Tab Hunter was a closeted box-office star in the fifties whose agent created a phony relationship between him and Natalie Wood to cover up his homosexuality. I don’t fully understand his reference, since the truth is I’m not gay and this publicity fiasco does not involve a bogus relationship. But according to the maniacal mind of my raving-lunatic agent, whom I’m secretly afraid I would be nothing without, the truth is irrelevant and I am the new Tab Hunter. I will give him this: like Tab Hunter’s, my success is closely tied to my looks. I’ve made eight movies in the last six years, a track record that has brought me the overnight success and stardom that I always wished for. Careful what you wish for, I guess.
I wasn’t a child actor, but close to it. I was cast in my first role just days after graduating from Los Angeles High School of the Arts. It turned out I’m quite castable. I’m the boy next door. I’m a high school rebel. I’m a geek. I can even put on a superhero costume and believably save the world from impending doom in the nick of time. I’m also turning thirty next year. So I am afraid. I worry that my days of playing twentysomethings are numbered and that there will be no place for me in the next Hollywood decade. It’s partly because of this that I play the Hollywood publicity game as little as possible—it seems like the best approach to lasting fame. I avoid the paparazzi and a few years back even moved to Manhattan, where it’s easier to keep a low profile. Being publicly outed, even falsely, was hardly keeping a low profile.
I was in a limo heading down Lexington Avenue to the premiere of my latest movie at the Ziegfeld. Hank, my agent, was screaming at me on the phone, making it very hard for me to think. Since his normal talking voice starts at the level of a scream, when he actually screams it’s like he’s screaming through a megaphone.
The fiasco that had him screaming began twenty-four hours ago, when I walked in on my fiancée having sex with her personal trainer. Apparently the trainer-trainee cheating scenario has become commonplace. The lethal mix of innocent touching and tweaking and body-clinging spandex often leads to much less innocent touching, tweaking, and body clinging. After the shock wore off I did what any actor in my shoes would do in that situation: I called my agent. Hank labeled the whole thing boring, adding to my mounting insecurity with this gem of a comment: “The last thing I need is ten percent of boring.”
He claimed that as well as being boring, I would look bad if the truth came out. Can you believe that? She’s unfaithful and I’m the one who’d look bad if the story were to break. He said it implies that I can’t satisfy her. “Sex symbols do not have fiancées who cheat with trainers.” He instructed me to keep the whole unfortunate occurrence among the four of us and attend my premiere tonight alone. When people ask where she is, as they will, because she is a Victoria’s Secret model with celebrity of her own, I should “just say she’s under the weather instead of under the trainer.”
Truth? While it felt really crappy to walk in on that scene, part of me feels like I dodged a bullet. It was tough being with her. One star is hard enough to hide on the streets of New York—it’s almost impossible for me to have dinner without interruption, or even see a movie. Try hiding a star plus a Victoria’s Secret model. Especially one with no desire to be hidden. And two egos like ours would never have made for a happy family life. We both suck so much oxygen from a room that our children would’ve needed nebulizers just to breathe. Throw in my deep-seated trust issues, stemming from my parents’ horrific marriage, and we were doomed from the start. I need a nice girl; a pretty girl, yes, but not one whose pretty is bankable. A girl I can trust with both my heart and my ego. And while my ego is bruised, I’m happy that it was bruised in private. So sure, it sucks to be cheated on, but now I’m free to find the right girl.
I felt like the worst was behind me. Until I woke up this morning and the worst was on the front page of the New York Post.
Jeremy Madison, GAY.
Seriously, that was the headline. I was enraged for so many reasons. First, over my complete lack of privacy. Second, that GAY is still news—front-page all-caps news, no less. Third, that it wasn’t bad enough that she cheated on me and lied to me. To cover it up, she chose to lie to the whole world about me! Apparently she had no problem appearing barely clad on the pages of a magazine but wanted to appear saintly in her “real” life.
Since no one told her I was going to remain silent—though Hank claims he told her agent, who promised to tell her manager, who was supposed to tell her publicist—she had obviously felt the need to get her story in the press first. The article went on to describe how she had been my supposed beard, covering for me to protect my multimillion-dollar career. (Enter Tab Hunter and Natalie Wood, once nicknamed Natalie Wood and Tab Wouldn’t!) She cried about how difficult it was to be engaged to a closeted gay man. Night after night of rejection left her feeling ugly and empty, and she had to fill herself with…well, we all know what she filled herself with.
The reason my agent was just screaming at me is that I was refusing to take a shill to the premiere and refusing to make a statement. I don’t think my sexual orientation or anyone’s sexual orientation is news unless they want it to be.