Respect for Acting

31 Oct

While back in my hometown this week, a guy I met once or twice a few years ago contacted me to say we should meet up for drinks.  I couldn’t really remember much about “Evan,” but figured why not squeeze in a “blind date” of sorts during my vacation?  Besides, I kind of remembered him being cute.

I was out with friends the night Evan messaged me asking where I was.  I told him the name of the bar and literally five minutes later he walked in the door carrying a large bag of electronics.  I had mentioned that my phone was dying so he connected about five cords to whatever was inside the bag, handed me the end and said “Want juice?”  I barely recognized him– He looked about thirty pounds lighter than the last time I had seen him.  The substantial weight loss accented his toothy grin and he reminded me of a sneaky skeleton with chompers chomping in the night when he smiled.  We all had a drink together before he suggested we go next door to the gay bar.  There was a DJ playing dance remixes there, and the second we entered Evan started bouncing around like a crazed kangaroo.  I got drinks with my friend and tuned him out (no one else was dancing).  Soon, it was closing time and the other people I was out with were leaving.  Evan offered to drive me home, but first we had to walk to his apartment to get his car.

On the way, he announced that he couldn’t wait to “move home to New York.”  I asked if he had ever lived there and he said no, but that moving to New York was part of his “five year plan.”  Please don’t say you want to try to make it as an actor, I gritted my teeth as I dared ask him why he wants to move to New York.  “To be an actor, of course!” he replied.  Ok, maybe I am a Negative Nancy, but in five years you want to drop everything you’ve built for yourself here and try to make it as an actor in New York City at nearly forty years old?  God bless America, man.

We got to his apartment and I was impressed by how nice it was.  I realized I had been a fool to think we would just go in, get his keys, and leave.  First, he turned on some mood music, rolled a couple cigarettes, then took off his shirt to proudly reveal what appeared to be rope burn across his torso.  I hesitantly inquired as to what I was looking at.  He shared that he had started regularly attending a fetish club in town and bragged that last time he was there he got tied up and whipped.  This admission was a little hard to take from someone with spiky gelled hair, a Wisconsin accent, and a theatre t-shirt.  But an amusing one, nonetheless.  I was beginning to fall asleep on the couch– it had been a long day and he kept stopping several times throughout each sentence, pausing dramatically for effect as if he was reciting lines.  I made the mistake of asking about his ex-girlfriend (who I used to know) and got a five minute contemporary monologue, complete with exaggerated gestures and the use of a prop.  I apologized for being rude, but had been up for twenty hours and needed to go home and sleep.

I thought about the transformation Evan had gone through in my mind.  When I met him a few years prior he seemed reserved and mature (he is six years older than I).  Little had I known that three years later I would be watching him bounce around like a rabid rooster and looking at his rope burns.  “I hope I wasn’t too obvious about my disdain for his dance moves” I said to my friend the next day.  He replied “Well, you kept giving him the ‘Really?’ look… but I think he mistook it for ‘Really!’”

One of the beautiful things about New York City is that there is a little something for everyone.   Even if Evan doesn’t make it to Broadway, there are surely countless fetish clubs throughout the city where he can get tied up to his heart’s content!


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