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And then I heard about "Survivor."

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It was Oct. 12, approximately 10:42 a.m., MST. I quit work immediately, spent the rest of the day pounding out my application.

Surely CBS would receive thousands of entries. I wondered if the porn stuff might grab the producers' attention. Friends I'd confided to had warned me those videos would haunt me the rest of my life, but so far they've come in kinda handy. They're a great ice-breaker at parties, and it certainly livens up your chat-room profile, though they're not so good at attracting long-term boyfriends. But a shallow, short-term relationship was all CBS had in mind. Mentioning my film work on my application was definitely a gamble. It could either pique the producers' interest or send me straight to the scummy losers bin.

I slipped it in under "previous occupations": right between management consultant and graduate instructor. I was a little torn on how to describe it. Porn star seemed a bit pretentious, but everyone used the term that way. So I went with quotes and a disclaimer: "Stripper/minor gay porn video 'star' (as in, anyone who appears in one is called 'porn star' -- I made five, one bi)." Can't be too humble, right? People seem to appreciate humility in their porn stars. I decided to hold back on the more unseemly activities of the period until we got to know each other better.

I tried to answer creatively but sincerely:

If you could hold any political office, what would it be and why?

"Pope (and it's definitely a political office). There are so few openings for benevolent dictator remaining in this modern world. And I could sure liven up those awful Masses."

List three (3) items you would take with you.

"Five hundred pounds of Hostess Ding Dongs in a cast-iron combination-lock vault. Those people are never going to kick me off that island without the combination to that Ding Dong cache."

Then came the toughest question of all:

Which former ["Gilligan's Island"] castaway would you be most identified with?

Hmmm: the professor or Mary Ann? I liked to picture myself as the brainiac devising ingenious little solutions to puzzling predicaments, but I had to admit it: Emotionally I was all Mary Ann. She must have been a middle child, always negotiating disputes. I was lost in the middle of nine kids, running shuttle diplomacy missions in the sandbox since I was 6.

But I just couldn't bear the thought of identifying myself with the girl. I hated the idea they'd see "gay" and read "queen." That this would surely seal the stereotype. The instructions said the show was looking for strong-willed, outgoing, adventurous people -- gays were probably suspect from the get-go. Thank God I never identified with Ginger. But for some people, gay plus girl signaled flaming homo in a frock.

I switched my answer several times, but finally decided to bare the truth, along with my apprehensions: "Yikes, don't make me go with a girl! I hate to reinforce the notion that I'm nothing but a big fag, but the truth is Mary Ann. I'd identify with her a lot better if she were a guy. Because I'm not a big fag. I just love sex with men." Great, now I pictured some gay guy screening the applications, vetoing mine for using the word "fag." But that word was exactly the point: gay yes, fag no, not in the sense the term is commonly applied.

The deadly part of the entry packet was the required three-minute video. Despite many hours performing in front of the camera, I have zero aptitude for the visual arts. Suggesting I produce a knockout audition video was like asking most people to compose a Shakespearean-grade sonnet.

I'd been slacking off on the gym since I dropped out of the business, and I was never going to build Brad Pitt's cheekbones, so I figured I better be funny. I can be pretty amusing, just not on cue. Be funny for three minutes -- rolling! I knew I couldn't face the camera for three minutes of stand-up. My only chance at appearing natural was to script out half a dozen scenes, and act them out as characters more or less corresponding to aspects of my personality.

First impressions are everything: The video had to open butch. Sixteen castaways suggested a single gay slot, maybe one gay guy and a lesbian if we were lucky. Packaging the homo factor became priority No. 1. I didn't want to be cast as the ballerina boy, and nothing gets my juices flowing faster than the opportunity to play against type.

I opened the video heaving on a heavy frame-backpack over rugged Eddie Bauer duds. I lowered my pitch, assuming the command voice practiced so many late nights in Officer Candidate School: "I'm just taking off on my daily 12-mile mountain hike. Nothing beats a light morning workout to really get the blood pumping." Then I cut to a faux hidden-camera shot of me digging wads of crumpled paper out of the pack: "You think they'll buy the rugged-outdoorsman look?"

I allowed myself one gay joke. I gave a ridiculously hard-assed speech about the rigors of Officer Candidate School, dressed in full battle costume. "OCS taught me 90 percent of defeat is in your head," it concluded. "Plus look at the great outfits I got!"

Next page | Playing the gay-porn stuff straight