Secrets Of A Gay Marine Porn Star (40 page)

“Well…if I recall correctly, the reason you aren’t allowed on the campus isn’t because you’re gay, now is it?”

“Damn you for having such a good memory!”

“Me? You’re the Rain Man,” he joked, referring to my sometimes photographic memory. “And, I hope you realize, the university was picketed by Fred Phelps and his freaks.”

Fred Phelps and his church members had earned national scorn by picketing Matthew Shepard’s funeral a couple of weeks earlier. “Why are the godhatesfags.com people picketing Bob Jones University?”

“Because gay alumni can visit the art gallery and take their boyfriends.”

“Well,” I said, “a place can’t be all bad if Fred Phelps is picketing it.”

In no fewer than three of my law school classes, we would discuss the Supreme Court case of
United States of America v. Bob Jones University.
I had been in Bob Jones Academy for the 1984 Court decision, now I could share the experience with my law school classmates.

By 2000, I was not surprised at all to see my old nemesis in the national news again. Not even presidential candidate George W. Bush was exempt from the Bob Jones taint.

With the initial
Advocate
story coming out—which would reveal my identity as “R” in the
New York Times
piece, I thought word might get back to my parents. That’s when I decided to come out to them. The only way I could imagine myself coming out was by writing a letter.

Some people say, “Oh, that’s the easy way out.” For me it was the only way because my mother, I knew, was going to say horrible, awful, unforgivable things. I didn’t want to hear her say them because I knew that they would be words that might put a wedge between us forever. So I wrote them a letter. It took me a whole day to draft it and then I wrote it out by hand. Basically I described what my experience had been like, finally coming to terms with the fact that this is how God had made me. Who was I to question that? I finally accepted that God made me this way and it was time to stop demanding that He change that. That to me, is what seemed important. I explained that there had been some media attention and I wanted to let them know so they didn’t find this out from some other source.

I copied the letter and sent one to an aunt and uncle, and I sent another copy to my brother. I was aware that the
Advocate
article was due out on December 18, so I sent my parents the letter a couple of weeks before Christmas, telling them I would call them on Christmas Day. I had no plans to visit them that year.

On Christmas Day I didn’t call them as I had promised. I just couldn’t. Instead, I drove down the coast near San Diego where Gary’s family was visiting for the holidays. Brandon had flown to be with his family for Christmas. He wasn’t out to them, and I felt stuck in Southern California. Fortunately, the Fullertons had become my surrogate family and they had a time share in Solana Beach. Gary’s parents were there as well as other relatives who had flown in from England. Now that I was out of the Marines, I was determined to be completely out.

“Norah, I just wanted you to know that I’m gay,” I said to his mother.

She laughed and in her Scottish accent said, “Heavens, Rich, you think I didn’t know that? I told Gary a long time ago that I raised my sons to be open-minded and I was upset that he wasn’t more open-minded about gay people. But I knew when he met you that you were gay and that you would help him be more accepting. I’m so glad that that’s what’s happened. And I’m so glad you
finally
told me!”

I told Gary about the
New York Times Magazine
and the
Advocate
story, the first article where I appeared near the back and George Michael was on the cover.

“You should see if you could turn this into something else,” he said.

“An agent from ICM already turned it down,” I said. “But the
New York Times
says they’re going to do a story on Brandon and me.”

A couple of days after Christmas my Dad called and said, “Son, we got your letter. We just want you to know that we love you. But you understand we’re Christians and we just can’t accept this sort of thing.” My mother on the other line was sobbing, “How could you choose to do this to me?” I felt,
Wow, if that’s what she’s saying after two weeks, what did she say when she got the letter
?

My experience with the DUI six years earlier was sort of a fore-shadowing. Then, too, her reaction had been, “How could you do this to me?” I was prepared for it this time.

“Mother,” I said, “I think I’ve said what I needed to say in the letter.”

“No,” she sobbed, “you know what’s right! You haven’t trusted the Lord! You’re giving up!”

My dad quieted her down. “Son, we love you, we want to see you, and we just want you to know that.” That was it.

My coming out experience summed up my relationship with my dad. For the most part, we didn’t have a whole lot in common, not unlike most gay men and their dads. We weren’t that close but we genuinely loved each other. When confronted with a situation that called for him to be a father, as this situation did, that’s exactly what he was. He said to me what I needed to hear—that he loved me.

I told them that one of the reasons I had decided to do this now was that I had been in some news articles and I didn’t want them to hear about it from anyone but me.

“You’ve been in the press about this?” my dad asked. He didn’t sound angry or upset, just confused. This wasn’t the type of thing that anyone back in South Carolina talked about, much less discussed in the papers.

“Yes, sir,” I said. I didn’t identify either title. I wasn’t sure which would be worse in their eyes…the
New York Times
or the leading national gay newsmagazine.

My mom’s reaction had also been exactly what I expected, as had Jimmy’s. Jimmy never called to talk about it, but six months later he visited and stayed with Brandon and Buster and me. He met many of my gay friends and, if he had a problem, he didn’t express it. Everything seemed fine with him.

Right after the
New York Times Magazine
cover story came out, I was a hero for a few months. It was one of the most wonderful periods of my life, as if I had not only achieved my lifelong dream of pleasing others, of affirming my worth, but had surpassed it.

I was happy to be the gay Marine “poster boy,” representing the fact that a well-balanced homosexual could have a successful career in the military without having to hide. Okay, maybe I wasn’t all that well balanced…but there certainly were many men and women who were doing excellent jobs in the military. If I was able to articulate that in a way that made people notice, then I was proud of my contribution. For me it was an honor to be a temporary symbol for successful gay careers in the military. I was happy, more than happy, to fill that role.

When
The Advocate
article revealing my porn past, came out, smashing my image, it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me up to that point, except for my stillborn baby sister, Elizabeth. What made it unbearable was that all my fears of failure felt as if they had been confirmed. I had let down thousands of people who had been proud of me. I had failed everyone who had thought that I offered a glimmer of hope for change.

The day it came out—Monday—is when I found out about it. I looked it up online but it hadn’t been posted yet. The next day, Tuesday, I went to law school and skipped my afternoon class and drove to Los Angeles to A Different Light Bookstore. It was crowded and hiding my face, I bought three copies of
The Advocate
. While the guy was ringing it up I was freaking out, he was going to recognize me. I drove back to school and read the article on campus. I was so afraid at this point for my legal career. I went to one of the associate deans. I talked to him about it. He was very reassuring. “These things happen,” he said. “Everyone has a past. You didn’t do anything really illegal. Yeah, you violated military law, but what do you think the academic legal community thinks about that? It’s blatantly discriminatory anyway.” He called me that night and told me he had talked to the dean of the law school who was one of my professors.

“Look you’ve got Scott Bice on your side,” he told me. “He thinks you’re a very good student. And he’s a good man to have on your side in California if anything happens.”

That night Brandon read the article. He looked at me funny and said, “This makes you look kinda bad.” I took it that he was looking at me differently. I guess that’s what made me the angriest. If you’re the type of person who hides, it’s so infuriating and disconcerting when something becomes known. At that point I was still hiding things. I had cheated on Brandon several times by now. I was the type of person who is very comfortable hiding. The article brought that out. But Brandon was there for me. He was supportive. Having him there is what got me through it. But the guilt—over the porn, over the cheating, all the old guilt feelings about being gay—came rushing back with a vengeance.

After the depression and guilt came the anger.

“What were you thinking?” several friends asked. “You knew they’d find out about this…didn’t you?”

“Of course I knew,” I’d respond. “But…but I don’t know, I just didn’t think
The Advocate
would run a story like this. I mean, aren’t they supposed to be on the side of gay people? That’s the name of the fucking magazine, after all!” I’d practically be screaming by this point.

“Rich, you’re so naive,” my friends would invariably point out. “Your friends care about you.
The Advocate
, on the other hand, is just a business. All they care about is making money. If they think outing you as a porn star will sell magazines, that’s what they’ll do.”

I am naive,
I thought.
I’m still the kindergartner trying to please his teacher
. Only this time, it wasn’t Mrs. Hand, it was Judy Wieder, the editor-in-chief of
The Advocate.

Maybe Wieder had a point or a purpose, I don’t know. My thoughts were a whirlwind in those weeks. The night after the issue came out, I wrote a letter to her and sealed it in an envelope, fully intending to mail it. I still have the unopened letter, which I recently discovered during a move; but I cannot recall what I wrote. Probably asking how she sleeps at night, the type of bullshit that victims always whine about to their supposed oppressors.

I created all sorts of justifications and reasons for my anger.

“Professional jealousy is the most powerful force in the world.” General McCorkle’s warning rang in my head. Was Wieder jealous of me? Had she ever been photographed for the cover and featured in the
New York Times Magazine
? Probably not. In fact, she was probably pissed that she was editing
The Advocate
and not the
New York Times Magazine.
No wonder she had done to me what she had. Who the fuck was I? Just an upstart nobody, a hick from Piedmont, South Carolina, who dared to appear in one of her stories but not tell her all that she wanted to know.

My thoughts continued spiraling wildly out of control.
Judy Wieder spends her working hours making decisions about who’s going to be covered, who isn’t and what tone
The Advocate’s
story will take. No wonder she seemed to have such a hardcore God complex
, I thought.

And how like God to sit in such harsh judgment of me.

I went in to see my professor in First Amendment law, Susan Estrich. I was a little nervous because I know that most feminists are very strongly against pornography. I assumed they made an exception for gay porn, however, since that wasn’t about the objectification or subjugation of women. Professor Estrich had been Michael Dukakis’s campaign manager in 1988. I wanted to know whether I had a shot at suing
The Advocate.

She looked at me intensely and then in her gravelly voice and New England accent I had come to love said, “Why do you want to do that? Look at me…I managed a campaign for some fucking asshole twelve years ago who wouldn’t listen to me, but now I’m forever known as the bitch that lost the presidency. I didn’t put him in that tank…I wasn’t even there. Listen, don’t do this…you’ll always be known as the guy who sued
The Advocate
…and lost. Besides,” she added, “You are the only one who still has a copy of that magazine. ‘Today’s newspapers wrap tomorrow’s fish.’ Just forget about it and when you grow old, look back at the videos and think ‘Damn! Look at how hot I used to be!’”

During the height of controversy swirling around my career in porn, David Mixner contacted me. David was a friend of Bill Clinton’s and had been sort of a bridge between the gay community and the president. He brought the gay vote to Clinton early in the primaries. Mixner’s involvement was a big part of Clinton’s pulling ahead in the primaries of 1992.

It was during my lowest period that I had lunch with Mixner and his boyfriend in West Hollywood. The first thing he said to me was, “I hope you don’t regret or beat yourself up over or feel ashamed of having done the porn.”

I replied, “No, I don’t.” At that point I think I was answering truthfully. I didn’t feel ashamed about having done it. I just felt very sad that it had sullied all the good that the
New York Times
article had accomplished.

“I knew you before through SLDN, but the porn past makes you more of an interesting, fascinating real person,” Mixner added.

Now I was sitting across from David Mixner, and he also was telling me that my past made me more real. “You shouldn’t let this
Advocate
article get to you,” Mixner said. He was talking from experience. Mixner had had some relation to the Clinton administration and he told me the story about how, after “Don’t ask, don’t tell” was enacted, he had resigned in protest.
The Advocate
ran a story with him on the cover and it said, “David Mixner—Friend of No One.”

“What you have to do is brush this off,” he advised. “Because these people really want to see that it gets to you.”