Spring 1987: My Celebrity Boyfriend

When I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, I found that half of the residents were aspiring actors, directors, writers, models, dancers, or singers.  Most of my friends and acquaintances had been in something, and some had been in several things.

But I only dated one "real" celebrity, someone whose name you would probably recognize.

He's not Michael J. Fox, Rob Lowe, Robin Williams, Neil Diamond, David Cassidy, Cesar Romero, Arnold Schwarzeneggar, Jimmie Walker, Ron Glass, Philip McKeon, Billy Connolly, or Lou Ferrigno.  I'll call him Steve.

No real names because he's closeted, and  I don't want to get sued -- how crazy is it that in 2013, you can be sued for slander for "accusing" someone of being gay.  But I can tell you that he's a couple of years older than me, tall and slim, with dark hair and dark eyes.  He was most famous at the time for an adventure tv series which I watched at Indiana University in the early 1980s, but since then he's starred in a cop show and appeared in some soap operas. Shouldn't be hard to figure out.


We met at the post office at Christmastime in 1986, a few days after my fight and sort of break-up with Raul.  He was standing in line in front of me, carrying a large package.  I said "that's one enormous package.  And the box you're mailing is pretty big, too." He laughed. (In the 1980s, "package" was slang for the visible bulge that sex organs make in tight pants.)

I told him I worked for Joe Weider's Muscle and Fitness, and asked if he would be available for the June centerfold.  He laughed again.

I was getting ready to leave for two weeks in Rock Island -- by myself, after the fight with my boyfriend -- but on January 10th, 1987, we went out to dinner. Geoffrey's, on the beach in Malibu.  I wore a thin silk shirt to show off my pecs, which was a mistake -- the temperature was in the 50s, with a wind whipping through me, and we dined al fresco.  And Steve insisted that I have the chilled peach soup.  I turned down the invitation to "see his place," went home, and crawled under an electric blanket.

We dated for nearly three months, but we only went out twice more, once to see the opera Porgy and Bess at the Wiltern, and once for brunch at one of those top-floor restaurants where the spectacular views give you vertigo and the entrees start at $100. Otherwise we played tennis, hung out in his pool, walked his dogs, and had Chinese or Thai food delivered while we watched movies on his VCR.

And cuddled.  Steve could cuddle for hours. 


It ended on March 30th, 1987, when "Steve and I" held a post-Oscar party for 20 of his friends and 10 of mine (Alan and Raul were both there). All men.  Most connected to show biz somehow, but not famous; the only name I remember is Douglas Barr.

I thought I was being an excellent host, refilling drinks, pointing out the direction of the bathroom, answering questions like "how long have you two been together?" and "what are you guys planning for the summer?", and telling people "Thanks for coming!"

But I guess he had been thinking of us as a "down-low" fling, not as a couple.  He stopped calling, and when I called, I got his answering machine.  After three messages and a drop-in went unanswered, I moved on.  Or rather, back to Raul.