Gossip Boy

Xanax comes with a warning that reads, “may cause drowsiness.” It should say, “shut up, lie down and don’t make any plans.”

I was sitting on the plane, trying to will myself to sleep. I was in between buzz and hangover from the night before. My hair of the dog was a Bloody Mary (or three) in the airport bar. I had two hours sleep and once I landed in Los Angeles, I was only going to have three hours before another meeting. I wasn’t running on fumes. My tank was empty and the check engine light was blinking.

The large, stinky man who plopped himself down in the seat next to me was sweating profusely. His gut pushed over the armrest into my area. His stubby little fingers fumbled with a bottle of pills. “I hate flying,” he mumbled.

I attempted to pretend I was sleeping, in order to avoid a four hour conversation.

“Want one?” He pushed the bottle at me.

“Xanax,” the bottle smiled at me. Then I saw the name on the prescription bottle: “Richard Head.” Who am I to turn down the kindness of strangers? In fact, in some cultures it would be considered downright rude. But truth be told, the real reason I said, “absolutely” was so I could say “Some Dick Head gave me a Xanax on the plane.”

He shook the bottle into my hand. Sure he offered one, but two fell out. I figured when you shake Tic Tacs into someone’s hands, you don’t say, “oh, I only meant you could have one” when two or three fall out. So I tossed the two orbs of happiness into my mouth and chased it with the last of my drink.

He asked me what I did for a living. This, other than the preflight take-off spiel, is my favorite part of the flight.

Sometimes I’m a coroner on my way to a mass murder crime scene where only my expertise can solve the crime. Sometimes I’m a circus performer. Occasionally I’m high-end escort. Once I worked for “the Bureau.” Once a Catholic Priest who “just needed to get out town for a while.” Sometimes I pretend to be deaf. Sometimes I pretend I don’t speak English. Sometimes I pretend to have multiple personalities.

I have no recollection of whatever lie I invented on my flight, because apparently a splash of vodka, tomato juice and two Xanax don’t mix. I came to four hours later when the plane landed. To say that I was “out of it” was an understatement.

You know that scene at the end of Casino, where Sharon Stone, arms outstretched, is slowly stumbling down the hallway in some drug induced haze? That was me on my way to baggage claim. Only with two carry-on bags weighing me down. I spent a good ten minutes, fascinated that my luggage was on its own personal carousel. (Later I would realize ninety minutes had passed since I had departed the plane.)

Bags in hand, I made my way to the curb to find Ryann when I saw Morgan. I wasn’t even sure it was Morgan at first. It looked like Morgan, except he was riding a dragon and a small boy on a flying carpet was circling his head.

“Alex?” he asked, I suppose unsure it was me. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly eight years, though I see him just about every day.

My motor skills allowed me one word: “You.” (And somehow I managed to slur and make it ten syllables.) To reinforce that I was in fact addressing him, I pointed at him. But that damned dragon kept shooting fire at my finger.

Morgan is a gossip columnist. And no, he’s not that blue-haired, meany who draws coke and cum stains on his victim’s faces. But he does love his “visually-impaired bits.”

Morgan is substantially older than me. That’s right. I’ll admit it. I was chicken once. But I was 28-year-old chicken to his much older hawk. To this day I still have no idea how old he is. I was in middle school when he was doing gossip bits on a talk show. He could be 40. He could be 60.

My numerous post-coital attempts to get into his wallet were thwarted every time. I pride myself on my Sydney Bristow-esque spy skills, but Morgan was always a half step ahead of me. I probably should have just come out at some point and said, “were you in college when Kennedy was shot?” but I didn’t want to be rude.

Morgan looks amazing for his age (whatever that age is). He has a great body. He has a great personality. He has a beautiful home, high atop the Hollywood Hills. He takes good care of himself. When he dated, he was a recovering alcoholic and had even quit smoking.

During our time together, I even quit smoking and drinking. (The stock of Grey Goose and American Spirits dropped several points the winter of 2001). For about three months I felt healthier and smarter. I even took up running.

Sure, it was like Wuthering Heights every night I entered my kitchen. Every night, I would hear the faint, sad little voices from my vodka bottles and cigarettes from inside the pantry crying, “Alex… let us out.” But there was always something just a little “off” about him. Like, “the call is coming from inside the house” kind of off.

We dated for about three months. Nothing terribly serious and those three months were not exclusive. We didn’t talk or see each other every day. Part of the reason for our self imposed distance was our jobs. Working in the modeling industry, I couldn’t very well tell my friends and clients I was dating him. No one would talk to me! I would be like He Kexin at a Panda Express.

Sure I fed him stories. And yes, I relished seeing the anger in my foes' faces at parties when they railed about that awful “journalist” for printing “lies” about them.

On Valentine’s Day 2001, Morgan took me to a party hosted by his best friends. They were all older. I felt like I was in some new elite world of happy, wealthy, coupled people where single people were not only not allowed, but pitied.

One by one, they took me into areas of the house and yard to tell me how much they liked me. How much they thought we were perfect for each other. How much they looked forward to getting to know me. I probably should have been freaked out when one of them said, “you’re one of us now,” but instead it just made me excited that I was accepted by these people. It was like anAaron Spelling series made up of baby boomers and me. And I was Lucy Ewing.

When we left, everyone hugged and air-kissed me good bye. We talked of plans to go to Palm Springs one weekend. And perhaps a jaunt to Tahoe another. Oh and we mustn’t miss the gala at that hotel for that charity.

Morgan and I returned to his home in the hills for what I expected to be our inevitable Valentine’s Day sexy time. Music played. The lights of Hollywood twinkled below. Clothes came off. Then came the question: “How old are you?” he asked.

“How old do you want me to be?” I responded.

While his age had never come up, neither had mine. He had never been with someone my age before.

And so for the first time in the history of West Hollywood, a man broke up with another man because he was too young.

I considered calling a press conference the next morning in front of The Abbey, but instead I went home and broke into my stale, old cigarettes and dusty bottles of vodka.

Cut to five years later, one of his television cohorts was dating an actor friend of mine. Over craft service, I relayed the Morgan-Alex Love Story and she squealed, “I’m throwing a dinner party! You must come! He’s single! He was probably going through a rough patch! You two would be perfect together!”

But I had no interest in going back down on that road again. That old, rocky, beaten down road.

A few days later, I asked my friend, “so how did the dinner party go? How was Morgan?” And he said that Morgan told everyone he broke up with me because he gave me a German chocolate cake from his grandmother’s recipe and I didn’t say “thank you.”

I laughed and then realized he was serious.

“James, there is no way that happened. I’m allergic to coconut.”

James said, “well, maybe it was red velvet cake” but I know damn well no chocolate or sugar of any kind ever crossed my lips the entire time we dated, because I have a strict “dessert or sex” rule. It’s either one or the other.

I, like every other gay man in West Hollywood, suffer from an extreme case of body dysmorphia and I have a computer chip in my brain that tells me where each gram of fat lives once it has cleared my throat.

Part of me wanted to call him. Part of me wanted to show up at his house in the middle of the night and cause a scene so all of his celebrity neighbors would see. Part of me wanted to send him a German chocolate cake. Made of my poop.

A year later, I saw him at a café on Santa Monica Blvd with a date. I sent a piece of German chocolate cake to his table with a note that read, “tell grandma I said hi.”

“You…” is all I could manage as we stood in baggage claim.

“This is Hector, my partner,” he said.

Hector could have been Ricky Martin’s doppelganger, if Ricky Martin was in his mid '40s and not the father of twin babies. (Side note: first Clay Aiken and now Ricky… Anderson Cooper, I’m ready to make babies with you whenever you want. Call me.)

“Hector…” I mumbled. “Have you been drinking?” Morgan asked, sniffing my breath.

“It’s prescription…” is what I tried to say, but there were too many consonants.

He and his life partner walked away from me. He didn’t say “goodbye.”

As they walked away, I heard someone say, “wasn’t that the guy from that cable show? He hasn’t aged well at all.”

And for some reason, I sobered up instantaneously. It was like my blood alcohol and Xanax levels went clear. I turned around and said, “you’re wrong. He’s aged perfectly. He’s smart, considerate, healthy and kind. His only flaw is he’s a liar.”

I pulled down my sunglasses. I strode to the curb where Ryann was sitting smoking a cigarette, having waited for an hour and a half. Arriving at her convertible, she handed me the requisite ride home refreshment of a martini in a tumbler (though all the ice had long since melted). And words came out of my mouth that I never thought I would say: “I think I have a drinking problem.”