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I hadn't intended to spend a third of the video on the porn thing, but it offered such great material. I played it straight for the first two minutes:

Army, consulting, Kuwait ... "Then I returned to the States to pursue a master's degree in creative writing -- and women begging desperately for my body. It turned out to be mostly men, though. [Here the camera zoomed in on my video box covers.] That's the thing about porn consumers: Hardly any are women. Just as well, that's about the time I finally accepted I was gay. After two-dozen girlfriends and a seven-year bi stint."

The most fun were the deadpan descriptions of the videos, like "The Hills Have Bi's," which I described as "a hardcore musical comedy bisexual parody of 'The Hills Have Eyes.'"

A month of scribbled ideas, two weeks scripting, a day and a half of principal photography, 12 hours editing. I finally presented my masterpiece in a private premiere for my boyfriend 17 minutes before the deadline for FedEx pickup.

"Is that it?" he asked.

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But it paid off -- I got the call. Now, I was going to bust my butt to make it over the next hurdle. I plunged into a crash course at the gym: split-level training, five punishing workouts a week. Two weeks to the first interview, another couple till L.A. I could use at least 10 pounds of lean muscle and a 3- to 5-percent drop in body fat. Worst thing about telling people you were in the porn-film business is watching the way they size you up, trying to hide their surprise. I always picture the same thought zipping through their head: "He was a porn star? God, talk about going to seed!"

I'd spent weeks brainstorming ideas for my entry packet, but only performed a modest level of research. Once I got back from my parents' place in Chicago, I downloaded every article ever written about the show, discovering very little save the absolute obvious: They were looking for conflict. And I'd spent most of the application trying to convince them how nice I was!

"I hope we get a cop from New York, and maybe a small petty criminal from some other city," producer Mark Burnett told CNN. "They won't get along." The final -- "and most intriguing" -- application question had asked why I thought I could win. I'd described how I'd pull everyone together and diffuse all the fights. I can't help it, I need people to like me, I need everybody to like me. Why do you think I spent two years pulling my pants down in public? For a G-stringful of dollars? The money didn't hurt, but mostly I did it for the adulation. You can't imagine the luminance in a graying man's nervous smile as you brush the wispy hair back from his temples and bounce your plump basket gently off his thigh.

The information packet arrived just after New Year's. Reading through provoked an unexpected chill. There was a page and a half of information, 50 more of medical forms, releases and detailed documentation of the malaria, hepatitis and Japanese encephalitis prevalent in the region. Battling wild pigs sounded exciting, picking up a virus that would rot my liver over the next 30 years less so. And what about that pig? Sure, it sounds exciting, but aren't wild pigs quite dangerous? Page 5 of the agreement was where I released the producers and fellow contestants from any claim against injury, illness, damage or death.

Death?

The first page of the release granted the producer "forever more the right to use, throughout the universe, my name, likeness, photograph." Meaning they could blow my porn secret just to promote me as a finalist, then can me and leave me to deal with the fallout? Had I really thought this all the way through?

I tossed and turned all night, but was giddy again by the morning.

I wondered if they planned the packet to be disturbing, if the plan was to weed out a few contestants with straight talk right at the beginning. The Peace Corps has been using that technique for years. And these guys followed it up with an annoying to-do list with a grossly unreasonable deadline. I had a week to get a physical. I didn't have a regular doctor, and spent four freaking hours on the phone trying to find an opening. Several hours more on the forms and the passport renewal, and $300 in expenses.

The local CBS affiliate called four days before the interview. They wanted a segment for the evening newscast. Could they stop by in half an hour? Sure! I hung up the phone and panicked. What if they knew about the videos? What if they had been briefed? What if they asked about it on camera? Deny it, make light of it, beg them not to use it? I wasn't ready. I hadn't told my parents. I had to fly to Chicago and somehow appease my parents.

False alarm. No one had been briefed. But it was only a delay. Was I really ready?

The shoot was a blast. They said it would take 40 minutes, but pretty soon they had me digging out photos from Vietnam, scrapbooks from basic training. They stayed two hours and the segment ran minute after minute, more than twice the time they'd anticipated. This was fun. I liked being on TV!

People started coming out of the woodwork after that: "Hey, I saw you on TV last night." "I saw that 'Survivor' thing on the front page of the Post yesterday." I even got a call from a wacko who'd seen me on the news and looked me up in the phone book. He kept me on the phone half an hour "helping" me plot "our" strategy, and growing progressively weirder. "Are you going to dig a cave?" he asked. "You don't want to cut down too many trees, you're going to displace those apes -- do they have apes? -- or those sloths. You're going to have to try that transcendental meditation. Have you checked out the Hare Krishnas? Those Buddhists are really worshipping a false God."

Next page | I could be a star! I could host "The Grind"!