“It would mean giving up Pride,” I tell him, “giving up dancing and carousing in any gay establishment. No gay cruises or anything of the sort, and no vacationing where gays congregate. It would mean scrubbing your social media of anything remotely homoerotic and forgoing opportunities where your sexuality might be construed as anything other than hetero. It would mean living as a monk the entire time you’re filming in Morocco because foreign governments with state-sanctioned homophobia are not kind to our tribe. It would mean playing the role of a straight man all the time, not just when you’re acting.”
“That is a lot to give up,” he says, “but the money is good.”
“Money isn’t the only thing you need to consider.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
I steal a look at him in the darkened cabin of my car. He’s brooding, the ungrateful twat. “Have you wanted for anything since we’ve been together?” I ask.
“No, but it’s still your money. I’d like to contribute to the household, and not just with my sexy body.”
Baby is growing up,I must remind myself.Baby wants a little independence.
“I don’t think it’s the right role for you, Adam. The director is a flake with a spotty track record, and the demands he’s making, just at the outset, are outrageous. He’s taking advantage of your naivety and inexperience.”
“I know when you’re calling me stupid,” he huffs and crosses his arms.
“Then don’t be stupid about this.”
He sticks out his fat lower lip and stares out the window, sulking. This isn’t the end of it, not by a long shot.
* * *
Adam spendsthe rest of the week going through Lars Brecker’s filmography and trying to convince me his work isn’t as bad as we both know it to be.
“Why don’t you get a second opinion?” I suggest when I’ve reached my absolute limit for bad cinema. “Have you talked to Shondra about it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She said the same thing as you.”
Well, that’s a relief.
“So, what does that tell you?”
“But I want it,” he says like a petulant child. “I want to be the next Jason Bourne. I want to blow shit up in the desert and shoot an uzi and bob and weave my way through the markets of Marrakesh. That shit sounds cool as hell. Much better than being cooped up in the studio all the time.”
“There will be other opportunities,” I remind him.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
His vision is short-term, just like his desires. Adam lives in the moment and craves immediate satisfaction, the curse of his generation. I blame the gadgets for fucking up their dopamine levels. I didn’t want to play this card, but he’s leaving me no choice.
“What about us?” I ask. “That’s nine months out of the year you’ll be away.”
“You’ll come with me,” he says as if I have nothing better to do than cater to his every whim. My fault for spoiling him, I suppose.
“I have no interest in spending nine months in the desert, especially when you’ll be shooting twelve hours or more a day.”
“Cassius, what the fuck? I need you there. Are you telling me I have to choose between you and my career? If I end up taking this deal, are you going to break up with me?”
If only I could give him an ultimatum and trust he’d choose correctly.
“Why don’t you read over the script before you make any decisions?”
* * *
