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The truth is, I probably could end up with one of the women. But that answer felt a little hollow at this point, and I was determined to prove my sincerity. "I mean, my first preference is definitely a man, but if nothing else were available I'd probably resort ..." I trailed off, trying to avoid insulting the two women I was looking at, even if they had implied the same thing with their own question. But they didn't seem to mind.

I couldn't believe it when Sunshine announced the final question. It turned out to have been 15 minutes, exactly the allotted time, but it felt like we'd just sat down. She repeated the application question about what item I'd bring. The Ding Dongs response felt way too goofy to repeat out loud, yet I felt compelled to retain consistency. I couldn't remember my second item, so I blurted out the third: "Nabokov's memoir, 'Speak, Memory.'" A book! Can you imagine a duller answer? All this work to present myself as this wild adventurer with a scandalous sexual history, and I close down the audition painting a dorky little bookworm. They want a lapsed gay horn-dog chasing loose women around the island; can you see the riveting footage of me retiring to my hut each evening for a quiet bedtime read? "See you in L.A.," I said hopefully.

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I may not have given all the right answers, but I had been painfully honest, and ever so bubbly and engaging. Most of the answers seemed to go over well. And that character and plot lines they'd scripted for me -- who on earth was going to top that?

So why did I feel like shit? Something about that dismissive quality as they said goodbye, turned to the next packet, forgot I existed before I'd even reached the door. Four solid weeks I'd blown preparing, pumping iron, researching, rehearsing, $300 in expenses -- all for 15 minutes in the floodlights. Was that it? What if that was the end of it?

Then it hit me on the drive home: I'd forgot to mention I'd been a whore! I'd been saving the hustling for the interview; that was supposed to be my trump card. They were so rapid-fire with the questions, I never got a chance to check my notes. I thought about running back up and slipping them a note, maybe phoning them Monday morning in L.A. Something to save for the next interview? If there was a next one. They said they were looking for "colorful." How much more colorful can you get?

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The questions about my parents didn't start eating at me until the next morning. "How are your parents going to react when they find out about all this?" Surly asked. "Because we're not going to hold anything back on the show." I said I'd been planning to tell them for a while, would have to take a trip to Chicago. "How do people react when they recognize you? What if your dad walked into a video store and saw one of your tapes?"

Of course I brushed aside all of her concerns, but was I really ready? Just when would I tell my parents? Could I wait to get home from the island? The show itself wouldn't air for weeks -- would the producers keep it secret until then? How badly would "Hard Copy" want to know? How good is CBS's security? If I told my family now, it would be sure to produce a major meltdown. My parents were both ordained Extraordinary Ministers of Holy Communion in the one holy and apostolic Roman Catholic Church.

My dad could handle it, my mom was a different story. "It will crush her," my sister said. "She'll never get over it." Well, I couldn't hide it forever, but I couldn't very well let them hear it on "Entertainment Tonight." But one thing I know about my mother, she processes stuff like this in stages. Three weeks of dead silence, suddenly she's overdue for a bloodletting. Could I tell them and then just disappear for six weeks? Rule No. 1 on the island was complete communication blackout.

And what about the turmoil I'd be hurtling myself into? All those flying leaps I've taken have brought on the truly magical moments of life -- but I never really took them on alone. Every time I felt myself in free fall, I reached around for a grip on the tether connecting me back to my family. I never could have taken one of those plunges without the steady reassurance of that small Irish army ready to reel me in if I found myself crashing toward any real danger.

I've got a firm grip on reality most of the time, but I've taken a couple of scary trips right down to the jagged rocks of a nervous breakdown. Friends were great, but everything impermanent dissolves in those paranoiac moments on the brink; all I've seen in my moments of true panic have been my mom and dad and the eight embattled siblings I grew up with. Plunging into emotional warfare off the coast of Borneo without them there behind me was unthinkable. Was I really ready?

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I got the news two weeks later. Collapsed into the couch, couldn't be roused for hours. How could they reject me? Not even worthy of the finals? Was I too gay, too straight, too unconvincing that I could toe the line? Was I too bookish, too candid, too full of myself? Did they expect a porn star to be better looking? Or was it all about the pornography? All those ridiculous fears about not being colorful enough; I never know when enough is too much. Did their entire interest hinge on the possibility that those might only be softcore films?

This wasn't "The Real World," this wasn't MTV. Broadcast television prefers its whores safely scripted into made-for-TV movies where they can redeem their sordid history. Or maybe they just thought I was an awkward gangly dork. If this was how it felt to get rejected from the selection process, imagine the feeling of getting booted off the island. At least my pout wasn't being televised.

The rejection was quickly overwhelmed by disappointment -- and the exasperation at those idiotic dreams of money and notoriety. It wasn't until the moment I got the news that I realized how little I really cared about all that crap that had overwhelmed me the past couple weeks. I just wanted to be on that island. Desperately.

"We hope you'll apply again next year," the woman on the phone said. Next year?

Who the hell wants to play next year, once everyone understands the dynamics? Next year will come with a guidebook: Here's how it all played out last time. Next year will pose no risk whatsoever. Those 16 castaways will know exactly what they're getting into. I wanted to be a pioneer.

Does that sound preposterously pretentious? That's really how I saw it. I never wanted to discover the North or South Pole, or circumnavigate the globe in a hot-air balloon; I just wanted to be a part of the first group in America to attempt that imposing island adventure. I wanted to take a blind leap off a steep cliff on national television. I wanted just a glimmer, just a tiny prefab glimpse, of that first taste of alien air Yuri Gagarin sucked in from outer space. All I really wanted was to risk everything I ever held dear.
salon.com | March 13, 2000

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