Blind Item #10 - Eddie McClintock Blind Item
And while we're on the subject of Hollywood molestation...
(note: Some of you may find this story "disturbing." Some of you may find some of the language "offensive." If you feel you might be one of those persons, perhaps it's best that instead of reading, you scroll down to the basket of puppies I posted a few days ago. Thanks.)
I moved to West Los Angeles after a "less than stellar" six year battle with college. Mysteriously, somehow, Wright State University saw fit to give my poor-old dad a break, and granted me a diploma. They politely, metaphorically, asked me to “not let the door hit me in the ass..." So I graciously accepted.
Off to LA I went, to sell insurance for my uncle, who was and still is a fine and generous man. Of course, he had no idea what he was getting into, as I was drinking like a mutant frat-boy and doing as many drugs as I could get my hands on.
Luckily for him, he had the wherewithal to fire me after seven months of misery.
Thusly, I moved from West Los Angeles to West Hollywood, where I drank, smoked weed, collected unemployment and played frisbee on the beach for a year.
When the unemployment ran out, and the guilt of calling my dad for another "loan" had become too much, I decided it was time to get a job.
By then I had made some friends who worked in Commercial Television Production, and didn't yet know the extent of my "partying," that naively gave me my first job as a Production Assistant. And so began my new career in television. I had a walkie-talkie, a headset, free lunches. The world was my oyster.
I kept it together for a while, moving from production to production as one does, but I was still a walking disaster. I was miserable, and to award myself for my misery I consumed as much alcohol and altered my chemistry as much and as often as I could, all in the name of a good time.
One night at some shitty Hollywood club, I met a kid who invited me over to his house. And what a house it was. It sat at the top of the hills with the Hollywood sign and downtown LA as it's view. It was the kind of stuff I had only ever seen in the movies. While there, I met his dad, who I spoke with for a while. I told him how I had grown to hate being a P.A., and was thinking about giving acting a try. He told me about his Post Production house, the films he had made and the films he was working on. He said, "You should come to some of our screenings," and seeing as how I've always been a huge fan of film, enthusiastically agreed.
Stan (not his real name) and I went to a few screeners, toured his company and hung out at the house a few times. Then one night, I was asked to go to dinner with he and his son. I accepted, and soon found myself sitting on the stoop of my West Hollywood apartment, waiting to be picked up. When the car arrived, I jumped in and immediately noticed that Stan was alone. I asked where Billy (not his real name) was, and Stan told me that he was "unable to attend."
Well that's weird.
Now here's the thing, my "gaydar" is pretty strong, and after nearly two years in West Hollywood I'd made several gay friends and even had had a gay roommate, so "gayness" really didn't "bother" me. I was cool with it. I suspected, if not knew, that my friends dad, Stan, was gay. No big deal. People are people. Hands across the water.
So off we went.
We walked into the restaurant, which was right next to the legendary "Laugh Factory," and located on the historic Sunset Strip. The Maître D' welcomed Stan by name, and took us to our table. It was very dark inside, and there were a lot of men. As a matter of fact there wasn't a female in sight. Okay, fine, Stan had brought me to a gay restaurant or some shit. Big deal. No problem. I can handle it.
I notice that most of the men at the bar are young and handsome, while the men in the booths and tables tended to be much older. As the night progresses, I realize that the bar is the "shop window," and the men in the booths are the "shoppers." The traffic from the booth, to the bar, to the back door (no pun) is brisk.
After my fourth or fifth Glenfiddich, just as I'm about to dig into my shrimp cocktail, Stan informs me that he would like to "Suck my cock." Without batting an eye, I tell him I'm flattered but not gay. He tells me I don't have to be gay to have my cock sucked by a man, and that if I close my eyes and fantasize about a woman, I would enjoy it. I say, "Thanks, Stan, but no." Stan then begins to tell me that my reluctance to engage in a sex act with a man could actually be a symptom of some "latent homosexuality" on my part, and he thought that I had a real problem, and that “my fear to explore who I might be,” was sad. I said, "Hey thanks, Stan, but I'd rather not have to open my eyes and see your bald, melanoma covered scalp, bobbing on my johnson!”
...No, I didn't say that, but I was thinking it. How awesome would that have been?!
But I remained respectful.
Stan excused himself from the table, and on his return told me that Billy was going to meet us at the house. So we went to the house.
Now I'm sure some of you are saying, "Why the hell would you go to the fucking house?" Well, I wasn't afraid of Stan. I had spent my life wrestling and playing football, and I knew he couldn't harm me. And Billy was my friend.
Lo and behold, when we got to the house, Billy wasn't there. Stan explained that Billy had to leave, but would be back soon. Yup, this dude thought I was a drunk, lost, stupid dipshit, straight off the turnip truck. A perfect target for his ugliness. And while I may have been many of those things, I certainly had never ridden on a turnip truck.
Anyway, as were sitting in the living room, Stan starts to show me clips of films, projected on a giant-screen from a projector mounted on the ceiling. What starts with "Rumblefish" and "Barfly," quickly degrades to a clip of a man and a woman having sex.
I asked if there was any more Jack Daniels, and excused myself to the kitchen to fill up my tumbler.
When I walked back into the room and sat down, the man who was having sex with the woman was now being fucked by some blond haired dude that looked like Ivan Drago from Rocky II.
Stan reaches over and puts his hand on my penis.
Well, that was it for me. I stood up and said, "Look man, you want to be my friend, fine. You want to go to dinner or hang out or whatever the hell else, fine. But I'm not going to have sex with you. And if you can't handle or respect that then I'll get the fuck outta here."
Just then, Billy came through the front door. I walked over and asked if he could give me a ride home. Billy, sensing something was up, said, "Why, what's going on?" I said, "Your dad tried to fuck me." He said, "Goddamnit, he does that to all my friends."
Billy took me home.
The next afternoon, right around the time my hangover was really kicking in, the phone rang. It was Stan.
He began telling me how rude I was and that what had occurred the night before was "very unnecessary." He also said that it would be best that I "keep my mouth shut,” as he could make things “very uncomfortable for me."
I told him to "go fuck himself."
Within the year, I decided to get sober, and after a few relapses, have managed to put together eighteen years.
My story is not unique. Happens all the time. And I've wondered how many lost, fucked up, straight guys Stan tried his Svengali act on. How many guys had, against every fiber in their body, given in. Because they wanted to be somebody. Because they wanted to be accepted. Because they wanted a chance. Because they wanted to be loved. Because they were too paralyzed by the moment to say "no."
My guess, lots.
I never saw Stan or Billy again.
(note: Some of you may find this story "disturbing." Some of you may find some of the language "offensive." If you feel you might be one of those persons, perhaps it's best that instead of reading, you scroll down to the basket of puppies I posted a few days ago. Thanks.)
I moved to West Los Angeles after a "less than stellar" six year battle with college. Mysteriously, somehow, Wright State University saw fit to give my poor-old dad a break, and granted me a diploma. They politely, metaphorically, asked me to “not let the door hit me in the ass..." So I graciously accepted.
Off to LA I went, to sell insurance for my uncle, who was and still is a fine and generous man. Of course, he had no idea what he was getting into, as I was drinking like a mutant frat-boy and doing as many drugs as I could get my hands on.
Luckily for him, he had the wherewithal to fire me after seven months of misery.
Thusly, I moved from West Los Angeles to West Hollywood, where I drank, smoked weed, collected unemployment and played frisbee on the beach for a year.
When the unemployment ran out, and the guilt of calling my dad for another "loan" had become too much, I decided it was time to get a job.
By then I had made some friends who worked in Commercial Television Production, and didn't yet know the extent of my "partying," that naively gave me my first job as a Production Assistant. And so began my new career in television. I had a walkie-talkie, a headset, free lunches. The world was my oyster.
I kept it together for a while, moving from production to production as one does, but I was still a walking disaster. I was miserable, and to award myself for my misery I consumed as much alcohol and altered my chemistry as much and as often as I could, all in the name of a good time.
One night at some shitty Hollywood club, I met a kid who invited me over to his house. And what a house it was. It sat at the top of the hills with the Hollywood sign and downtown LA as it's view. It was the kind of stuff I had only ever seen in the movies. While there, I met his dad, who I spoke with for a while. I told him how I had grown to hate being a P.A., and was thinking about giving acting a try. He told me about his Post Production house, the films he had made and the films he was working on. He said, "You should come to some of our screenings," and seeing as how I've always been a huge fan of film, enthusiastically agreed.
Stan (not his real name) and I went to a few screeners, toured his company and hung out at the house a few times. Then one night, I was asked to go to dinner with he and his son. I accepted, and soon found myself sitting on the stoop of my West Hollywood apartment, waiting to be picked up. When the car arrived, I jumped in and immediately noticed that Stan was alone. I asked where Billy (not his real name) was, and Stan told me that he was "unable to attend."
Well that's weird.
Now here's the thing, my "gaydar" is pretty strong, and after nearly two years in West Hollywood I'd made several gay friends and even had had a gay roommate, so "gayness" really didn't "bother" me. I was cool with it. I suspected, if not knew, that my friends dad, Stan, was gay. No big deal. People are people. Hands across the water.
So off we went.
We walked into the restaurant, which was right next to the legendary "Laugh Factory," and located on the historic Sunset Strip. The Maître D' welcomed Stan by name, and took us to our table. It was very dark inside, and there were a lot of men. As a matter of fact there wasn't a female in sight. Okay, fine, Stan had brought me to a gay restaurant or some shit. Big deal. No problem. I can handle it.
I notice that most of the men at the bar are young and handsome, while the men in the booths and tables tended to be much older. As the night progresses, I realize that the bar is the "shop window," and the men in the booths are the "shoppers." The traffic from the booth, to the bar, to the back door (no pun) is brisk.
After my fourth or fifth Glenfiddich, just as I'm about to dig into my shrimp cocktail, Stan informs me that he would like to "Suck my cock." Without batting an eye, I tell him I'm flattered but not gay. He tells me I don't have to be gay to have my cock sucked by a man, and that if I close my eyes and fantasize about a woman, I would enjoy it. I say, "Thanks, Stan, but no." Stan then begins to tell me that my reluctance to engage in a sex act with a man could actually be a symptom of some "latent homosexuality" on my part, and he thought that I had a real problem, and that “my fear to explore who I might be,” was sad. I said, "Hey thanks, Stan, but I'd rather not have to open my eyes and see your bald, melanoma covered scalp, bobbing on my johnson!”
...No, I didn't say that, but I was thinking it. How awesome would that have been?!
But I remained respectful.
Stan excused himself from the table, and on his return told me that Billy was going to meet us at the house. So we went to the house.
Now I'm sure some of you are saying, "Why the hell would you go to the fucking house?" Well, I wasn't afraid of Stan. I had spent my life wrestling and playing football, and I knew he couldn't harm me. And Billy was my friend.
Lo and behold, when we got to the house, Billy wasn't there. Stan explained that Billy had to leave, but would be back soon. Yup, this dude thought I was a drunk, lost, stupid dipshit, straight off the turnip truck. A perfect target for his ugliness. And while I may have been many of those things, I certainly had never ridden on a turnip truck.
Anyway, as were sitting in the living room, Stan starts to show me clips of films, projected on a giant-screen from a projector mounted on the ceiling. What starts with "Rumblefish" and "Barfly," quickly degrades to a clip of a man and a woman having sex.
I asked if there was any more Jack Daniels, and excused myself to the kitchen to fill up my tumbler.
When I walked back into the room and sat down, the man who was having sex with the woman was now being fucked by some blond haired dude that looked like Ivan Drago from Rocky II.
Stan reaches over and puts his hand on my penis.
Well, that was it for me. I stood up and said, "Look man, you want to be my friend, fine. You want to go to dinner or hang out or whatever the hell else, fine. But I'm not going to have sex with you. And if you can't handle or respect that then I'll get the fuck outta here."
Just then, Billy came through the front door. I walked over and asked if he could give me a ride home. Billy, sensing something was up, said, "Why, what's going on?" I said, "Your dad tried to fuck me." He said, "Goddamnit, he does that to all my friends."
Billy took me home.
The next afternoon, right around the time my hangover was really kicking in, the phone rang. It was Stan.
He began telling me how rude I was and that what had occurred the night before was "very unnecessary." He also said that it would be best that I "keep my mouth shut,” as he could make things “very uncomfortable for me."
I told him to "go fuck himself."
Within the year, I decided to get sober, and after a few relapses, have managed to put together eighteen years.
My story is not unique. Happens all the time. And I've wondered how many lost, fucked up, straight guys Stan tried his Svengali act on. How many guys had, against every fiber in their body, given in. Because they wanted to be somebody. Because they wanted to be accepted. Because they wanted a chance. Because they wanted to be loved. Because they were too paralyzed by the moment to say "no."
My guess, lots.
I never saw Stan or Billy again.
