THAT WE MAY BRING YOU…”

There was a time when entire families gathered in the soft glow of the cathode ray of a console television, hushing one another, as an announcer, in sober, stentorian tones, proclaimed,
“Our regularly scheduled program will not be seen this evening so that we may bring you a Special Presentation in Living Color.”

Of course, that brief announcement sometimes spelled disaster: The Watergate Hearings were broadcast from May through July, 1973, uncomfortably overlapping summer vacation, a span of time I had allocated to uninterrupted T.V. viewing.

Suffice to say that the episodes of “The Match Game” that weren’t obliterated by summer sunspots were more often than not trammeled by Sam Ervin & Co. (I never watched the hearings unless John Dean was testifying—I found him strangely sexy and, even as a 12-year-old homo, I appreciated the steely resolve his wife exuded as she sat behind him in her tailored suits and bleached hair pulled tightly into a bun.)

But, fortunately, a preempted program usually brought something truly special in its place. “Peter Pan” and “The Wizard of Oz” come to mind. Our entire extended family would traipse to my grandmother’s, as she possessed the only color television set in the clan.

It seems that there were more preemptions during the holidays than at any other time of the year as the networks hauled out their variety shows and “spectaculars” as early Christmas gifts to the nation.

My family devoured them all. Halfway through “Christmas With Ray Conniff and the Singers” my mother announced she was convinced that they were just mouthing along to the album. All four of us kids stampeded out of the living room and returned with the portable record player. After making sure the needle was flipped from 78 to LP we discovered that Mom was right: our scratchy copy of “Christmas With Ray Conniff and the Singers” synched up perfectly with the voices on T.V.

Was this a good thing or not? Were the people on television sipping cocoa around a roaring fire displaying uncanny abilities or were we at home getting gypped? For that matter, were these photogenic men and women members of The Ray Conniff Singers at all? Mom had unwittingly opened a can of worms with her revelation and planted the seeds of skepticism in a young mind.

Which only meant she had an even harder time trying to explain why Katie from “My Three Sons” was on “The King Family Christmas Special.” Did Robbie Douglas know his wife was leading this parallel life, that she had all these blond relatives and that she
sang
? And, most of all, what about their triplets? From my own experience I knew that fathers had little, if anything, to do with raising a family, so, who was watching all those kids? Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine Beverly Garland changing a diaper. My anxiety kept me from being able to fully enjoy the show.

Most Holiday Spectaculars followed this basic variety show format, but, one night in 1964, a truly special Special premiered on NBC; “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer”, presented in something called “Animagic” was shown for the first time in what would become an uninterrupted 40-year run. Here was a holiday special for the
whole
family. Even little gay boys found something in it for them; something that only grew richer and more meaningful with the passing years.
We
understood exactly what Rudolph went through; who didn’t endure that kind of taunting from the other kids at school? But, it wasn’t Rudolph with whom budding queers most closely identified, for there among the elves—in a
principal role
—was one outright, glorious queen.

Consider this dialogue from the choir practice scene in original script:

FOREMAN

(furious)

That sounded terrible. What’s wrong with you guys? The tenor section was weak!!

AN ELF

Wasn’t our fault, boss. Hermey didn’t show up.

FOREMAN

WHAT!! Where is that little…

(Stops himself.)

I think we all know what the Foreman intended to say.

Hermey the Gay Dentist Elf was unapologetically fabulous. (And let’s get this straight; it’s
Hermey
, not Herbie.) He, alone, stood out from his oafish co-workers. In the scene above, when the Foreman was asking his whereabouts, Hermey had all the dolls in the workshop lined up working on their teeth, but he could have just as easily been perfecting that
swoosh
of blond hair that could only have been achieved with a 2000-watt hand dryer and a round brush. With his sense of style and insouciant wit, Hermey was the Carson Kressley of his day.

I venture to guess Hermey wasn’t all that disappointed climbing out the workshop window, leaving behind the only home he knew for the Big Wide World, uncertain as it was. After all, potential fame, fortune and a Park Avenue practice awaited him.

When Hermey and Rudolph arrive on the Island of Misfit Toys they find the place we’ve all been longing for: everyone fits in precisely because they’re
all
misfits. It’s the Greenwich Village of the North Pole. (And, by the way, if you’ve been wondering all these years what’s wrong with the little girl dolly, well, there’s
nothing
wrong with her; my guess is she’s just a Misfit Hag who gets her kicks hanging around square-wheeled locomotives because it makes her feel superior.)

It seemed like such a perfect little world that, to me, it made no sense to leave. I imagined the toys sitting around the skating rink, frozen cocktails in hand, marveling at how wonderful it is to be unique. (Not to mention that Lion King Daddy with the deep voice.
Grrrr
, indeed.)

But, leaving the island was what the toys wanted, and getting back home was what Rudolph wanted and--all thanks to Hermey the Gay Elf--that’s exactly what they got. Yup, The Homo saved the day by extracting the tooth that made the Snowmonster so Abominable. True, he had to fall over a cliff in the process, but here was one pre-Stonewall drama that didn’t require that the homosexual take his own life or suffer a tragic death. Oh, and he survived the precipitous plunge just fine, thanks. (“That’s the thing about Bumbles—Bumbles
bounce!
”)

In no small way I feel we all owe Hermey a debt of gratitude. He matter-of-factly showed us all that it’s not only alright to be a fey, stylish individual, standing out from a bunch of brutish conformists, following an unlikely life-path, but that by doing so we might even help save Christmas.

SHOPLIFTING FIRE

The phone rang around two A.M. on a beautiful summer night. The man on the other end of the phone asked if I could come to the Towers at the Waldorf-Astoria on a job. I had already seen a client earlier that evening, but I was still wide awake, so I agreed to take a trip to the East Side. He said he was in the guest room to Suite 1612 (
Guest room?
Hotel rooms have guest rooms?) and that I had to be extremely quiet. The very rich
are
different from you and me.

As my cab sped through Rockefeller Center I noticed that the statue of Prometheus, which usually sits in the fountain of the skating rink, had been raised up onto the sidewalk in front of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. I recalled reading in the paper about some work being done on the fountain that necessitated the temporary removal of the golden statue. It was the first time since the 1930s that it had been out of its usual location and it seemed a little embarrassed to be loafing on the pavement.

Alighting from the taxi, I paid my fare and headed into the side entrance of the hotel. Since I was going to the Towers, I walked across the lobby toward the elevators designated specifically for that private area of the Waldorf. Still manned by an operator, these cabs are of the same vermillion as those in the main lobby, but they’re a bit smaller, more intimate.

As the operator held the door for me, I stepped in to find another passenger already there. A lovely young woman, beautifully dressed with long, straight black hair, looked demurely down at her feet.

“Floors, please?” I gave mine as sixteen, the young woman as four below that. Save for the humming of the lift cables, we ascended in silence until we landed at twelve. The woman stepped out of the car and looked uncertainly both ways down the corridor before walking to the right. The elevator door closed and the car started to rise once more. The operator glanced quickly in my direction. “Hooker,” he snorted. Momentarily stunned at his perception I paused before replying, “Oh, the girl! How can you tell?” “I can just tell,” he answered. A barely audible “Hmmm…” was the best that I could muster in response.

“Sixteen. Watch your step, sir.” I nodded to the man, who added, “Have a good night, sir.” Unsure of which direction my destination lay, but aware that the elevator man was watching me, I strode purposefully down the hallway to the left. Only when I heard the door glide shut behind me did I take the opportunity to look at the numbers on the room doors and discover that I was headed in the right direction.

I got to Suite 1612 and, sure enough, just below the brass number plate was another that read “Guest room” with an arrow pointing to the left. I rounded the corner, tapped gently on the door and heard footsteps approach on the other side. The peephole went dark for a moment and then the door swung open. Standing there was a man in his mid-to-late 40s clad in just a towel wrapped around his waist. He was quite handsome, in a Burt Bacharach, Malibu-surfer-boy-gone-to-seed kind of way. I liked him instantly.

I walked past him into the room and turned to face him as he shut the door. I smiled, and as I drew in my breath to say hello, he clapped his hand over my mouth. Backing me across the room, I lost my balance when we reached the bed and we fell onto it, him on top of me, with his hand still tight across my mouth. “You have to be quiet” he whispered as his blue eyes bore into mine. I nodded yes. “You can’t make a sound,” he said as he slowly removed his hand and brushed his fingers gently across my face. I looked at him for a moment and then silently mouthed, “Why not?”

“Because my wife and her parents are in the main suite.”

What was already a very sexy moment instantly became even more erotic. A smile spread across my face and I pulled his ear down next to my mouth. “You’re nuts,” I whispered. He looked at me and shrugged. I put my hand behind his neck and pulled him towards me and started to kiss him. As we kissed he started to unbutton my shirt, running his hand over my chest and pinching my nipples, which caused me to moan. He abruptly raised himself up on his hands and gave me a look that said, “What did I tell you?” I nodded reassuringly and rolled him over so I was now on top. I slowly kissed my way down his body and undid the towel from around his waist. As I put his hard dick in my mouth he let out a small sound. We looked at each other for a split second and then both laughed silently. I stood up and finished undressing as he sat up on the end of the bed and started caressing my legs and ass. I leaned over to kiss him again and we lay back down on the bed.

In a bit I found myself lying on my back with him over me as he jerked himself off to a climax. He was kissing me when he came, and I could feel the muscles in his mouth relax just as the rest of his body tensed and he shot his load on my stomach and chest. He sighed deeply and then collapsed on the bed next to me. He scooped his cum off my body and used it to jack me off. I lay there, looking into his eyes and, just as I was about to cum, he gently put his hand over my mouth (which drove me crazy) causing me to have an intense, silent orgasm.

As we lay there looking up at the ceiling, I could feel him turn to face me. I raised up on one elbow and whispered into his ear, “Come for a walk with me. I want to show you something.” To my surprise he nodded yes.

We dressed in silence and he paid me, throwing in a $100 tip. Riding down to the lobby in the elevator, the operator wore a quizzical expression but kept his thoughts to himself. As we spun through the revolving doors onto a nearly deserted Park Avenue I turned to my new friend and said, “What the hell was going on up there?!”

He explained that he and his wife and her parents had all been out to dinner that night and had drunk a lot of wine. That’s why he was confident they wouldn’t be bursting through the connecting door from the suite. They were all flying back to Los Angeles in the morning.

“What time does your plane leave?”

“Whenever we want it to.”

Oh, I see.

As we headed--mostly in silence--over to Rockefeller Center I explained that he was going to see a once-in-a-lifetime sight. I pointed out various architectural and cultural landmarks on the way and, as we walked down the Channel gardens (so-called because the England building lies on one side of them and the France building on the other) I nudged his shoulder with my own and said, “Y’know, you johns aren’t supposed to be so sexy.” Without missing a beat he responded, “Yeah? Well, you hookers aren’t supposed to be so smart.” I chuckled and put my hand on the back of his neck, giving it a little squeeze.

We stood there on the street, gazing up at Prometheus, his hand outstretched, forever brandishing the fire he stole from the gods. My focus slowly traveled to the man standing next to me, his profile silhouetted by the lights of the skating rink, and I thought to myself that I had done a little flame-stealing of my own that night. I suppose the sordid details of my heist brought it closer to the level of a petty theft, but there was definitely fire involved.