Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle (37 page)

The Palm Springs shoot, in May of 1976, was the first one I attended. Brian hadn't been keen on the idea of me watching him direct, but Andy had worked on him, and finally he'd relented and said I could come. I could tell he still wasn't completely thrilled about it, though I didn't understand why.

"I'm going to go get ready," Andy said, standing up. "I'll see you in half an hour." "Don't come before then!" Brian ordered as Andy walked away. "I mean it. I want you to have a full load for the money shot. So hands—and mouths—off."

 

When Andy was gone I decided to bring up the topic of Brian's reluctance to let me watch him. "Is it that I'll be in the way?" I asked.

Brian shook his head. "It's just embarrassing," he said. "Telling a guy where to stick his cock and how hard to pump it isn't exactly directing Dustin Hoffman to emote."
"That's what you're worried about?" I said. "You shouldn't be embarrassed. You make great movies."

Brian laughed. "Well,Mandate did give The Harder They Ride four stars," he said. "I guess that's as good as having an Oscar on my mantel."

 

"You'll get your Oscar," I told him.

 

"Sure I will," he said. "But first I have to go make Sticky Fingers . Are you sure you want to see this?"

 

"And miss the chance to see a master in action?" I said. "No way."

We went into the house. The crew, busy since early morning, had set up in an upstairs bedroom. Lights were rigged around the bed, and the camera situated at the foot of it to catch all the action that would soon be taking place on top of the sheets. The set bustled with activity as the dozen or so people needed to film the scene went about their jobs.

"Are the guys ready?" Brian asked a young man who was running around with a jar of baby oil in his hand.

 

"They're getting fluffed," he said. "I'll go get them."

"Good," Brian said. "We should be ready to shoot as soon as they get here." He turned to me. "Stand over there," he said, pointing to an area between the room's doorway and its closet. "That way you'll see everything but you won't be in the way."

I did as he suggested, leaning against the wall while everyone attended to their tasks. A few minutes later, Andy and another man walked into the room. Andy was dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck. The other man, a well-built blond, was wearing a white bathrobe.

"Okay," Brian said. "Let's make a movie. Here's the scene. Andy's a thief. Hence the name Sticky Fingers . Scotty, you're the owner of this place. You walk in and find Andy robbing you. You have a confrontation, you fuck. You guys know your lines?"

Andy and Scotty nodded.
"Good. Scotty, is your ass lubed?"
"Yep," Scotty answered. "I'm all set."
"All right then," Brian said, clapping his hands together. "Let's have some action."

Andy went to the dresser situated on the wall across from me. He pulled open a drawer and began riffling through it, as if he was searching for valuables hidden among the socks and underwear. After thirty seconds or so, Scotty entered the room from the hallway. He looked at Andy, as yet unaware of his presence, and called out, "What do you think you're doing?"

Andy turned, a jockstrap in his hand. "Hey, man," he said. "It's not what it looks like." "Don't move," Scotty said, trying to convey authority but sounding wooden. "I'm calling the cops."

 

"No," Andy said. "Come on. Isn't there some other way we can handle this?"

Scotty walked over to him and put his hand on his crotch. "Maybe there is," he said. From there the scene progressed predictably. Andy opened Scotty's robe and stroked him with his gloved hand. After Scotty dropped to his knees and worked Andy to hardness with his mouth, the two of them moved to the bed, where they proceeded to fuck. As Andy was bucking his hips against Scotty's ass, Brian turned and motioned for me to come to him.

"Want to see what I see?" he whispered, nodding at the camera. I bent and looked. In the small rectangle of the camera's viewfinder, Scotty's ass was in close-up. Andy's cock moved in and out of it, every hair on his balls visible in detail. I could see the slickness of the lube on his shaft, and the red lips of Scotty's asshole as they were repeatedly pushed in and pulled back again. It was like they were making love under a microscope, and watching it felt just as clinical as observing a sperm work its way through the zona of the egg it wants to fertilize.

"Okay, Andy," Brian directed as he pulled me back and took my place. "I want you to pull out and shoot all over his balls and asshole."

Andy did it, jerking himself off and spraying Scotty with thick ropes of cum. Scotty tried to respond in kind, furiously pulling on his own dick, but after a minute went by without ejaculation, Brian motioned at a man standing behind us. The man went to the bed and stood out of camera range holding a plastic bag from which a tube extended.

"Okay, Scotty," Brian said. "Let's see your O-face."

Scotty, who had stopped playing with himself, mimed orgasm, closing his eyes, baring his teeth, and moaning repeatedly. As he did, the man off camera squeezed the bag in his hand. A burst of fluid flew from the end of the tube and spattered all over Scotty's chest and neck. It was followed by another, then a third, until Scotty's torso was dripping with what looked like the world's biggest load.

"And cut," Brian called out.

 

Someone ran over and began toweling Scotty off while Andy hopped off the bed and came over to us.

 

"What was that stuff?" I asked him, nodding at Scotty.

 

Andy ran a finger over his abdomen, which was also covered in some of the fake jism. He lifted it to my lips and inserted it before I could stop him. The taste was sickly sweet.

 

"Pina colada mix," he said.

 

"We used to use hand lotion for the pop shots," Brian said. "But it looked fake. Plus, this tastes better."

Andy went to get cleaned up while I stayed with Brian. The crew was already moving equipment out of the room to set up in another location. Scotty, finally wiped down, was putting on his bathrobe.

"Scotty," Brian said. "What's with the shooting blanks?"
"Sorry," Scotty said. "I guess I just wasn't that into it."
"Are you doing coke?" asked Brian.
Scotty shook his head.

"All right," Brian said doubtfully. "Next time you give me a load or I'll have to replace you. Guys don't like it when I don't show the spunk coming straight from the source."

Scotty nodded and left. When he was gone, Brian said, "Like hell he's not on coke. Andy almost drilled him a new asshole and he didn't blink an eye. That shit's going to kill this industry. Make sure Andy doesn't get into it."
"I don't know," I said. "If there's something to try, Andy's pretty much guaranteed to try it."

"Then he won't be around long," said Brian. "Guys who get fucked up can't fuck. He's a nice kid. I'd like to see him live through this."

 

"You make it sound like the war," I joked.

"I'm sorry," Brian said. "Sometimes I just get overprotective. Look, why don't you go hang out by the pool and we'll have dinner in town tonight, just the two of us. We'll go to Melvyn's at the Ingleside. It's unbelievable. The waiters wear white jackets and they make a steak Diane right at your table."

"Sounds great," I said, kissing him. "It's a date."

I went back to the pool and stretched out in a lounge chair. Picking up the newspaper Brian had left behind, I started reading the piece he'd raved about. Armistead Maupin's tale about a 25-year-old girl moving to San Francisco and starting a new life reminded me of my own, and when he introduced her friend Connie, a man-hungry stewardess who promised to shake up Mary Ann's world, I couldn't help but think of Andy. By the end of that first installment, I couldn't wait to see what life had in store for Mary Ann Singleton. If her life was anything like what mine was turning out to be, I thought, Maupin's story was going to be one wild ride.

CHAPTER 37

"I can't believe you made me come," Jack said testily. "For Christ's sake, it's only a movie ." "Yeah," said Andy. "But it's the best fucking movie ever ."
"He's right," I agreed. "Trust me, you'll thank us when it's over."

The line outside the Coronet Theatre stretched down Geary Boulevard for nearly five blocks. Fortunately, we'd arrived early, and were sure to get in to the seven-fifteen showing of what was fast turning into not just the biggest movie of the summer, but the biggest movie ever. Since its opening on the Wednesday before Labor Day, Star Wars had become a phenomenon, with sold-out shows and enthusiastic fans coming back over and over. Just two weeks later, some of the people in line with us were dressed as their favorite characters.

"You love movies," I reminded Jack.
"I like passing my finals more," he said.

"You'll be fine," I said. "You've been studying for weeks. Think of this as an end-of-school celebration."

 

"Sorry I'm late." Brian joined us in line, eliciting disapproving frowns and a few audible protests from people behind us, all of which he ignored. "The dubbing session ran late." "They roped you into this, too, huh?" said Jack.

"Hell no," replied Brian. "This is the third time I've seen it. I'm already thinking of doing a porn version. I want to call it Stud Wars . Or maybe Star Whores is better, but that sounds like a straight flick."

"I want to play Darth Vader," Andy said. "We can do a really hot leather scene between him and

Luke."
"How about between Darth and Chewbacca," I suggested. "You can get some bear to play him and you won't even need a costume."

The line began to move, to applause from those in the front, and we filed slowly into the theater. We were close enough to the front that we were able to find four seats together with no problem. Jack sat between me and Andy, and Brian sat to my left. Jack continued to bitch about the fact that we'd dragged him away from his books until the lights dimmed and the movie began. As the opening text scrolled up the screen, he shut up and settled into grudging silence.

Two hours later, he walked out a believer, mostly in the inherent humpiness of Harrison Ford. "Did you see the way he handled the Millennium Falcon ?" he raved. "That man is hot . If I was Leah, I'd stop playing hard to get and let those buns down."

"Looks like someone will be seeing it again," Brian remarked as we walked to his car. Twenty minutes later, we were in the Elephant Walk, waiting for the bartender to get our drinks. Even on a Tuesday night it was busy, and we recognized many of the men out enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. One of them, a dark-haired man with large ears and big, dark eyes that made him look both sad and kind at the same time, detached himself from a group and came over to us.

"Hey, Harvey," Brian said. "How's the Mayor of Castro Street tonight?"

"Did you hear what happened in Miami today?" Harvey asked. "They overturned the gay rights ordinance. And it's all thanks to Anita Bryant. You know what she said?" He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read from it. "‘In victory, we shall not be vindictive. We shall continue to seek help and change for homosexuals, whose sick and sad values belie the word gay which they pathetically use to cover their unhappy lives.'" He folded the paper up and tucked it away. "I saw it on the news and wrote it down so I'd be sure to get it right."

"I'm not surprised," I said. "Isn't this the same woman who said that if they gave rights to gays they'd have to give them to prostitutes and people who sleep with St. Bernards?"

"And nail biters," Harvey added. "The woman's a menace. We have to do something about her." "Like what?" Andy asked him.

"Like this, for a start," Harvey answered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handful of buttons. He handed us each one. The front was orange and featured the words NO MORE ORANGE JUICE FROM THE UN -SHINE STATE, a reference to Bryant's job as a spokesperson for Florida's juice industry. "A friend of mine is making these," Harvey said. "We're going to boycott the orange juice guys like we boycotted Coors."

"Do you ever stop thinking about politics?" Brian said.

"Only when I'm having sex," replied Harvey. "And even then, I'm thinking about how Jimmy Carter is screwing us. Do you know he has a policy of never being photographed with a homosexual?"

"We know," Brian said. "You told us last year after you got him to shake hands with you at the Hilton when he was campaigning for president and your friend Donald snapped a picture of it." "That's right," Harvey said. "And when I'm on the Board of Supervisors, I'm going to hang that photo in my office so everyone knows that this is one homosexual Jimmy Carter can't ignore."

"Well, we're all voting for you in November, Harvey, so maybe you'll get in this time," Brian said. Harvey, seeing some new faces entering the bar, said his good nights to us and went to say hello. Watching him begin another impassioned lecture, Brian sipped his gin and tonic and smiled. "That guy is going to run this city one of these days," he said. "He's unstoppable."

"Do we really have to stop drinking orange juice?" Andy asked, looking at the button in his hand. Jack, Brian, and I had already pinned ours to our shirts.

 

"Only by itself," Jack told him. "It's all right if it's in a screwdriver."

Andy nodded while the rest of us laughed. Harvey was right that something needed to be done about the Anita Bryants of the world. Her Save Our Children campaign, which she'd been waging for months in an apparently successful attempt at turning voters against the burgeoning gay rights movement, was only part of the growing anti-gay backlash. During the past eight years we'd become more and more visible in American society, and we were starting to find out that not all of America was happy about it. But Florida was far away, and social activism didn't really fit into the carefree world in which we lived in 1977. Despite his alleged aversion to homosexuals, Jimmy Carter had won the White House back from Nixon, Ford, and the Republicans. The unrest caused by Vietnam was fading. Life in San Francisco was pretty much near perfect for gay men, and we saw no reason to stir things up. We would wear the buttons Harvey had given us, but only because it required so little effort on our part. Personally, things were going well for me. Brian and I were 18 months into our relationship, and I was still as crazy about him as ever. Jack was about to receive his master's degree. And Andy, well, Andy was Andy. Or, rather, he was Brad Majors. His films had been huge successes, and he was now appearing regularly in magazines and on the screen. We couldn't go anywhere in the Castro without someone recognizing him, and frequently we found notes and love offerings left for him on the steps of our building.