Secrets Of A Gay Marine Porn Star (32 page)

Jim, John, Brandon, and about a half dozen other guys and I were having dinner at Hamburger Mary’s in San Diego on a Saturday night. Hamburger Mary’s is a loud indoor-outdoor restaurant and bar. It’s very casual and, in San Diego, it adjoins Kickers, the gay and lesbian country-western bar. Brandon and Jim were engaged in conversation, and John and I were discussing an attractive and buff muscular guy sitting nearby.

“I know,” said John, “how to hook up with him. Like, you could be working out at the gym, and ask him to spot you as he’s on his way to the shower.” John gave me a mischievous smile, hesitating a bit before going on. “Then, as he’s spotting you, wearing only a towel, the towel could just drop off his body and you could start blowing him!”

I laughed nervously and looked down at the menu. That was exactly how the scene in
Boxer Shorts 2
had gone. John, probably seeing I didn’t want to continue talking about the matter, politely dropped it and never brought it up again.

The videos started coming out in August and September and I must admit I was a little curious myself. Okay, I was
dying
to see them. Dirk Yates had told me, “If you’re in one of my videos, I’ll give you a free copy.” At one point I went there saying I wanted my videos. He made up some story for not handing them over, “Oh no, you live over there in Oceanside, we don’t want those videos that close to Camp Pendleton.” On top of the insultingly low pay, he didn’t even want to give me the freaking videos. Eventually I got a hold of a couple. I actually bought one of them. I tried to watch them at home but I couldn’t. When I got to my scenes, I fast-forwarded through them. It was all so…so real!

Exactly one month after completing my last and final porn video, my folks and brother visited California for Labor Day weekend. We all met in San Francisco. Much to my surprise, my family thoroughly enjoyed the city, with its beautiful scenery and old-fashioned charm. After we’d been walking around, we stopped at a café on Russian Hill for lunch. The café had a gay pride flag out front, but I rightly suspected my folks didn’t know what that meant.

We ordered our sandwiches and sat down. My mom asked, “So…where’s all the
gays
at?” She emphasized “gays” with a slow whisper, like the very word itself was too dirty to be uttered like other, cleaner words.

I wanted to scream at her—
they’re all around you! Even sitting with you! Even your own son.

My brother spoke up. “Aren’t they all in…what is it called? The Castro District?”

“Where’s that?” my mom asked.

Oh Lord!
I thought.
She’s going to want to go there! I am NOT taking my mother to the Castro.

Luckily, she didn’t inquire any more about the gay population or its West Coast epicenter.

Although I avoided the Castro, my family and I walked over most of San Francisco. We walked up Telegraph Hill and on to the scenic views from atop the Coit Tower. From there, we walked down a long series of wooden staircases to Fisherman’s Wharf.

Halfway to the bottom, we passed a middle-aged couple who had stopped and an older woman who was leaning against the rail. The threesome appeared to be making their way to the top of Telegraph Hill.

My mom stopped for a quick rest and said to the older woman, “You need to go back down.”

I was aghast. My mom was mothering this elderly woman! “Momma!” I cried. I tugged at her sleeve to get her away from the three people who were now looking at my mom like she was the führer. “You can’t just tell her that!”

We resumed our descent. “Well. She needed to be told. These stairs are just too long for her to go up. She needed to be told!”

We rented a car and drove down Pacific Coast Highway. Along the way, we stopped to visit friends, mostly military friends, in cities such as Monterey. My mother began complaining that she couldn’t get good Southern cooking.

I had a brainstorm! Brandon had taken me to a restaurant in Long Beach called “Johnny Rebs” that served authentic Southern-style cooking. I decided that when we reached Long Beach, to have him meet us there. Brandon and I had only been together six weeks, but I was confident I wanted him to meet my family, if only as a “friend.” Most of my friends found my family to be very charming. I expected the same with Brandon.

That was a horrible mistake. First of all, the restaurant was “authentic Southern” the same way El Torito is “authentic Mexican.” It was more of a caricature than the real thing. My mom was visibly offended.

“We don’t have peanut shells on our floors in South Carolina,” she said. Looking right at Brandon, she asked, “Who picked this place anyway?”

She was unhappy, Brandon was uncomfortable, my dad was oblivious, and Jimmy was, well, enjoying the whole spectacle. With all the tension, I was miserable. When I excused myself to go to the restroom, Brandon later told me that my mother gave him the third degree.

“So…how
do
you know my boy Rich?” she asked without smiling.

It was as if subconsciously she knew. I was not out to any of them, but mothers always know these things. Fortunately, it was close to my birthday and Johnny Reb’s makes you kiss the butt of a plastic pig as they sing to you if you want a free birthday dessert. It was a welcome distraction. I never thought I’d be so happy to kiss a pig’s ass.

My relationship with my family really deteriorated after that. I was mad at my mom for being so uncivil to the man I was falling in love with. Even though she had no idea what she’d done wrong, I vowed never to forgive her.

My mom’s meeting with Brandon had been unpleasant, but that mattered less to me than Brandon’s first meeting with Gary. I rarely saw my mom, so it didn’t matter that much, but I saw Gary all the time.

Gary’s girlfriend, Angie, had moved from Texas to be with him in Southern California. Gary, Angie, Brandon and I met one Saturday night for dinner in Carlsbad. Angie and I talked a mile a minute while our boyfriends alternated between conversing with each other and listening to Angie and me.

“Have you met Philip yet?” Angie asked Brandon.

“Not yet,” answered Brandon.

Angie’s eyes grew large. “Oh, you just wait! You’re in for a treat!” Angie, Gary and I laughed.

“Why does everyone say that?” asked Brandon, a little bit nervous.

“I went to flight school with him,” said Gary. “Let’s just say, he’s unique. A damn good flight instructor. But unique.”

“I told Gary right after we started dating,” Angie said, changing the subject, “I said ‘You just wait, buster!’ It’s going to happen.’ I mean, I mean, Gary wasn’t homophobic or anything…”

“Rich knows the way we used to be,” Gary said. Brandon smiled and listened.

I knew what Gary was talking about. “I was the most homophobic asshole on the planet,” I said. “But that’s what denial and the closet do to a person. And when you don’t know anyone who’s gay, like Gary didn’t, it’s easy to get caught up in society’s attitudes. When you can’t put a face or a personal attachment to it, it’s easy to make derogatory comments. That’s why ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ is so bad. People can’t get to know who we are, so attitudes never change.”

“And that’s exactly what I told Gary,” Angie said, nodding her head as she resumed her fast and furious pace. Angie was a trip; she had a fun, bubbly and likeable personality. She and Brandon hit it off instantly. “I said, ‘You just wait, Gary Fullerton. One of these days, one of your
best friends
, someone you love very much is going to tell you that he’s gay. And then, and then not even a month later, Rich came out to him!” She was squealing with delight. I had to hand it to Gary, he managed to snag the most awesome women.

Even though it had been over two years since I came out to Gary, my homosexuality had never been a factor in our friendship, other than when I took him to the gay bar in San Diego, which had been a huge mistake. With Brandon sitting here, though, my queerness was an inescapable reality. I was thrilled that they got along so well. Gary was also glad that I had someone in my life.

I looked at the two of them, side by side, my best friend and my boyfriend. Both of them were good natured, level headed, stable, and sensible. Other than being in very good shape, they looked nothing alike, but they had many similar personality traits. It made sense that I would be drawn to them both.

Angie and I both had fiery, erratic, explosive personalities. The types who attracted drama. No wonder we made such a perfect foursome. It felt good and right. Two old friends with their significant others, having a fun dinner out on a Saturday night. My life was starting to seem…normal.

Brandon and I took a trip to Hawaii, the most wonderful vacation of my life. As if it was our honeymoon. When we returned, however, I was in for a rude awakening.

In my stack of mail was a letter from the Alumni Association at Bob Jones University. Melanie had talked me into coming to our ten-year Bob Jones Academy class reunion with her and her new husband. Other than Melanie, the only people I had told I would were Mrs. Langston and Miss Denham. I hoped to see my former teachers during my visit. Miss Denham hadn’t known about my expulsion or the rumors that I was gay and she had mentioned to an administrator that she was looking forward to seeing me. The alumni director, who also happened to be the father of a girl I had gone to school with for fourteen years, wrote me a letter.

I turned on the news as I sat down to open the letter. Something on the television caught my attention as I grabbed the letter opener.

“…Superior Court of California, County of Los Angeles. In the matter of the People of the State of California versus Orenthal James Simpson, Case number BA097211…”

This is it! Oh my God! The OJ verdict!
I opened the letter from Bob Jones instinctively, reading its contents with one eye and watching the courtroom drama unfold with the other.

“Dear Rich: A faculty member mentioned in passing that she understood you were planning to attend the Academy Class of ’85 reunion…”
What was this about?

“…we the jury in the above-entitled action find the defendant, Orenthal James Simpson…”

“…I thought I should remind you that Mr. Berg informed you in 1987 that you were not eligible to visit the campus. This means that you would not be able to attend the reunion, since it is held on the campus.”
Those mother-fucking assholes!

“…not guilty of the crime of murder in violation of penal code section…”

This was surreal. I had assumed that by now, no one would care enough about events ten years ago to stop me from attending the reunion. And like everyone else in white America, I had assumed a guilty verdict in the O.J. Simpson case was a foregone conclusion.
My assumptions can really be way off sometimes,
I thought.

I wrote a response to the alumni director and reminded him that his daughter and I had been friends; her birthday had been the day after mine and we had celebrated them together practically year after year. How these men could so easily forget the personal nature and humanness of relationships astounded me. But, I reminded myself, “humanness” was evil, in the eyes of Bob Jones.
Wow, I’ve really come a long way
.

A few days later, I received an unexpected telephone call.

“Hey, Rich, this is Sam Thompson, how are you?”

Sam and I had gone to school together from the first grade until my expulsion fourteen years later. Although we had been good friends, I hadn’t spoken to him in eight years.

I hesitated for a second or two then answered, “Hello, Sam.” I had no idea why a Bob Jones graduate would be calling me now…an attempt at de-homosexualization? I braced for whatever it might be.

“I got your number from Melanie,” he said. “I had heard you were coming to the reunion. I had hoped to see you. I just wanted you to know that I don’t agree with the way the school handled it. I…I just think there could have been a better way.”

“Well, thanks, Sam. I really mean it, I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

The mood of our conversation lightened. “She told me you go by ‘Rich’ now but you’ll always be ‘Richie’ to me.” Suddenly Sam added, “You know, there have been a lot of rumors about you.”

Shit, think fast, Rich.
“No, Sam, I’m not,” I said quickly, diverting the conversation. “I am not an atheist. Someone in the Marine reserves started that rumor and it’s not true.”

Sam laughed weakly. “Well…that’s not…I mean, that’s good to know. I’m glad to hear that.” We ended our conversation shortly after that.

At least OJ had gotten a trial; after ten years, I still had no chance for parole. The Bob Jones University Alumni Association had gone to the trouble to find my address in Oceanside, California, to remind me that I was, and, despite Sam’s solitary phone call, would forever be, an outcast.

How much more of an outcast would I be if they ever found out about the porn?

“C
aptain Merritt,” said the new battalion commander, “can you come see me in a minute?”

It was a rhetorical question, of course. Only four out of the 320 men in the battalion outranked me and of those four, the lieutenant colonel was top dog. “No, I’m busy,” was not an option.

“Yes, sir,” I responded quickly as I jumped to my feet. The enlisted Marines watched with amusement as I walked nervously toward my superior officer.

What the hell did he want?
The awareness of my triple life—Marine officer, semicloseted gay man, and retired porn star—existed inside me in a constant state of tension—like an unsteady and volatile truce or ceasefire. A comment like this from the highest-ranking officer in the battalion, probably harmless, but maybe not, threw my carefully constructed emotions into an instant whirlwind.

Oh my God
, I thought as I walked behind Lieutenant Colonel Elwell into his office. He was a nice guy and we got along superbly, much better than I had with the last CO. But if investigators had found out what I was doing, there would be nothing he could do for me.

I’m through!

“I just got off the phone with Headquarters Marine Corps,” he said in his normally soothing Kentucky accent. My new job as the battalion’s training officer meant I no longer worked with the CO. I was not familiar with his facial expression, body language, and overall moods.

Fuck! Goddamn! Headquarters Marine Corps has already gotten involved!

Suddenly, Lieutenant Colonel Elwell smiled and extended his right hand. “Let me be the first to congratulate you, Captain Merritt. Your augmentation package has been approved. You’ve been selected for retention into the regular Marine Corps!”

I almost passed out. I did not expect to get selected because of the DUI on my record. At this point the retention rate was about 25 percent. The other 75 percent were forced out. And I was part of that 25 percent. Even with a DUI. Apparently the high rankings I had received at sea, as well as having been awarded the Navy Achievement Medal, overcame what I had thought was an insurmountable hurdle.

“Thank you, sir,” I said before returning to the training office.

This is exactly what I didn’t expect. Part of my rationale for embarking on the porn career in the first place was I felt certain that I had no future in the Marines. I wondered what I would do now. I had been planning all along to get out, because I thought I didn’t have a choice. Now I had a choice.

I decided that day I would apply for the funded law program that would pay for me to go to law school. If I got the funding, I would stay in.

Later that week, while working in the office I shared with my battalion’s small operations and training section, I received a phone call. One of the Marines answered the phone and said, “Sir, there’s a Lieutenant Wright on the phone for you.” It was my friend Bart, one of the few Marine officers who lived a semi-openly gay life like Philip and me. Bart and I had been at sea together in ’94. I thought he was going to congratulate me about passing the retention board. Which he did. Then he added, “Actually, there was another reason I wanted to call you.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “What’s that?”

“I always thought you were a bottom.”

“Let me remind you, Devildog, that this
is
an unsecured line.” I was only half-kidding. Bart knew better than to joke like this on a military phone. But I didn’t want to be too serious about it. The odds someone was listening in would be small. “Besides, I don’t know what communists gave you that obviously flawed piece of misinformation.”

“Well, obviously it
is
a piece of misinformation,” Bart said. I detected mischief in his voice.

Suddenly it hit me. There was a long, stunned pause on my end. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, I think you know what I’m taking about. I was in San Francisco this past weekend and a friend went and rented a porn video for us.”

I made a mistake saying, “Which one?”

Bart rightly took that as meaning there was more than one.

That was the first direct instance of a friend’s seeing one of my videos.

You know, once one of them finds out, they will all know. Some of my friends saw other videos.
Bullseye
was now having its illustrious premiere at the video booth in Oceanside. The way it worked was, you went into a booth, dropped quarters into the slot, and could choose among several videos, one of which was
Bullseye
.

The interesting thing is, without exception, my friends were disappointed and upset, not because I had done porn, but because I hadn’t told them about it.

They said, “Did you think we were going to judge you?” “What did you think?” “Why would you keep this from us?” “We’re your friends, you can confide in us.”

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” was my standard answer.

“It was probably hard for you to go through,” they would say. “We could have been there for you, if this is what you want to do. Yeah, we would have probably told you it’s stupid and dangerous but it’s done now and you should have come to us. You should confide in us. You should have let us know.”

That was an unusual experience for me because everyone in my life, before I came out and started making gay friends had been judgmental. There were just certain things I instinctively kept from people. In the South if you want to do something even vaguely out of the normal way of thinking, you kept it to yourself. I hadn’t known people who really do love you unconditionally. It was kind of nice, actually.

Philip’s F/A-18 squadron returned from the Marine Corps Air Station in Iwakuni to Miramar in late December, just in time for Christmas. Raul had already returned from his shipboard float and had taken off to New York for the holidays.

Brandon and I had been together, and happy, for about five months at this point. Many of my friends had echoed Gary and Angie’s warning about Philip. “Wait till you meet Philip! He’s something else!” And then Brandon met Philip and he said, “This guy is a dime-a-dozen, self-centered, Southern California fag. Big deal.”

I replied, “Well, for a lot of people he’s pretty unique.” But by this time I saw Brandon’s point. Philip
was
completely self-centered and bitter.

Because I had the place to myself, I invited the guys over for Christmas dinner.

“You’re the only person I know who can’t even cook a bowl of soup but would invite ten people over for Christmas,” Philip said.

“You seem to be forgetting one important factor,” I said. “I now have a man who can cook.” Philip was one of those guys who are deeply insecure without a boyfriend. He was also deeply insecure with a boyfriend, but he was worse when he was single. My comment was intended to sting. It did. I felt a perverse sense of pleasure.

While I was outside letting Jim and John in through the gate, Brandon and Philip were in the kitchen talking. Philip told Brandon, “Rich is one of the most high maintenance people I ever met.” Coming from Philip, this was just phenomenal. His gall!

The day after Christmas, Brandon and I went skiing up in Mammoth for three days. The trip was even better than Hawaii had been, only it was too short.

After leaving Brandon and Buster in Long Beach, I returned to my condo in Oceanside. It was late in the evening so I was surprised when the phone rang. It was Philip.

“Do you mind if I come over? It won’t take me long to get there.”

“No, not at all,” I answered and hung up the phone. There was a sick feeling in the pit of stomach.
He knows!
I thought.

Philip knew the gate code to get into my condo complex. Twenty minutes later, he was knocking at my door. I opened it. He gave me an icy stare and brushed past me. He entered the living room and turned to face me.

“Close the door, please,” he said softly.

Shit!
I thought. I had never seen anyone so angry.

He was in an absolute rage. He was in his
worst
kind of rage—he was quiet. At least at first. But I could tell he was a volcano of anger inside.

“I’m just going to say one thing,” he began.

I might just as well get this over with,
I thought.
But there’s no way he’s just going to say one thing.

I smiled and acted clueless. He wasn’t buying it.

“What
shocks
me the most, Rich, is the way you put all the rest of us in danger!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked. “I haven’t done anything to put anyone else in danger!”

“Yes you have, and you know it!” shouted Philip. I walked around the sofa where he was standing and took a seat opposite him on the futon. He sat on the sofa.

I softened a bit, hoping to diffuse his inevitable conniption. “Philip, what I may or may not have done…”

“Don’t fucking bullshit me, Rich!” He lowered his voice slightly and leaned forward. “I’ve seen the video, okay? So has everyone else. It’s playing right here at the goddamned video arcade in Oceanside.”

Now wasn’t the time to tell him there was more than one.

“I couldn’t believe it,” he said. “I had to go see it for myself.” He looked at the wall and shook his head. “And there you were! Sure looked like you were enjoying yourself!”

I wondered which video was playing. Maybe I could feel him out for some clues. “Well, I don’t think I was that obvious…”

Philip jumped up. I thought he was going to hit me. “What! Not that obvious? Dammit, Rich you were wearing a sailor suit…a Marine officer…wearing a
navy uniform
in a gay porn video!”

Ah, so it’s Bullseye that’s playing at the video arcade.
I didn’t say anything.

“The worst thing is, you didn’t care about any of the rest of us. Not even Raul, your own goddamned roommate. What about him? He’s not even gay, and now you’ve put him in danger. That’s what is just so unbelievable about this.” Philip was still standing, edging closer to me. I decided that if he made a move, I’d have to beat the shit out of him.

“Philip, sit down, okay? I still don’t see how this affects you, or Raul or anyone. You’re just my friend. You’re not responsible for what I do.”

Philip refused to sit down and started pacing, which really wore out my frazzled nerves. “Cut the bullshit, Rich. You know the way the military is. Guilt by association. They would investigate me and all our friends.”

“They can’t, an investigation like that would violate ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.’”

“They could come in here and search your stuff and in the process, find out about all of us. Your address book, all the letters that you save for some fucking reason, your photographs. Everything!”

“We don’t live on base, so the military authorities can’t come here without a subpoena or a warrant and doing porn isn’t a crime in California since I’m over eighteen.” I had carefully rehearsed all these arguments. Still, Philip was right, and I knew it. I had acted selfishly and given the military’s history in these situations, I
had
put my friends at some risk. But rather than admit all of this now, I just got mad.

“Fuck you, Philip!” He looked startled at my sudden anger. “You don’t give a shit about what I’ve been through in all of this. This is just like you. All you
ever
do is think about yourself and how something affects you. You’re the most selfish person I know!”

“I want you out,” he said with all the resolution he could muster. “I want you gone.”

“
What?
What are you talking about? This is my house, not yours!”

“No. I want you out…out of this area. Nowhere near any of the marine bases. Gone!”

“Who died and made you the goddamned Commandant of the Marine Corps. Fuck off. I don’t care what you want. I live here and I intend to stay.”

His anger was more and more noticeable. “Not only do I want you out of the area, I
insist
that you resign your commission immediately! I want you out…out of the Marines!”

I laughed and threw my head back. “Now you’re really losing it, Philip. When I accepted augmentation into the regular Marine Corps, I agreed to serve three more years on my contract…”

“I’m sure they would let you out of it,” he said.

“I would have to tell them why, you moron, and then they would throw me in the brig.”

“Well that’s the only honorable course of action I see for you, and I insist you take it.”

Of all the arrogant, stupid things Philip had said to me over the years, this was the most incredible. “This is coming from the man who chases one enlisted marine after another. Never mind the gay thing, Philip, what about the crime of fraternization? Huh? What about that? That’s just as much against the UCMJ as porn. And you’re going to talk to me about honor. Fuck you.” I said it slowly and softly. I walked to the door and in a dramatic gesture worthy of a soap opera, I flung open the door, twirled around and demanded, “Get out. Now!”

Philip grabbed his gloves out of his coat pockets. I stifled a laugh. Only Philip would have gloves in Southern California. He put them on his hands and as he walked past me he snarled, “And most of all, Rich, I want you out of my life.”

Hoping for a grand finale to this
Dynasty
moment, I tried to slam the door. Unfortunately a strong ocean wind blew through the complex, knocking the door back in my face.

Goddammit, I hope Philip didn’t see that,
I thought as I rubbed my aching nose.

When Raul returned from New York, I told him that I was going to move out. Our lease was up soon and all I said was that I wanted to be closer to Brandon, which was true. I figured it was for Raul’s own good not to be associated with me anymore. I had to admit that despite Philip’s self-centered rant, he had been right about some things. I had placed Raul in danger. When the military casts its net on these witch hunts, the presumption is guilty until proven otherwise. By then, an officer’s career could be ruined.

I moved to a small apartment in San Clemente so I could be closer to Brandon.