6:00 a.m., Los Angeles, Julio, a Chateau Marmont gardener, looks up from deadheading hydrangeas. Sees an object fly off the top-floor terrace. Shiny square object glinting past espaliered pear trees; dive bombing the begonia bed.

Big thud.

Nobody calls out, nobody descends from the upper floors. Julio crawls across Korea grass, eyes clenched, trying to be invisible. Minutes pass. Julio moves his prey to the shelter of a princess flower gazebo.

It’s a computie, silver laptop. Two-inch duct tape seals the lid, triple thickness. Julio runs shears through the tape. “Madre de dios,” instant ugh, the laptop’s snapped shut on a load of shit. Pooh-pooh drips off the keyboard, “como guac off caisadias,” Julio groans, “butter off a waffle.”

Julio speed dials his fence for celebrity items. “Quiza importanto, senor. Come quick.”

6:21, the fence guy screeches to a halt outside the back gate.

“Julio,” fence guy shoots twenty digitals of dripping shit, “why’d you call me?” Fence guy offers Julio a C-note. “No can do more, broheim. Screen’s smashed, nothing works.” The fence pulls on latex gloves. “Talk about worthless, amigo.”

8:14, underground parking, Virgin Megastore, Sunset and Crescent Heights, Julio’s fence hands the laptop in a sealed bag to a stringer. Price: $5,000 cash. The stringer burns rubber up the exit, rushes to his techie, shoves a venti soy latte in her face plus $1,500. Ten minutes and bingo, Techie Gal retrieves 540 pages, SeasonofMyStickie.doc.

10:15, the Star outbids the Enquirer, $250,000 without guaranteed author identity.

11:00, Bonnie Fuller, Star editor, click-clacks acrylic heels across the Marmont lobby.
“We need a name, Michael,” Bonnie crosses her stair master legs in the manager’s office.

“The Marmont does not release personal information.”

“But are the initials S.L.? Wink or roll on the ground for me if it’s yes.”

“Here’s what I’ll confirm,” the Chateau manager’s smile is vinegar. “An actor of considerable fame booked into a top-floor suite for an indefinite stay under unusual circumstances – his hands and arms and face were streaked with mud, Miss Fuller. His shoes and pants were badly burned. God knows what he’d been doing.”

Disclaimer To Protect My Legal-Ass:

This Be Fiction.

But I make salacious reference to a number of real-life people, places, and companies.

Salacious, in case you forget, means pump it up by showing crude erotic stuff. About People Whose Names Appear In Print. Or on the Net. Places, too. Even Companies.

The characters and events included in these pages are bald-faced lies, even if you recognize them as real.

Except for the Confessions About Me -- they’re 100% true.

You Can Do It.

Love,

Sebastian Long

Season of My Stickie (Whoops, I Mean Dickie)
by Sebastian Long

Part One
In which you meet our hero and learn his condition

-1-
[Note to publisher. I need a plastic overlay.
Right here, front page, clear plastic like in biology textbooks.
On the overlay I want letters. No frog veins, no muscle structure from bat wings. Just alphabet letters done up like notes the killer leaves in movies. Cut from newsprint and glued sloppily on the page.
The letters spell S-T-A-R-T, red bold. Red letters, clear plastic.]
This S-T-A-R-T-S when I S-T-O-P-P-E-D.
I was all, “Leave me alone, can’t you?”
After being in three American movies, two Moroccan fight features, one weird documentary, plus Freakkkky Fashion Shit.
“I quit. I quit.” That’s me. Squawk-Squawk-Squawker Voice.
But can I? That’s the question. Can I quit?
Can I resist the shitlift of being interviewed and photographed with no shirt on? Can I refuse cover shots for Maxim, GQ, Huomo Vogue -- pants casually undone, Low-Slung Art-Directed Open-Pants-Guy.
How ‘bout the thrill of going places? I’m not talking around the world, sweetheart. I mean check this out.
70-millimeter lens aims right at me, lights on, smoke set, camera rolling, our lord and master cries ACTION, the crew freezes. “Will he nail it this time?” Slo-mo suspense. “Can we get doughnuts after this take?”
No dialogue, just my eyes forty feet wide on the big screen, deranged and passionate.
“Humiliation,” the director whispers in my ear, “is power. Now show us.”
Takes 1 through 8 suck. Bad-assed reaction shot, funky and deep, what’s the problem? Why can’t I deliver?
“Hel-lo?” The director beats his forehead against my chest. “Anybody home?”
9 through 14 are better. Then 15 is bingo, beguiling mystery rushes out my eyes, hurt and power, power and hurt. Braids Of Grief And Strength.
“Print the jolly fuckers! All three cameras, check gates!” The director French kisses me.
A thousand more shots, a thousand more scenes – I end up the Details January cover, pants slip-slip-slipping down. Veins on my lower abdomen, Blue Highways To Heaven.

-2-
Now come close, darlings, come here.
Don’t be frightened, take a look.
Checkmate is on 2,200 screens across America. And I’m The Star.
Oops, stop, wait.
Rule Number One, as given to me by my very own Paramount Pictures P.R. team, “Do not brag,” they scolded me in a stage whisper before the Today show. “Meredith Viera hates braggarts.”
Bryan Lourd, my CAA agent, smoothes the moment. Bryan never scolds, Bryan’s always cheerful, always at my disposal, doesn’t care how early in the morning, doesn’t mind how phony the dealio. “Know what you are?” Bryan’s Got A Mantra. “You’re the best goddamn actor of your generation.”
Bryan discovered me in Morocco. Blond/blue, 6’1”, swimmer’s bod, I was doing cheap fight pictures, kick-boxing to hell. Bryan got me two B movies and then got me Checkmate.
“You’re terrific” -- he’s text messaging right now -- “let’s line up another film.”
Bryan’s buzzing outside my house gate, see --or if he calls on any of my phone lines-- nobody’s allowed to answer. I’m like, “No thanks, Bry. I don’t think so.” I’m A Squawk-Squawk-Squawker Guy.
Here’s why.
Fasten seat belts, take a deep breath for this. No plastic overlay interruption. No note to publisher, ain’t got time.
Academy Award For Best Actor. This year.
Yikes, yikes, yikes. I mean, Jee whiz, How Fucking Insane. Why’d they have to choose me? Stupid Assholes In Hollywood, Stop Screwing With My Life.
OK, sorry, wasn’t gonna freak out, page five, but this is the truth. As you pretty much kinda know.
I mean, “Mr. and Mrs. Reader, you breathing?”
Yes? You are? Then OK, you know me. This is Sebastian Long, Captain for the Ride. Live from the upper terraces of the Chateau. You should see the searchlights and sirens from up here, nighttime Godzilla glitzville.
Sebastian Long, you say? Yes, hon, pleased to make your acquaintance. And you, babe. Don’t you look nice.
Sebastian, is it? Yes, darlin’. As in Saint Sebastian, Lord Sebastian, Lost Soul Sebastian.
Last name Long? As in what do I have on me that’s long? MSD-D. My Sweet Dickie-Doo. Touch it, ma’am. M-C-C. My Cool Cock. Suck It, Why Don’t You?
Oops, that’s rude, I apologize.
But listen. Sebastian Long’s not my real name.
Big fucking doi, Sebastian Long isn’t anyone’s real name, is it?
Someone gave me this handle, Sebastian Long, I had to make up reasons why I liked it. Academy Award for Best Actor, this year, three weeks ago – that is not one of the reasons, believe me. Award for best performance? Me?
Shi-i-i-i-t. W-h-o-a. Je-sus. How’d that happen?
I mean let’s be honest, my career before Checkmate was punching meat. Take after dumb-ass sweat-flying take. Most I ever did before Checkmate, I mean for dialogue, was grunt before letting fly a punch.
Guy Who Could Not Express – That Was Me.
Now here I am. Doing Musical Chairs with Robert, Colin, Ethan, Jude.
The whole world has a hard-on for Jude. But surprise, surprise, I swiped Oscar out his ass. I won the Golden Nude Dude. At the Kodak Theater. On Oscar Night.
-3-
For playing Hans.
In a film called Checkmate.
Case you don’t know, we’re talking one crazy movie, I gotta tell you, Checkmate’s Freakkkin’ Weird. Nazi European history drama, 1940’s Europe.
So, shit, jeez, yawn-yawn, what’s the fuss? Why’s this movie making waves? It’s not about aliens, it’s not about baseball.
Here ya go, babe. Lemme spill the news. Here’s the Big Why. I’m Naked Onscreen for more than one hour – that’s the dealio.
But not always sexual naked. More like Out-There Naked. Pure Survival Naked. Biggest Tragedy in the Whole World Naked. Doomed Naked. Ruthless Naked, and Terrible Naked.
But not Harvey Kietel naked, no, sir. We’re talking cute guy naked. Young guy naked. Dolce & Gabbana type guy naked.
For this one scene, see, I have Nazi generals throwing whiskey at me. I’m slobbering and shivering on a banquet table, Trying To Get Away. Begging To Live. All my nerves pop-pop-popping through my skin.
Clear snot droplets slide off my chin. Drool snot parades down my tits. Rivers Of Emotion. Fear And Panic. Sad Panic Eyes.
The director filmed whiskey rivers streaming down my abs.
He shot snot droplets suspended from my chin -- different angles, different light, different filters.
Real tears on my left cheek. Fake tears down my right. Combo-tears on my shaking upper lip. The scene took a week of 16-hour days, four cameras, ten miles of Kodak film #5218, enough electricity to tart up Romania for a year.
“Beauty craves punishment,” the director licked my ear. “And …ACTION!”
Whoa, terrific job, magnificent performance. I mean it, What A Scaredy-Cat Guy.
Plus you see my dick. The director makes sure my dick’s in every master.
How long was Richard Gere naked in American Gigolo? Five seconds? I never saw that movie, but people say it was some kinda big deal. Try one fucking hour, man, that’s me in Checkmate.
“Show the guy, show the guy. We’ve seen the girl, please show us the guy. We Wanta See The Guy.”
Last Frontier In America. Male Movie Star Naked On Screen. Is Cock Fun To Look At?
Golden nude dude, Academy Award Winner, zero to a hundred. Long story short, my performance made quite the impression. These days there’s hyper demand for my prof-fes-sion-al ser-vic-es. “Sir Vice, Sir Vice, please be in our next picture.”
Famous directors banging on the door, Brett Radner, Brad Silberling, Mike Newell. The Coens, Miss Smarty Pants Coppola and her dad, Senor Coppola Senior, speed dialing to set up meetings.
Academy Award Winner – wow, freakish, freaky thing-thang-thing. I call it AAW. As in AAW, shucks. AAW, gimme a break. AAW, go fuck yourself.
“Delicious.” “Brilliant.” “Sublimo.” That’s Joe Roth, Amy Pascal, Sony Pictures, the Weinsteins at their new joint – old time Tom, Dicks and Harveys ready to slick my balls with cash.
If I repeat the naked thing.
-4-
And –get this, this is important—if Paramount greenlights a new project starring me.
Which is a very big deal, major IF scenario, let me tell you.
Paramount has me in legal chains. We’re talkin’ major legal knot and tangle, doesn’t matter which studio tries to make a picture starring me, Paramount has final say.
Legal shit done hit the friggin’ fan. Which a lot of people claim is my fault. And now I’ve got 90 days to straighten it out. Do Or Die In 90 Days.
Which I’ll explain later-later, if you don’t mind.
Too early in the set-up now.

-5-
Next tidbit you need to realize, My Oscar ain’t really for Best Actor.
More like Best Gay Actor.
Which we better abbreviate into initials like we did with AAW.
How’s about BEGAAW? Sounds right even if it looks weird.
Say it with me, please. New terminology, let’s practice. Pronounce begaaw for me, repeat after me, guys. “Begaaw.” Ladies, you, too. “Begaaw.” Let me hear you, “Begaaw.” In unison, gents and ladies, “Begaaw, begaaw.”
Everyone agreed, see – time for a Begaaw.
Gay Guy has to dance. Has to be an actor who’s OUT. Has to be REAL LIFE. No more straight guys pretending. We need A COCKSUCKER. Bill Conti composed a special intro theme, “Fag Oscar Melody.”
Hans, my character in Checkmate, see, gets butt-fucked onscreen – he looks pretty gay. And I look the part, too, cuz that’s me up there getting’ reamed, I qualify. And the Begaaw recipe required a major studio release with a famous director and a big budget, no two-bit Strand Releasing Thing.
Paramount was the cunning studio, Paramount said, “Ready, Set, Go.” We’ll pay $90 million to shoot Checkmate. No other studio had a gay-themed, male nudie pic ready for Oscar consideration. Starring A Real Live Gay Guy Who’s Out.
Paramount sent Checkmate DVD’s to every voting member of the Academy. With slick photo booklets of yours truly. Hair tousled, eyes smoldering. And wouldn’t you know it? Centerfold nudie shot, full body in shadows, Sebastian Long, ass to the camera.

-6-
“Heal-The-World.”
“Make-It-Fair.”
“End-The-Discrimination.” That was the subtext anthem. That was the drum beating.
Now let’s pretend you’re an eighty-year-old Academy member, trying to choose this year’s Best Actor. Let’s say you’re J. F. G. for christsakes, I’m talking James Fucking Garner. Who you gonna vote for, Mr. G?
Harrison Ford, Air Force One, Jack Nicholson, About Schmidt, those are your heroes. Why vote for me, James Boy? I mean, Yeah, right – why should you?
Then big surprise, your agent fucking calls.
Bigger surprise, your agent sounds cheerful.
Biggest surprise, he wants you at The Grill in one hour. First time you’ve had a lunch invite since The Notebook, which was what, 15 years ago? You shave, you dress, alligator belt, cashmere socks. You arrive on time. Valet Boy takes your T-Bird.
You walk in The Grill, humongest surprise of all, your agent’s not alone. Six guys smile up at you, CAA, Endeavor, ICM, Hotshot New Hollywood –, Diesel wife beaters, Thom Browne jackets, track shoes, bleached hair.
The boys order you a Long Island Iced Tea, cheeseburger, slice of cheesecake, you protest but they insist.
“What is that?” Your agent fingers your jacket. “Vintage Members Only?” Snigger, snigger behind your back.
“What’s your opinion of Sebastian Long, Mr. Garner?” New Hollywood gets right to it.
You haven’t seen Checkmate, you can’t comment. So you ask their opinion.
“Sebastian Long’s Drool City,” your agent slurps Diet Dr. Pepper. “He’s incredible,” second guy in the booth. “Talk about gorgeous,” third guy. “What a fantastic performance,” fourth guy.
In the old days a secret meeting like this woulda helped Sophia Loren win the Oscar -- was she too Italian for Hollywood, was that it? Or Bogart, was he too short? Now it’s Queer Sebastian Long, Oh-Boy Sebastian Long Day.
“You’re sure? This is the man? It has to be him?” That’s you, James, forehead creased.
“Yeah.” “This year.” “Year Of The Queer.” “Sebastian Long.” Group ADR, wa-wa reverb, New Hollywood Boys. “Has to be Sebastian.”
“But why did he show his dick on billboards?” Disdain drips from your words, James-o. You need a lobster bib, man.
“Cuz he’s Sebastian Fucking Schlong,” Endeavor guy looks you in the eyes.
“But this isn’t the underwear model who went to television and played Tarzan, is it?” Good comeback, Jamesie, quick on your feet. “The Academy doesn’t endorse TV, you know.” Yee-eeesh, James, they know. Look at you, man, Rockford Files Galore.
“That was Travis,” ICM guy’s impatient. “This is Sebastian Schlong.”
“Sebastian Schlong?” Sticks in your throat, doesn’t it, Jamesie. “You serious?”
“Quit fooling around.” Smiles Go Bye-Bye, one, two, three, around the booth.
“Game over,” your agent’s the referee. “Crowd wants Sebastian Long. What do you say, Garner? Can we count on your vote?”
You’re picturing my CK underwear ads, camera up my crotch, black and white exposé. “Sebastian Schlong’s a queer?” You whisper. “We’re sure?”
“Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?” Your agent’s chuckling.
“OK.” Sad-voiced James. “You have my vote.”
“Woo hee,” the boys leave for Oyako Sushi. They’re hungry for arame salad.
“Possible part in Altman’s next,” your agent pats you on the shoulder. “I’ll call you.”
“Altman died years ago, Mike.”
“No shit,” your agent’s fingering your coat again. “What is this? Petroleum blend?”
-7-
Here’s what I say.
Thank you, Mr. Klein.
Thank you for putting me in your underwear campaign – not that I’m exactly proud of the work, should I say proud of the exposure, but let me say thanks very much. A Lot.
Old guy Calvin Klein wanted one last fling, see.
In particular Old guy Calvin Klein wanted to ace out Tom Ford, designer who made Gucci so sexy way back when.
I don’t know who you gotta be to double dip Paris fashion houses, but Tom Ford was working Gucci and YSL, both joints simultaneously. Gucci on top, YSL on bottom. Tom figured he had enough clout to shoot a naked guy ad for YSL M7 perfume.
This naked guy photo was the talk of fucking Paris, grabbing YSL all the headlines. Which hit old Man Calvin Klein in the fucking gut, knocked his wind out. The YSL ads ran in European fashion mags and on the Net, Nudie Cutie. Slick B & W Junk.
“Perfume’s worn on the skin,” Tom Ford drawled in his press release, Texan gay pushy. “Why hide the body?”
Right Frikkin’ On, Mr. Klein Rushes Back From Retirement. Takes him a year to negotiate a slice of his own name back, Phillips Van-Heusen, Inc. doesn’t want to surrender any Klein rights, but Mr. Klein prevails, then he cooks up CK-Dickie, CK Mesh Man In America.
“We’re Gonna Show Cock In The U.S.” Calvin Klein’s ecstatic.
And whose cock were they gonna show?
Mine. CK chose me for the campaign. Big duh. But why’d they do that? Why’d Mr. Klein choose me?
People say it’s cuz I’m uncut and the Ford guy was uncut, other folks say it’s cuz I’m Euro Flair Distinctive and all-American blond preppy at the same time. Other people say I maneuvered it, CK had no choice, which is bullshit.
First thing that goes down, Team CK bleached my pubes platinum blond.
They did eyebrow pencil along my dick. Packed my junk inside tight mesh. Hired Bruce Weber to shoot me. Bruce turned me into A Major-Assed Sensation, Worldwide Dick, United States, Europe, Asia, South America.
Which was against my will. I hated doing brainless shit for $. I Totally Hated It, Believe Me.
But CK sales went through the roof. Which made fancy folks in Hollywood sit up fast. The fancy-assed Hollywood folks got to thinking. How is Sebastian Long gonna look without that peek-a-boo mesh? Twenty-four frames per second on the big screen. Naked Exposed Guy.
Which –you see?-- is why I have to say thank you, Mr. Klein.

-8-
But here’s the French tickler. I mean, dig this.
Cocksucker’s not my real AKA.
Big secret. Don’t Tell. Nobody’s Supposed To Know. I Pretty Much Never Even Sucked Cock.
I’m Into Women in my private life.
Claire and me, we’re married. Guy and his righteous fine lady, 100% In Love. But Private, So Don’t Tell A Soul.
Right now Claire and me are fighting. I mean Shsh, You Can Listen In. You Can Hear our Marital Spat. Concerning WHO I AM. Not like if I’m a fag, Claire knows how to untie that square knot. More like if I’m t-h-e d-e-v-i-l. Try this on for size. We’re in our bathroom, 7:00 a.m., Claire starts in, “Why’d you skip yesterday with Dr. Meredith?”
“Grrrrrr!” I do pump-pump hips and butt, first pee of the morning.
“Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays,” Claire’s right at me. “You hear? Three times a week you gotta see Meredith.”
“Watch this, Claire, look here.” Angry Monkey Pees On The Wall, Pees On The Floor. Mini Revolution. “I don’t wanta see Dr. Meredith.”
“You shouldn’t be around the kids.” Claire holds my hips, gets me to piss straight.
“Stop it, Big Mommy,” Tiger Man Roar. “Grrr-grrr! Grrr-grrr-grrr!!”
“Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Sebastian. Get in there, tell Dr. Meredith what you did, tell everything that happened, tell the goddamned truth.” Lady Eclaire, fists tight on my hip bones.
Lemme explain the dealio, why Claire’s so upset, what did I do, in addition to peeing on the floor and missing a shrink’s appointment.
But later, OK? It’s too early for all that dealio.
Right now I gotta say Claire and me have two kids, America’s four, Wyeth’s going on six months. Claire and me do the Man-Woman Thing, We Make Humans. I glide my cock in/out, I spurt/shout/spurt, So Home Free, that’s how it feels, spazzed out me, Total Expression.
I Love My Eclaire. We’ve been together ever since I dragged my ass home from Morocco, which is like five fucking years.
Bow-wow-wow, the real thing, Claire ‘n Me.

-9-
But don’t get me wrong, I qualify for the Begaaw Checkmate thingie.
The Best Gay Actor Award.
Even with Claire in my life, see, I still qualify.
Which I’m gonna tell you about. Full detail, man. Like you bought this book cuz you’re in love with my sexy-assed gay picture on the jacket. Isn’t that the truth, guys?
I don’t mind. Be My Guest. Go For It, Stroke It, I’m Here For You.
I mean, Check this out, buckeroo.
Bad stories showed up in the press about me and some guy named Jackson Barnes. Bad-assed items were on the Net. Repeated mention of private male body parts. And what I did to them. Et Cetera, Et Cetera.
Jackson’s this younger-than-me, hot-hot-hot guy Paramount Pictures hired to be oh-so-with-me on my Checkmate publicity tours.
Paramount made sure Jackson was next to me in every press photo. And on TV. And in hotel suites. Room service jockeys were supposed to find Naked Jackson On My Bed. Like he finished sucking me off a minute before. Room service monkeys were supposed to dial the Enquirer and the Globe. “Famous Gay Actor Doing Gay Nasty. How much you pay for his room number?”
I bet Paramount mapped out the Checkmate publicity campaign two and a half years before they met me. I bet they drank espresso and munched cream puffs in their war room. Did the numbers, commissioned reports. Laughed out loud, how easy was this gonna be, Make A Gay Guy Win The Oscar, It’s A Fucking Breeze.
Checkmate was the first picture Brad Grey greenlighted when he took over from Sherry Lansing. Cuz Bryan Lourd, CAA’s kingpin, kept nagging Brad.
“Make a gay guy win,” Bryan kept chanting. “We need a gay guy winner.”
-10-
But don’t get me wrong, I deserve full Oscar credit. My performance in Checkmate does not suck.
Miracle Of Miracles. My Oscar is not 100% About Naked Dick. It’s not about schlong. Not really.
I mean get a load of me, watch Checkmate. You’ll be moved and impressed. You’ll cry for Hansie Boy, I promise. Watch how I pull back the veil. Watch how I deliver human pain. In buckets. Onscreen. I’m A Very Talented Actor.
But you don’t have to take my word, listen to the critics across America.
“Sebastian Long Scores! Checkmate Is An Historic Achievement!” – David Fucking Denby for The New Yorker. “Unlike Anything Before!” -- William Bad-Ass Arnold, Seattle Post-Intelligencer. “Rawest Performance of the Decade! Oscar! Oscar! Two Oscars! Sebastian Long’s That Great!” -- Michael Bitch-Face Wilmington, Chicago Tribune. “New Gay Movie God!” -- Ingrid Cunt-Breath Sischy, Interview magazine.
Critics were shouting loud and clear.
Sebastian Long. Sebastian Long.
Big. Bow. Wow. W-O-W.

-11-
Paramount did cartwheels soon as the reviews hit the street.
Paramount hopscotched.
Got their attorneys to write up Secret Gay Contracts removing Claire and my kids from the planet. Then they hired twenty-two-year-old Jackson Barnes to be my love interest. Slim-Hipped Jackson Barnes agreed to go around the country with me to do Oprah, Letterman, Conan and Saturday Night Live.
Photographers shot special portraits -- Me And Jackson, lacrosse-players-in-love.
My torn sweatpants co-mingling with his. My square jaw next to Jackson’s. My Blue Eyes laughing into his.
Paramount released us to the tabloids, splashed us across TV.
Newsflash. Newsflash. Newsflash.
***MALE LOVERS***MALE LOVERS***MALE LOVERS.

-12-
Meanwhile, Claire was driving Paramount nuts.
Cuz Paramount approved me for Checkmate way too fast. They got greedy soon as they saw my Checkmate screen tests – he looks great, he talks OK, he moves nice, let’s hire him.
Paramount knew the Best Gay Actor clock was ticking, what if another studio got wind of their plan, what if some other studio hit bingo first? Delay after delay, who was gonna play Hans, who could be raw enough? Who had nothing to lose?
I shot my screen test 10:00 a.m. on a Wednesday. By 1:00 o’clock it was, “Let’s hire him, let’s shoot Checkmate.” Jann Weidner, Checkmate director guy, demanded Paramount sign me lickety-split. One, two, three, Impulse Buy, Stop The Delays. Jann was panting hard.
I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. And no, man, I wasn’t nude in the screen test. More like 100% see-thru. Panic, fear, lust, joy -- major see-thru acting performance. They should put that screen test on YouTube.
The other thing is Claire and me weren’t fully married, not at that second. Our wedding came together after Checkmate wrapped in Budapest. Claire and me were buzzed about Checkmate being in the can, we were happy my work was that fucking good, so we tied a happy Budapest knot.
I wore a peasant blouse borrowed from wardrobe, deep dish to the navel, shark tooth on my chest, suede pants, lace-up crotch. Claire pranced around in Versace.
“Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” I was holding Claire’s hand at the Byzantine alter. “Merrily, merrily, merrily.” Nervous Man And His Fine Woman Getting Married.
Claire and me purred into lavolier body mikes, “You save me.” “I sure do.” “Yeah.” “Amen.” “Hallelujah.” Jittery cottonmouth vows that we wrote.
Everyone roasted us before the ceremony was even finished.
“Apollo and Ariadne,” Max the Checkmate D.P. was cheering in the church aisle.
“Apollonia and Prince,” the key grip stood on the back of his pew.
“Guinevere and Lancelot! Jann’s King Arthur!” Makeup Artist #1, punching the air.
The script supervisor was best man, she passed Claire and me our rings.
“With this ring,” I mumbled into Claire’s eyes.
“With my body,” Claire whispers back.
“I thee worship.” Whispered In Unison.

-13-
Next week, I’m in L.A.
“Lookee here, Braddie Boy,” I wanta show rushes of our marriage to Brad Grey, head of Paramount. “Check this out,” the wedding DVD slides into Brad’s media system.
Brad’s already planning my gay junket, New York, Boston, Chicago, San Francisco. Angels-In-America for Checkmate, soon as post-production’s gonna be finished, which is like in a year.
Brad glances at the shot on the DVD. “FUCK YOU!” Brad throws his coffee mug at Me And Claire Kneeling At The Altar. “What the hell?” Brad’s screaming. “What came over you?”
Coffee’s dripping down the plasma screen. Onto saffron walls.

-14-
Other thorn in Paramount’s side was MR. JANN WEIDNER, Checkmate director guy.
True confessions here and now, ladies and gents, Jann and me were tied up in movie-making Star-Director Dirty Fucking Sex, lick, kiss, hump – monkeys on the make, cock fighters to the moon. Rubbing Each Other Up.
You’d think this would be desirable, I mean an actual male couple, exactly what Paramount needed for the Checkmate publicity tour. But Paramount said Jann wasn’t photogenic enough.
Hey, hold on a sec, time out. Slow down. Going too fast, I hear screams from the reader. “We need clarification, please.”
“OK, dear reader, what’s up, how can I serve?”
“Why were you boning the director? You said you’re married to Claire.”
“I am married to Claire, and I am in love with Lady Claire.”
“Yeah, but you said, ‘I was fucking Jann Weidner, Checkmate director guy.’”
“I was fucking Jann.”
“We don’t get it.”
“You mean, ‘What’s happening? Where do I stand?’”
“Yeah. We’re confused.”
Lookee here, man. I want my double share for passing go, no matter what. Second, exceptions exist for every rule, I think you know that. Third, I wasn’t married to Claire, not yet, not until Checkmate wrapped.
Fourth, Jann’s brilliant, talk about a creative genius. So a joker guy like me hanging with Jann Weidner = wow, major privilege and opportunity. Fifth, Jann’s got a wife, three sons, who knows if he ever kissed a guy before me. I mean that’s cool, isn’t it? I made Jann cross over, that’s some kinda power.
“So, you mean you used Jann?” Reader’s back for more.
“Yeah, man, I guess you could say.”
“You slept with Jann to advance your career?”
“Jann used me too, babes. So how ‘bout we don’t waste a lotta time on this, OK?”
-15-
Twelve months later Me-And-Jackson-Barnes were golden retriever puppies across America. Two Guys In Love For Checkmate’s Publicity Campaign.
And I was like, “Shit – how’s this gonna end?” I was checking my watch in NYC. “How long before I get to fly home to Lady Eclaire?”
First sign of my impatience was a blue toilet brush inside Jackson’s asshole, my bed, New York City, same time we’re due at Good Morning, America for makeup.
Big Whoops. Not A Cool Event.
Jackson had to visit a Park Avenue clinic. Three doctors worked four and a half hours. Paramount apologized to Diane Sawyer, sorry, we’re postponing.
Then a medical assistant leaks the incident to the tabloids. Funky gossip beside my picture. Toilet brush explosion. Paramount wants to bitch slap me. Says I must be insane, derailing the Begaaw campaign with shit like that.
But, what do you know, Checkmate moves from 1,200 to 1,900 screens. Go figure, 700 more screens in a week. Thanks To Evil Sexy Me.
Driving The Publicity Campaign, Toilet Brush In Hand.

-16-
Cut. Time out. Stop.
[Note to publisher: another transparency page here. Like in anatomy textbooks, like the Diagram Of A Canine Scrotum. Or insect ova.
This transparency should have letters cut from newspaper, glued on haphazard and anonymous.
The letters spell M-I-S-S J-U-D-I-T-H.
Lime green letters on clear plastic. Nothing to do with dog testicle.]
One week after the Oscars I’m chugging mango tango at home, pinching my tits, watching the kitchen phone ring.
This chick who moved her operation from New York to L.A. is on the line. She’s a book editor, she’s a publisher. She’s a talk show host.
Miss Judith Something-Or-Other, Sounds-Like-A-Dead-President, got into trouble with an OJ Simpson book, you know the lady.
“Mr. Long?” Miss Judith shouts. “Autobiographies of young guys drive the market.” The speed of her words is a bullet train. I know, cuz I was Catherine-Deneuve-Blond-Pubes-Boy for CK/Tokyo/Publicity, I rode bullet trains.
“What’s an autobiography?” Me Play Dumb On The Phone.
New York lady wants to send over a ghostwriter, he’s supposed to arrive that afternoon. “Cutest boy, Sebastian. For you, darling. Adorable and sweet.”
“No thanks, not interested.” Pause. Pause. Three dramatic beats. “But hey, how ‘bout this? How about I look around for myself? Huh? How ‘bout that?”
“What do you mean, Mr. Long?”
“How ‘bout I write the frikkin’ book?” Fake coughing fit. “What about it?”

-17-
Rule #1, Miss Judith explains to me over the phone, talk about my dick on every page.
“Got it.”
Rule #2, tell the world I do guys.
“C’mon, I’m married, don’t you know that?”
“Say you do guys and ladies.” Say you put it in the blender at whip speed. “#3, remind everybody you’re cute.”
“That’s stupid to keep saying.”
“4, tell about Oscar.”
“Mention Oscar all the time, got it….”
“5, keep it simple, stupid.”
That was Miss Judith’s whole recipe. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
I come back with, “I might have a few thoughts of my own, see.”
“Like for instance?”
“I wanta tell about this ten-mile stretch out on Lassen Avenue, to and from my kid’s school.”
“What does the public care about that?”
“Fuck the public. I upholstered Lassen Avenue with swatches of my own head, Miss Judith.” Wet towels hung in the wind. I need to pull ‘em down.
“What kind of information would you include?”
““I wanta lay it out, how I got to this point.” All My Wet Towels. Miss Judith. Sebastian Long’s Story. “I can’t even perceive the road anymore, that’s how many wet towels are out there.”
“What road are you talking about? A real road?” Miss Judith’s not focusing.
“Lassen Avenue, route to my kid’s school. Real reason I can’t see it is cuz I’ve got this huge envelope stuck in the car, 30 days in the car blinding me.”
“What envelope is that?”
“A lawsuit, Miss Judith. Paramount Pictures is suing me.”
“Impossible. You’re their darling.”
“What’s the difference, Miss Judith, who kissed who anyway?”
“Paramount’s suing you over a kiss?”
“Yes, ma’am. I win them the fag Oscar, then they sue me for ten mil. Because I breached their Secret Gay Contract by kissing my own wife.”
“What are you talking about? What wife? And what secret gay contract?”
“Paramount made me do weird stuff, ma’am.”
Real True Gritty. My Begaaw Life, Kinky Steps To The Oscar.
Season of My Dickie, Scandal, Scandal. It’ll be great, Miss Judith. It’ll be Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Fuck you and your lawsuit, Brad Grey. Dear-John Letter To Paramount.
“Back to Lassen Avenue, Miss Judith. Please don’t worry. Nothing will happen, you can drive a route without seeing it many times. Even with kids in the car.”
That’s what I’m doing, see. Driving a tunnel of my own creation, slathered with mental shit. Four times a day. Wet Towels Hung Out to Dry.
“I’m gonna pull the towels, Miss Judith. I’m gonna put them in your book. #1 wet towel, no more acting. Can I say that in your book?” Acting encourages too much weird shit.
“Miss Judith, this book will formally announce my decision to never act again. That way Paramount can’t have my next six pictures.”
“Did you say next six pictures?”
“Yes, ma’am. Bryan Lourd promised me last week. ‘Kid,’” I’m imitating Bryan’s nasal twang, “‘sign for Paramount’s Gay Six. That way the lawsuit disappears.’”
Six Gay Pix, Miss Judith. Fag Franchise. No other studio can have me. Paramount Owns Me. Talk About A Legal Fucking If.
“What do you mean, legal if?”
“If I work for somebody else, see, if I want to star in The Life And Times Of Hugh Heffner for Sony – if I wanta play a straight role for any studio -- Paramount destroys me. They drag me to court, one, two, three.”
But Paramount won’t want me if this book comes out. Too many revealing details. Like My True Love For Eclaire. And the stuff Brad Grey made me do. This is bridges burning. This Is Revolution. Power And Glory, I Love It.
“I’ll do the book, Miss Judith. I’ll put major shit in, I promise.”
“Follow my rules, Mr. Long. I need an outline for Chapter One next week.”

-18-
I’m paying Carlos, our family driver, see, same time as I’m driving the kids to school.
“So, boss,” Carlos is worried, “do I look for a new job?”
“Nope. Take the car for gas, bring it back, wash it. Let me drive the kids.”
I can’t end Carlos’ prospects just because I’m in the middle of a paranoid brainfart. At age twenty-eight. About what to do next.
Cuz after Checkmate and My Begaaw, GAY = HOT.
Gay Sebastian Long = One Hot Ticket. I mean Paramount’s right about that.
I stop the car, I pop the kids in Jamba Juice, I want a double acai eye opener with lemon poppy seed cake.
Or Claire and me dash to Starbucks.
“Single shot espressos for two people,” I whisper to the barista. “Cream on the side. Two brownies.”
People push to shake my hand. “How COOL is it that you’re gay?” “How COOL’s the scene with gays now?” “The awards show was such a COOL MOMENT.” “Can you give us gay autographs?” “Please?” “Please?” “Please?”
Nobody even notices Claire.
Nobody sees we’re part of the same order, that I pick up coffee for two people. Claire sits at the next table over, I pass her a brownie and espresso. I feel up her palm, finger cum all over her, nobody sees.
Over at Jamba Juice, no one notices I pay for my kid’s smoothie. People don’t figure it out.
Cuz gay Sebastian Long = so damn hot.

-19-
But c’mon, Claire’s a dervish in a miniskirt, face like nineteenth century heaven. Claire’s got fiery red hair. You should see this woman, you should notice her.
I mean you woulda, you shoulda, she was right there at the Oscars. I broke the g-g-g-goddamned s-s-s-secret r-r-r-rules between me and P-P-P-Paramount P-P-Pictures, I broke them with Claire-Bear.
I kissed Claire on TV. Beginning of My Legal Fucking If.
I held Eclaire’s face, danced my tongue up and down hers while Bill Conti serenaded me with his Fag Theme. TV cameras danced, the room clapped and swayed, free-for-all merry moment. Then I zigzagged up the steps, one, two, three, I kissed Catherine Zeta-Jones onstage.
“What am I gonna do,” I made jokes to the mike. “What am I gonna do with dick-dick-dicklessness? Look at the dicklessness!” I was pointing at Oscar’s Gold Crotch on TV, speaking with a lisp, dancing onstage.
Heal The World Moment.
Raucous shocked faces in the Kodak Theater. Standing ovation. Hooray moment. Heal The World. Laugh, laugh.
People remember it like yesterday. People remember me kissing Jann Weidner before I went up there, that Oscar kiss with Jann got printed and played around the world, even if it wasn’t a photogenic item on Paramount’s list. I mean Jann’s 53, Euro-Squishy, and Paramount didn’t like me kissing him.
But nobody saw my kiss with Claire. That kiss got censored out. Passionate tongue-fuck I-won-an-Oscar kiss with my wife, three steadicams tight on us. Cut from the show’s broadcast. Censored The Fuck Out.
-20-
“Stop, Breeder!”
“$traight $ucce$$!”
Gay groups were throwing tomatoes near the Kodak Center, night of the Oscars.
“Dilettante Queer!” “Gay for Pay!” Gay groups shouted at Claire and me when we stepped out from our limo. I was Roberto Cavalli, Claire was Christian Lacroix, we paid for her dress ourselves, no freebie for the wife of a Begaaw.
“He’s ma-a-a-r-r-r-r-i-e-e-d!!!” Gay protesters rushed the car. “Stop him!!!” “They’re Together!!!” “It’s A Lie!!!” “She’s His Wife!!!”
Cameras cued for Sebastian Long, Gay Movie Star, five cars to go. Four. Three. Ready. And --- SHIT! Out steps Claire, beautiful black woman. Tyra Banks got nothin’, don’t talk about Naomi Campbell either, Claire’s too hot. Then comes me, grinning, shit-faced. Saluting the sky. Hugging My Claire.
“Where’s Jackson?” “Why’s Sebastian With A Woman?” “Scrap the shot.” “Plan B!” “Emergency!” “Where is Jackson???”
Snackle-crackle electronic headset overload. Claire and me, center of a lightning storm.
“Crop her out.” Cameras point at the ground. “Go in close!” Cameras are stuck. “Quick!” “Get her OUT!” “Ready, camera three!” “A-a-a-nd now!” “Lift up!” “Tight on him!”
“TIGHTER! I still see her!”
-21-
Three weeks before the Oscars Claire was dragging me out of the Chicago Peninsula Hotel.
Barefoot, no shirt, chest glazed with lube, standing outside Chicago Tiffany’s in the freezing cold, 2:00 a.m.
Red glare of police lights. Tabloid photos, my eyes angry. Red Angry Me Caught In The Mean Act. Snarl, snarl.
People saw Jackson, too. Jackson on a gurney. “Bruised By Love,” that was the caption under a shot of Jackson going in the Chicago ambulance.
“Jackson Barnes received two benzodiazepine shots. Strangle bruises on his neck, packed in ice.” First line in a 2-page paramedic report, quoted on the web.
Public Violence.
Gay Movie Star.
Rescued By Gorgeous Black Wife.
I strangled Jackson within an inch of his life, see. The police said it must be erotic asphyxia gone awry.
New York, two months before, famous blue toilet brush. Chicago now, erotic asphyxia. Twenty days before My Oscar.
Gay groups said they didn’t want me for their hero. Said the first Begaaw in history should not have a violent streak and a black wife.
But no one in the major media companies paid attention.
Reason #1, Jackson wasn’t dead. Reason #2, I already was a gay god, too late for a rewrite, think CK shots, think Nudie Hansie in Checkmate.
Reason #3, Checkmate was doing $140 mill before the Oscars. Media people wanted in on the profit.

-22-
You’ve seen Claire perform down at Fais Do-Do off Olympic, right?
You know she devours the room, hungry lioness chick.
People shouting, “Mama, you the woman!”
Silver rings across her henna-painted fingers, bracelets up and down her bird arms. Claire’s pumping her song. “Sayz he wants to be free…Shi-i-it! Doesn’t know what it means…Sayz he’s gotta be free-e-e-e…Doesn’t care how it screws wid me-e-e…”
The room’s caught in the clenched fist of Claire’s scream. Bonfire Moment. Claire’s hips sway, her legs stomp.
I’m crazy for my woman.
But Claire’s pissed at me, calls me a fucking asshole. Says I can’t come near her until I see the head shrink, Dr. Meredith, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Gotta Tell Doc The Truth, Nothing But The Truth. Claire’s 100% Fierce About It.
Which is no fun. No fun at all, let me tell you. More Fun To Fuck With Doc’s Head, I’m More Comfortable Gaming The Doc.
Meanwhile, I gotta keep a lid on, try to stay busy, drive the kids. Don’t make a scene. Don’t get paranoid. Keep driving, man. You got three months to decide. 90 days to make up your mind. Paramount can force me into doing Six Gay Pix or they can not, my choice, man.
Every morning at seven-fifty I buckle Wyeth and America into the back seat of the Range Rover. We’re off to America’s school, out our house gate to TOMATOES and SCREAMING. “Benedict Fucking Arnold!!” “Fake Gay!!!” “You Don’t Fool Us!!”
Wyeth’s so little, he doesn’t give a shit. But America’s four, she gets scared.
I tell her, “Duck, honey. Duck out of sight.”
Tomatoes go SPLIT, SPLAT on America’s window.
“You’re OK,” I tell her. “Hang on, kiddo. We’re OK.”