Laid Bare: Essays and Observations, Judson, Tom [best self help books to read .TXT] 📗

are naturally heterosexual and you’re having sex with men, well, first, you’re treating that guy unfairly,’ he says.” My friend Bradley, who enjoys being treated unfairly by straight men, would dispute that point, but I know what he’s getting at. As for Mr. Popinfresh’s current orientation, “I identify as heterosexual. There was a time I thought of myself as bisexual, and I never hide that fact.”

I suppose the process of coming to terms with one’s sexual orientation varies with the individual and sometimes can stretch over years. I personally had a “Eureka!” moment when I discovered I was able to fold a fitted sheet into a perfect square. That can’t be learned.

He goes on to say that gay marriage is “not wrong” and that he’s not ashamed of his work in videos. Pretty progressive thinking for a born-again type, all in all. While I myself am a staunch atheist and believe that organized religion is the root cause of most of the horrors the world has known, I fully support Mr. Penelopepitstop’s quest for personal fulfillment and understanding. I might differ with his (newly) negative views on gay porn but I’m going to cut him a little extra slack. And the fact that his nipples drive me insane has nothing to do with it and I resent the implication.

But this does raise a broader question: why does a “redeemed” soul, after a life of sex/drugs/crime or crime/drugs/sex or crime/crime/ drugs/politics or drugs/politics/sex/drugs/crime, always wind up at the feet of Jesus Christ? Why do J.C. and his Dad always get to be the Last Exit Before Toll on the Highway to Eternal Damnation? Born-agains praise the Lord for giving them a new chance at life; He is always given credit for the good things in the world while mankind seems content to take the blame for the bad. There’s an old show business saying, “If you believe the good reviews you also have to believe the bad reviews.” While you’re on your knees thanking God for clearing up that annoying rash remind him he kind of fucked up big-time with Hurricane Katrina.

No, I’d think twice before handing myself over to the aleatory whims of the Big Christian God.

Which begs the question, how come nobody--Sammy Davis, Jr. aside—converts to Judaism as the cleanser for a dissipated life? And why is religion—any religion—the default concept to “find” when pursuing redemption? Why not “find” something like--oh, I don’t know—something like… fudge. A pound-and-a-half of chocolate fudge with walnuts would set me on the straight and narrow for sure. Or how about praying to a Technics Dual Cassette Deck with Auto-Reverse? A gadget like that, with its ability to play forever without stopping, offers the acolyte a clear and true vision of infinity. But if it must be a personage, why not somebody like, say, Rickie Lee Jones? Now, there’s a deity that would keep you on your toes. You could never be sure if she would offer you blessed salvation or try to steal twenty bucks from your wallet. You’d be so busy watching your back you wouldn’t have time to indulge in any vices.

I’m just not buying this Born Again business as an antidote to profligacy and corruption. I believe there are some things that are simply innate that even the Gospels can’t dispel. Years ago a good friend of mine who was an ex-everything addict (and a really big queen) started behaving mysteriously and eventually came out of the closet as a Mormon/heterosexual convert. As we left the restaurant after our farewell lunch before shedding his old life completely I asked about the crazy lady who lived next door. “I feel like I’m Olivia DeHavilland in ‘The Snake Pit,’” he complained. “Girl,” I said, draping a friendly arm on his shoulder, “there’s not a straight man in the history of the world who has ever referenced ‘The Snake Pit.’”

Like Mr. Papardelle, I have recently left the world of gay porn to pursue other interests. Unlike him I still hold the industry and the people in high regard. I’m not joining the clergy; I’m going back to the theater. But it’s funny, just like David Papaleo (the former Tom Katt,) Tom Judson (the former Gus Mattox) will be appearing before the multitudes, donning representative garb and declaiming from a sacred text.

Can my own church be far behind?

THE LONGEST MILE

The parking lot behind the theater in Provincetown is never quiet; the exhaust fan from the café runs 24/7 and there’s always either a vehicle or a bicycle entering or leaving.

But the image that has really tickled me over the summer is brought on by the surface of the lot itself; a medium-size gravel. It’s not my beloved Item 4, which eventually compacts into a solid mass. It’s a loose, gray stone roughly the size of Kraft Caramels. It shifts here and there based on the 3-, 4-, 5- and 6-point turns that vehicles must make to facilitate driving forward through the narrow alley rather than having to back precariously into the very busy street.

Sometimes, if I’m not really paying attention, I’m fooled into thinking there’s a light rain falling outside when the gravel is trod upon.

But beginning in the late-afternoon—every day—when I can often be found reading on my porch, I get to witness a lovely and unique procession: The Art House Drag Queens. Many of the acts booked here at The Art House are, in fact, drag acts. For that matter, a good percentage of the shows all over town feature male performers in fabulous female garb. Clearly, it’s one of the things visitors expect when they come to this last town on the Cape.

Since all of us performers have to promote our shows by handing out fliers on the street (“barking” is what we call it) the drag acts have to spend countless extra hours in makeup and costume. God bless ‘em,