was to be our secret. “Please, don’t even tell your mother,” she pleaded. “Have you told Tim?” I asked. “Not yet,” she said. The appointed day came, and we drove in my red Kharmann Ghia to Dr. Strauss’s office, which was located in his house in a very nice neighborhood in Englewood, New Jersey. I waited in the car listening to the radio for about forty-five minutes wondering what was going on inside. She walked down the steps and toward the car, got in, and looked like she was about to cry. “So, what happened?” I asked. “He examined me and took some blood and urine and I’ll know in a day or so,” she said. She reached over and gave me a big hug. “Thanks. Thanks a lot for this,” she said. The next day she called and told me she wasn’t pregnant. I was relieved, but I really didn’t want to talk to her. I was still angry that she had lost her virginity.
The Pimp
Several weeks after I start working at Armani, some of the Milan-based executives come to New York to check on the progress of the U.S. empire. They are busy in daily meetings with Martina, in photo sessions, and with the press, and I am at their beck and call. I order cars and limousines for them, fetch their lunch, make reservations, and pick up tickets for Broadway shows. They are staying at the Carlyle Hotel, and some of them want videos of foreign films—Jacques Tati, Luis Buñuel, Jean Renoir, Fritz Lang, and Jean Cocteau—as well as gay porn. I am sent in search of thenewest releases, with titles like
Sizing Up
and
Like a Horse
, or anything else of my choosing. I don’t question any of the requests, just take the cash and do the errands, never return the change, and always forget the receipts. I am sent on all kinds of what I call “homo missions”: picking up macho military clothing at Kaufman’s Army & Navy Store on 42nd Street, camouflage shorts and nylon vests and all kinds of undergear, jocks, bikinis, and thongs at stores on Christopher Street. This logically proceeds to being asked to track down and assemble “young men.” One of the executives is interested in meeting a model we had used on a recent shoot, and I’m asked to arrange it with his agency. I am naïve, but I know this isn’t a legitimate go-see. One of the executives asks me if I will find other “types” of models for them, and I take this to mean nonlegit types—escorts and hustlers. I find these guys in all different places, mostly through advertisements in the
New York Native
and in the theaters. I meet Scott, a tall, well-built, muscular guy with short black hair and green eyes, at the Gaiety Theater in Times Square, after his performance. He’s impressive. Handsome, with a great jawline and a hard body. They’ll like him. I tell him that there are a couple of business executives in town looking for escorts after his last show at 10:30 P.M. and that they’ll pay him $200 an hour. I also tell him they have tons of money and plenty of time. It sounds good to him. I give him one of the executives’ names and the address and phone number of his room at the hotel. He thanks me. I can barely imagine what’s going on at 76th and Madison, but it is very busy, and the reports are never too alarming. Nothing wilder than a lot of exhibitionism, posing, and jerking off. I make arrangements to pay these boys between $200 and $500 each; sometimes they head up there a few at a time (as many as nine or ten for orgies). Most of them want to be models or actors, some lawyers and doctors, but settle for being escorts, strippers, or the most coveted position—porn stars. These boys of the adult-film business, hard to find in New York, command higher fees. One of the best known is Brent Cummings, a huge blond bisexual with enormous shoulders and a powerful chest and arms, who is handsome in a dim-witted sort of way. Brent istwenty-five and brand-new to the big city. He performs at the Follies, a triple-X all-male theater on Seventh Avenue that features live
The Pimp
Several weeks after I start working at Armani, some of the Milan-based executives come to New York to check on the progress of the U.S. empire. They are busy in daily meetings with Martina, in photo sessions, and with the press, and I am at their beck and call. I order cars and limousines for them, fetch their lunch, make reservations, and pick up tickets for Broadway shows. They are staying at the Carlyle Hotel, and some of them want videos of foreign films—Jacques Tati, Luis Buñuel, Jean Renoir, Fritz Lang, and Jean Cocteau—as well as gay porn. I am sent in search of thenewest releases, with titles like
Sizing Up
and
Like a Horse
, or anything else of my choosing. I don’t question any of the requests, just take the cash and do the errands, never return the change, and always forget the receipts. I am sent on all kinds of what I call “homo missions”: picking up macho military clothing at Kaufman’s Army & Navy Store on 42nd Street, camouflage shorts and nylon vests and all kinds of undergear, jocks, bikinis, and thongs at stores on Christopher Street. This logically proceeds to being asked to track down and assemble “young men.” One of the executives is interested in meeting a model we had used on a recent shoot, and I’m asked to arrange it with his agency. I am naïve, but I know this isn’t a legitimate go-see. One of the executives asks me if I will find other “types” of models for them, and I take this to mean nonlegit types—escorts and hustlers. I find these guys in all different places, mostly through advertisements in the
New York Native
and in the theaters. I meet Scott, a tall, well-built, muscular guy with short black hair and green eyes, at the Gaiety Theater in Times Square, after his performance. He’s impressive. Handsome, with a great jawline and a hard body. They’ll like him. I tell him that there are a couple of business executives in town looking for escorts after his last show at 10:30 P.M. and that they’ll pay him $200 an hour. I also tell him they have tons of money and plenty of time. It sounds good to him. I give him one of the executives’ names and the address and phone number of his room at the hotel. He thanks me. I can barely imagine what’s going on at 76th and Madison, but it is very busy, and the reports are never too alarming. Nothing wilder than a lot of exhibitionism, posing, and jerking off. I make arrangements to pay these boys between $200 and $500 each; sometimes they head up there a few at a time (as many as nine or ten for orgies). Most of them want to be models or actors, some lawyers and doctors, but settle for being escorts, strippers, or the most coveted position—porn stars. These boys of the adult-film business, hard to find in New York, command higher fees. One of the best known is Brent Cummings, a huge blond bisexual with enormous shoulders and a powerful chest and arms, who is handsome in a dim-witted sort of way. Brent istwenty-five and brand-new to the big city. He performs at the Follies, a triple-X all-male theater on Seventh Avenue that features live
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