Michael
Lucas Likes Me!
About a week ago, I got a very welcome email from the adult
film actor and producer Micael Lucas. It read:
Of course for every story, there is the
"back story," and here it is:
I met Michael Lucas the way most people from
everyday heroes to wannabe supermodels to presidential candidates meet:
through MySpace.
Actually, I had met him at New York's Lesbian, Gay,
Bisexual, and Transsexual Services Center on 13th Street, sometime in
the misty past, through Michael's partner who for a long time was
president of the Center's board. So, I met Richard, Michael's partner,
and then Michael, but being pretty green to the ways of celebrity and
fame, had no idea who Michael was--that is, he seemed like a pretty
regular person to me, rather than a media mogul, porn superstar,
fascinating "piece of human architecture," etc. (meaning: the way
Michael's often presented).
In fact, he seemed like just a nice Jewish boy; like
lots of them I had grown up with (which is, by the way, another of
Michael's many personas).
But, we met through the myriad channels MySpace, and
I proposed "friendship" immediately, which, graciously, he accepted.
And of course being a writer, on the lowest link of the fame feeder
chain (reminding one of Gore Vidal's hoary joke about the Polish movie
star: Ilsa moved from Warsaw to Hollywood and the first thing she did
was fuck the writer . . . so
what's the punch line? That is the punch line, stupid!), I offered to send him a
copy of my new book Carnal Sacraments, A Historical Novel of
the Future, because, of course I wanted him to option it for
one of his sex-drenched movies.
(OK. No, I'm not that
stupid, even for a writer in our post-literate world. I sent it to him
because I figured he's a regular smart guy making it this time in the
guise of a porn superstar, so he'd like the book: as the Jews say, ehmess: meaning honest.)
So he sent me a real address to mail the book to; I
did, and of course I wanted some kind of gushing, marvelous blurb from
him. (I mean, I'm not that dumb:
writer's are notoriously pious about their motivations, after all,
we're supposed to be the guardians of the First Amendment; but even
writers who mythically screw Polish movie stars aren't that dumb.)
So we did a little dance around the thing: he was
too busy being Michael Lucas (whom some people still call by his natal
Russian name, Andre), putting
out new opuses, opening up supermarkets and community libraries, going
on talk shows, getting his picture on the cover of normally boring as
hell Genre magazine, while I
plugged away at getting some word from the boy genius/porn
mogul/superstar model/business man-entrepreneur, etc. And finally, of
course . . . this did happen: which only goes to show you
something that I'm sure Michael would agree with 100%: if you want
something ask for it. And
don't be afraid of doing it. I also began to understand that Andre was
actually reading my book. I
could tell that, and since English is not his first language, it took
him a while to do it. Good, Michael. Ehmiss.
So now, here it is: Michael Lucas does like me. What
a weird thrill that is, that the auteur of Gigolo and La Dolce Vita (New York style) does
like me . . . exactly like Sally Fields gushed at the Academy Awards.
For this I can only say, Thank you, Michael.
Or Andre.
Ehmess
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