No matter how calamitous or inappropriate the circumstance, give an actor the chance to rattle off his resumé and he will not disappoint. Proctologists wait until they have me in the most compromising of positions before they ask, “So, you’re an actor. Have I seen you in anything?” And, even with the proctologist fisting me like Malcolm McDowell, I groan, “Unnhhh, damn, well, did you see… unnnhh… Trojan Women at Theater 54?” The same scenario plays out with urologists. I have a camera inserted through my urethra into my bladder for a cancer check. As the Doctor and I watch the live and exclusive footage of my bladder wall he asks, “Now, you’re an actor. My wife and I loved CATS. What did you make of it?” Actresses endure the same with their gynecologists.
I want to impress my classy new girlfriend with my “too cool for school” Brooklyn savoir-faire. So, I take her to a 42nd Street bughouse to see the movie Caligula produced by the skin magazine Penthouse. It’s a credible version of the story interspersed with scenes of incredible sex and it’s the only XXX movie to star John Gielgud and Helen Mirren. There is a Black gentleman sitting directly behind us. He is actively engaged with the film and adds a running critique to the on-screen action. When Malcolm McDowell coats his arm with lard and “fists” a kitchen slave, our critic leans forward and informs us that, “Dese Romans are some sick muthafuckas.” When a Centurion has his penis sliced off and thrown to the dogs, the Black gent jumps up whilst grabbing his crotch and informs the entire audience, “Damn, I could feel dat shit.”