Sonny Boy Quotes

Here's to the kids. The kids who would rather spend their night with a bottle of coke & Patrick or Sonny playing on their headphones than go to some vomit-stained high school party. Here's to the kids whose 11:11 wish was wasted on one person who will never be there for them. Here's to the kids whose idea of a good night is sitting on the hood of a car, watching the stars. Here's to the kids who never were too good at life, but still were wicked cool. Here's to the kids who listened to Fall Out boy and Hawthorne Heights before they were on MTV...and blame MTV for ruining their life. Here's to the kids who care more about the music than the haircuts. Here's to the kids who have crushes on a stupid lush. Here's to the kids who hum "A Little Less 16 Candles, A Little More Touch Me" when they're stuck home, dateless, on a Saturday night. Here's to the kids who have ever had a broken heart from someone who didn't even know they existed. Here's to the kids who have read The Perks of Being a Wallflower & didn't feel so alone after doing so. Here's to the kids who spend their days in photobooths with their best friend(s). Here's to the kids who are straight up smartasses & just don't care. Here's to the kids who speak their mind. Here's to the kids who consider screamo their lullaby for going to sleep. Here's to the kids who second guess themselves on everything they do. Here's to the kids who will never have 100 percent confidence in anything they do, and to the kids who are okay with that. Here's to the kids. This one's not for the kids, who always get what they want, But for the ones who never had it at all. It's not for the ones who never got caught, But for the ones who always try and fall. This one's for the kids who didnt make it, We were the kids who never made it. The Overcast girls and the Underdog Boys. Not for the kids who had all their joys. This one's for the kids who never faked it. We're the kids who didn't make it. They say "Breaking hearts is what we do best," And, "We'll make your heart be ripped of your chest" The only heart that I broke was mine, When I got My Hopes up too too high. We were the kids who didnt make it. We are the kids who never made it.

Not much comes easy in this world, Sonny. If it does, it's best to be suspicious of it. It's probably not worth much.

I wasn't afraid of you!' Ryan protested. 'I was half intimidated, half infatuated, and I didn't know how to act because of it.' Sin made a face at Ryan and picked up his chips again. 'How could you be infatuated with me when you didn't even know me?' Ryan scoffed and pointed his cheese-covered fork at Sin. 'You're gorgeous and tragic—gay boys like that kind of thing.

You're getting to be a big boy,' I said desperately, 'it's time you started thinking about your future.' 'I'm thinking about my future,' said Sonny, grimly. 'I think about it all the time.

The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called "boy" by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.

These boys, now, were living as we'd been living then, they were growing up with a rush and their heads bumped abruptly against the low ceiling of their actual possibilities. They were filled with rage. All they really knew were two darknesses, the darkness of their lives, which were now closing in on them, and the darkness of the movies, which had blinded them to that other darkness, and in which they now, vindictively, dreamed, at once more together than they were at any other time, and more alone.

The boys crept to her side at early dark to sit around her, mournful, with their heads bowed down like they wished they knew how to pray the oldest prayers and pray her well. Harold held a cool cloth to her swollen eye. Sonny made fists and said, 'What was the fight about?' 'Me bein' me I guess.' 'How many was it?"' 'A few.' 'Tell us the names. For when we grow up.

He and his boys up there were keeping it new, at the risk of ruin, destruction, madness, and death, in order to find new ways to make us listen. For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard. There isn't any other tale to tell, it's the only light we've got in all this darkness.

You haven’t had a piece of pie yet, have you, sonny boy?

Denton struck Charley as the kind of man who never wasted energy on extra movement or idle chitchat. He was foursquare Sonny Boy Williamson and Sister Rosetta Tharpe, a Silvertone guitar, older than old school.

Then he gave me the best advice of my life. “Listen, sonny boy. An Irishman is never drunk as long as he can hold on to one blade of grass and not fall off the face of the earth.” SPRING BREAK Heaven’s Waiting Room

Danny-Boy, I want to tell him, unlike you flawless teenagers, we adults can be contradictory fools. We fuck up. Sorry to fall off the Pedestal of Perfection, Sonny-Jim, but all we trying a-do is stop you from fucking up too.

So we made some big plans to be Sonny Boy’s band and sat down to some good barbecue in a place I’d been eating in all my life in the black part of town. We ordered sandwiches, coleslaw, and some sodas. While we waited, someone asked Sonny Boy whether he’d known Robert Johnson. “Knew him?” Sonny Boy asked incredulously. “Boy, Robert Johnson died in my arms!

Then it was horn time. Time for the big solo. Sonny lifted the trumpet - One! Two! - He got it into sight - Three! We all stopped dead. I mean we stopped. That wasn't Sonny's horn. This one was dented-in and beat-up and the tip-end was nicked. It didn't shine, not a bit. Lux leaned over-you could have fit a coffee cup into his mouth. "Jesus God," he said. "Am I seeing right?" I looked close and said: "Man, I hope not." But why kid? We'd seen that trumpet a million times. It was Spoof's. Rose-Ann was trembling. Just like me, she remembered how we'd buried the horn with Spoof. And she remembered how quiet it had been in Sonny's room last night... I started to think real hophead thoughts, like - where did Sonny get hold of a shovel that late? and how could he expect a horn to play that's been under the ground for two years? and - That blast got into our ears like long knives. Spoof's own trademark! Sonny looked caught, like he didn't know what to do at first, like he was hypnotized, scared, almighty scared. But as the sound came out, rolling out, sharp and clean and clear - new-trumpet sound - his expression changed. His eyes changed: they danced a little and opened wide. Then he closed them, and blew that horn. Lord God of the Fishes, how he blew it! How he loved it and caressed it and pushed it up, higher and higher and higher. High C? Bottom of the barrel. He took off, and he walked all over the rules and stamped them flat. The melody got lost, first off. Everything got lost, then, while that horn flew. It wasn't only jazz; it was the heart of jazz, and the insides, pulled out with the roots and held up for everybody to see; it was blues that told the story of all the lonely cats and all the ugly whores who ever lived, blues that spoke up for the loser lamping sunshine out of iron-gray bars and every hop head hooked and gone, for the bindlestiffs and the city slicers, for the country boys in Georgia shacks and the High Yellow hipsters in Chicago slums and the bootblacks on the corners and the fruits in New Orleans, a blues that spoke for all the lonely, sad and anxious downers who could never speak themselves... And then, when it had said all this, it stopped and there was a quiet so quiet that Sonny could have shouted: 'It's okay, Spoof. It's all right now. You get it said, all of it - I'll help you. God, Spoof, you showed me how, you planned it - I'll do my best!' And he laid back his head and fastened the horn and pulled in air and blew some more. Not sad, now, not blues - but not anything else you could call by a name. Except... jazz. It was Jazz. Hate blew out of that horn, then. Hate and fury and mad and fight, like screams and snarls, like little razors shooting at you, millions of them, cutting, cutting deep... And Sonny only stopping to wipe his lip and whisper in the silent room full of people: 'You're saying it, Spoof! You are!' God Almighty Himself must have heard that trumpet, then; slapping and hitting and hurting with notes that don't exist and never existed. Man! Life took a real beating! Life got groined and sliced and belly-punched and the horn, it didn't stop until everything had all spilled out, every bit of the hate and mad that's built up in a man's heart. ("Black Country")

I hadn't told him the news yet, but in that same preternatural way he was always aware of what I was feeling or thinking, he could smell my lies a mile away. He was just giving me time to come to him. To tell him I'd be baking his bun for the next seven and a half months. ''I'm okay." Dex's chuckle filled my ears as he wrapped his arms around my chest from behind, his chin resting on the top of my head. "Just okay?" He was taunting me, I knew it. This man never did anything without a reason. And this reason had him resembling a mama bear. A really aggressive, possessive mama bear. Which said something because Dex was normally that way. I couldn't even sit around Mayhem without him or Sonny within ten feet. I leaned my head back against his chest and laughed. "Yeah, just okay." He made a humming noise deep in his throat. "Ritz," he drawled in that low voice that reached the darkest parts of my organs. "You're killin' me, honey." Oh boy. Did I want to officially break the news on the side of the road with chunks of puke possibly still on my face? Nah. So I went with the truth. "I have it all planned out in my head. I already ordered the cutest little toy motorcycle to tell you, so don't ruin it." A loud laugh burst out of his chest, so strong it rocked my body alongside his. I friggin' loved this guy. Every single time he laughed, I swear it multiplied. At this rate, I loved him more than my own life cubed, and then cubed again. "All right," he murmured between these low chuckles once he'd calmed down a bit. His fingers trailed over the skin of the back of my hand until he stopped at my ring finger and squeezed the slender bone. "I can be patient." That earned him a laugh from me. Patience? Dex? Even after more than three years, that would still never be a term I'd use to describe him. And it probably never would. He'd started to lose his shit during our layover when Trip had called for instructions on how to set the alarm at the new bar. "Dex, Ris, and Baby Locke, you done?" Sonny yelled, peeping out from over the top of the car door. "Are you friggin' kidding me?" I yelled back. Did everyone know? That slow, seductive smile crawled over his features. Brilliant and more affectionate than it was possible for me to handle, it sucked the breath out of me. When he palmed my cheeks and kissed each of my cheeks and nose and forehead, slowly like he was savoring the pecks and the contact, I ate it all up. Like always, and just like I always would. And he answered the way I knew he would every single time I asked him from them on, the way that told me he would never let me down. That he was an immovable object. That he'd always be there for me to battle the demons we could see and the invisible ones we couldn't. "Fuckin' love you, Iris," he breathed against my ear, an arm slinking around my lower back to press us together. "More than anything.

Someone behind me coughed. Then Max stepped forward and said: "Um . . . sir? If I may ask . . . what is your . . . Combat score? Sir." Razberry snickered again. "Seven," the elder said proudly. "Yes, sonny boy, I've smashed a few zombies in my time. I once beat a zombie upon the head with a stick. Rest assured, I'll teach you all you need to know!" "I'm sure," Max said. "Did that zombie die?" asked a girl. "Well, no," said Urf. "But it became very, very angry." Someone groaned. There were a few more snickers.

I have always liked women, but from the time I was very young, I have been shy around them. I don’t woo them. I don’t pursue them. Women either respond to you or they don’t, and if they don’t make the first move toward me, I am a bit reluctant to try again. But with Diane this time things were different. We always had a connection. She understood my read on things, and it felt comforting to have someone who got me. So I went after her. We hung out together, and after a couple of months we decided to get together. We found a tempo and a temperature that was right.

Frank, why didn’t you take those payoffs?” I asked him. “Just take that money and give your share away if you didn’t want to keep it?” He said to me, “Al, if I did that”—long pause—“who would I be when I listen to Beethoven?” There was something about that statement that just made me want to play him.

I think back to that moment and I realize that I’m still here because of my mother. Of course that’s who I have to thank, and I never thanked her for it. She’s the one who kept a lid on all of this, who parried me away from the path that led to delinquency, danger, and violence, to the needle, that lethal delight called heroin that killed my three closest friends. Petey, Cliffy, Bruce—they all died from drugs. I was not exactly under strict surveillance, but my mother paid attention to where I was in a way that my friends’ families didn’t, and we all knew it. I believe she saved my life.

I was still in my twenties. And here’s what I thought would be the worst: that no one else would every know me young. I would always be this age or older, from now on, to any man I met. No one would ever sit back and remember how young and frail I was at his bedside, at eighteen, reading to him in that dark room with the piano playing downstairs, and again at twenty-one, how I held the flap of my coat against the wind and held my tongue when a handsome man called me by the wrong name. What I would miss- and it occurred to me only then, with his brown eyes on me - was the unchangeable, the irreplaceable. I would never meet another man who’d met my mother, who knew her untamable hair, her sharp Kentucky accent, cracked with fury. She was dead now, and no man could ever know her again. That would be missing. I’d never know anyone, anywhere, who’d watched me weeping with rage and lack of sleep in those first few months after Sonny was born, or seen his first steps, or listened to him tell his non-sense stories. He was a boy now. No one could ever know him again as a baby. That would be missing, too. I wouldn’t just be alone in the present; I would be alone in my past as well, in my memories. Because they were a part of him, of Holland, of my husband. And in an hour that part of me would be cut off like a tail. From that night on, I would be like a traveler from a distant country that no one had ever been to, nor ever heard of, an immigrant from that vanished land: my youth. - The Story of a Marriage

IT’S A CHOICE Try as we might; neither I nor anyone else can change the past. Yet, our history does not have to hold us hostage. We can’t change things said and done to us, nor can we undo and change what we have done to others. There is no do-over, unfortunately. What we can choose to do, however, is grow and take ownership of our mistakes and share our history and experiences to heal ourselves and others. We can also choose to forgive ourselves and others, and we can also choose to use our experiences to raise ourselves while giving hope and inspiration to others. We can choose to grow from adversity, and we can choose to let go of victimhood. And that is what I decided to do when I left prison, here and in my book. I choose to own it all – the good, the bad, and the ugly, and I choose to let it all go and use my story as both a cautionary tale and a source of inspiration.

For Dylan, this electric assault threatened to suck the air out of everything else, only there was too much radio oxygen to suck. “Like a Rolling Stone” was the giant, all-consuming anthem of the new “generation gap” disguised as a dandy’s riddle, a dealer’s come-on. As a two-sided single, it dwarfed all comers, disarmed and rejuvenated listeners at each hearing, and created vast new imaginative spaces for groups to explore both sonically and conceptually. It came out just after Dylan’s final acoustic tour of Britain, where his lyrical profusion made him a bard, whose tabloid accolade took the form of political epithet: “anarchist.” As caught on film by D. A. Pennebaker’s documentary Don’t Look Back, the young folkie had already graduated to rock star in everything but instrumentation. “Satisfaction” held Dylan back at number two during its four-week July hold on Billboard’s summit, giving way to Herman’s Hermits’ “I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am” and Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” come August, novelty capstones to Dylan’s unending riddle. (In Britain, Dylan stalled at number four.) The ratio of classics to typical pop schlock, like Freddie and the Dreamers’ “I’m Telling You Now” or Tom Jones’s “It’s Not Unusual,” suddenly got inverted. For cosmic perspective, yesterday’s fireball, Elvis Presley, sang “Do the Clam.” Most critics have noted the Dylan influence on Lennon’s narratives. Less space gets devoted to Lennon’s effect on Dylan, which was overt: think of how Dylan rewires Chuck Berry (“Subterranean Homesick Blues”) or revels in inanity (“Rainy Day Women #12 & 35”). Even more telling, Lennon’s keening vocal harmonies in “Nowhere Man,” “And Your Bird Can Sing,” and “Dr. Robert” owed as much to the Byrds and the Beach Boys, high-production turf Dylan simply abjured. Lennon also had more stylistic stretch, both in his Beatle context and within his own sensibility, as in the pagan balalaikas in “Girl” or the deliberate amplifier feedback tripping “I Feel Fine.” Where Dylan skewed R&B to suit his psychological bent, Lennon pursued radical feats of integration wearing a hipster’s arty façade, the moptop teaching the quiet con. Building up toward Rubber Soul throughout 1965, Beatle gravity exerted subtle yet inexorable force in all directions.

Dat der ‘ouse ain’t me ‘ome, sonny boy. You’ll ne’r trap me in an ‘ouse. And anyways, what youngen doesn’t like knockin’ down sandcastles? It’s every boy’s dream t’ knock down a giant sandcastle. I ‘av a lot o’ fun buildin’ ‘em and knockin’ ‘em down. If I didn’t knock ‘em down, the tide ‘ll take ‘em. Nothin’ lasts ferever.” “Then where do you live?” asked Jack very much relieved. “Me, sonny boy, lives in a very quiet place where de silence is me windows,” answered the leprechaun.

The problem was that in practice things didn’t work the way they did in theory. The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called “boy” by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.

Another young actor in Charlie’s class with me was a guy by the name of Martin Sheen. In one session Marty did a monologue from The Iceman Cometh, and he blew the roof off—I said, this is it, this is a great actor we are witnessing. He was the next James Dean as far as I was concerned. I got to be friends with Marty Sheen, and one day he said to me, “You know what my real name is, don’t you? Estevez.” He was half Spanish and he came from Ohio, out there in the Midwest, where he had a tough upbringing. He was one of ten kids in a working-class family that was always struggling for money. He had tenacity and grit and I could tell he was one of the best people I’d ever know, all grace and humility. I loved him. I still do. Marty Sheen moved in with me in the South Bronx so we could split the rent. We worked together at the Living Theatre in Greenwich Village, where we cleaned toilets and laid down rugs for the sets of the plays they put on.

I saw how much it meant to Francis that I play the part of Michael, even more than it meant to me. He saw me in the role, gave me a great opportunity, and he fought for me. And yet we were worlds apart. I actually reached out to him recently and asked him about that time in our life together during The Godfather: Part II. He couldn’t recall it and couldn’t quite say. But I remember it as a period when we were somewhat distant from each other and I’m very grateful it didn’t last long. Francis and I saw a lot of things the same way, and I admire him greatly. He has a brilliant mind and talent of epic proportions, and I enjoy hearing his take on any subject. He had made this one incredible film and now we were trying to finish a second.

When I turned twenty-one, having hardly started working as an actor, I was asked to do a reading with Elia Kazan, practically the biggest director in the world in both stage and screen, for a new movie he was casting. It was called America, America, and it was going to tell the story of a young Greek man’s journey to the States. They were trying to find a young actor, relatively unknown, probably ethnic looking, to play the lead role. I thought I had a shot at it. I don’t know if I would have excelled at it, but I felt I had a real chance because I fit the description. But I was late and I missed the audition. I went there and they were gone and it was over. They got somebody else.

And then, one night, onstage, just like that, it happened. The power of expression was revealed to me, in a way it never had before. I wasn’t even searching for it. That’s the beauty of these things. You’re not looking for it. I’m opening my mouth and I’m understanding somehow that I can speak. Words are coming out, and they’re the words of Strindberg, but I’m saying them as though they’re mine. The world is mine, and my feelings are mine, and they’re going beyond the South Bronx. I left the familiar. I became a part of something larger. I found that there was more to me, a feeling that I belonged to a whole world and not just to one place. I’m thinking to myself, What is this? It feels as though I’m lifting off the ground. I thought, Yes, this is it. It’s right there and I can reach out and touch it. This is out there, and this is what I know now is possible. All of a sudden, in that moment, I was universal. I knew I didn’t have a worry after that. I eat, I don’t eat. I make money, I don’t make money. I’m famous, I’m not famous. It didn’t mean anything anymore. And that’s lucky, in this business, when you don’t care about that. A door was opening, not to a career, not to success or fortune, but to the living spirit of energy. I had been given this insight into myself, and there was nothing else I could do but say: I want to do this forever.

But then I met Frank Serpico in Bregman’s office. Bregman had set it up. I took one look at Frank and I knew. I said, I can play him. I’ve got to play him. I saw it in his eyes, and I thought, I want to be that. I’m often offered real people, and I turn them down. I didn’t want to be them. Not because they’re bad or good. Just because I didn’t feel any connection to them. I spent more time with Frank that summer before we made the film. He came to visit me at a house I was renting in Montauk. We were sitting on my deck, looking at the waves coming in. Finally I said something to him that he’d probably heard a thousand times before. “Frank, why didn’t you take those payoffs?” I asked him. “Just take that money and give your share away if you didn’t want to keep it?” He said to me, “Al, if I did that”—long pause—“who would I be when I listen to Beethoven?” There was something about that statement that just made me want to play him.

I’m popping Valiums and waiting for something. To my left was Jeff Bridges. I could still tell time at that point. I looked at my watch, and I thought, This is crazy. They haven’t gotten anywhere near to the Best Actor award. So I turned to Jeff, who I would come to know in the future as one of the most wonderful human beings and such a great actor. But at the time, I didn’t know him at all, and I guess the impending dissipation of my altered state led me to say, “Hi, excuse me,” as he looked at me like he was looking down from ten feet high. I said to him, “The hour is almost up. I guess they’re not going to get to the Best Actor.” He considered me like I was some poor, pathetic wretch. “It’s three hours long, man. Three hours long.” And I said, “Oh. Thank you.” I went numb after that.

Back when I was a messenger for Standard Oil in Rockefeller Center, I worked with another guy there named John Cazale. He was a few years older than me, lean looking, with a low-key manner. He had a modesty about him, but also a sense of reality, a groundedness about how the world really worked. He seemed to know something about everything. My grasp of the state of global affairs was that Hitler was gone and that was a good thing. Other than that, I had no idea what was going on. Johnny would be reading The New York Times, understanding every issue and making it comprehensible to me. At least, he tried. To my great surprise, when I showed up in Provincetown to start rehearsals for the play, there was John Cazale, who had been hired to take over the role of the Indian. He was the sweetest man ever, but he had a unique way that he liked to rehearse. He did not just simply want to run lines. When you did a scene with John, you’d start talking through the scene, and he would question every line, every word choice. It was an interrogation. He’d say to you, “What am I doing? I’m standing here. What do I think of that? I don’t know what I think of that.” They call it the unconscious narrative. And this is how he was. Then before you knew it, as you kept talking and talking and talking, you’d just slip into the scene with him. There’s a certain trust that comes with acting, like tightrope walking. With John, I knew that I had found a scene partner for life.

A strange and discordant mix of roles followed. I liked one film I did, The Humbling, because I did it with Barry Levinson. It was based on the novel by Philip Roth, who I met at a party in New York. I found Roth there, sitting in a chair, and he was very serious when he looked at me. I said, “Hi, Mr. Roth. I’m Al Pacino.” He had a look on his face that was haunting. In a cold, impassive voice, he said, “I. Know. Who you are.” I just thought to myself, Well, I’m famous. He’s seen me in films. Maybe he saw The Godfather, I don’t know. But I loved his writing and was a real fan, so I kept spouting to him. I said, “I’m doing a film of your book The Humbling. And it’s very funny.” In that same funereal voice as before, he said, “It’s. Not. Funny.” I said, “No, I know, it’s not really funny. But to get through the drama, sometimes you need a little funny.” Again, he said, “It’s. Not. Funny.” I said, “Sure. Okay. You’re right. It’s not funny.” And I backed out of the room into the street.

I had my lunch with Marlon in a modest room in the hospital where we were filming on Fourteenth Street. He was sitting on one hospital bed, I was sitting on the other. He was asking me questions: Where am I from? How long have I been an actor? And he was eating chicken cacciatore with his hands. His hands were full of red sauce. So was his face. And that’s all I could think about the whole time. Whatever his words were, my conscious mind was fixated by the stain-covered sight in front of me. He was talking—gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble—and I was just mesmerized. What was he going to do with the chicken? I hoped he wasn’t going to tell me to throw it in the garbage for him. He disposed of it somehow without getting up. He looked at me in a quizzical way, as if to ask, what are you thinking about? I was wondering, what is he going to do with his hands? Should I get him a napkin? Before I could, he spread both his hands across the white hospital bed and smeared the sheets with red sauce, without even thinking about it, and he kept on talking. And I thought, Is that how movie stars act? You can do anything.

As I was heading back, I began to hear the sound of someone crying, which you sort of expect in a graveyard. I looked around to see where it was coming from. And there, sitting on a tombstone, was Francis Ford Coppola bawling like a baby. Profusely crying. Nobody was going near him, so I went up to him, and I said, “Francis, what’s wrong? What happened?” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, paused, looked up at me, and said, “They won’t give me another shot.” He had wanted to film another setup that day, and he had not been allowed it. Even he had to answer to someone else. And he wanted this so badly that to have it denied had actually wounded him. One never knows if a film is going to be great. You know one thing, if it’s a really good script—and Mario and Francis wrote a really good script—there’s a chance. An actor comes in and plays his role, but the film is all in what happens after, how an editor cuts it together and how the director figures out the storytelling. But there in that graveyard I thought: If this is the kind of passion that Francis has for it, then something here is working. I knew I was in good hands.

We shot The Local Stigmatic for a few weeks in Atlanta, with David Wheeler as our director, and a principal cast of myself, Paul Guilfoyle, Joe Maher, and Michael Higgins. When it was finished, we showed the film around to people we admired. We had a great dinner gathering of artists and literati in London. People like Tom Stoppard and David Hare, who all sat at a long table. Harold Pinter had seen the film twice at this point; he sat at the head of the table, and when he wanted to speak to everyone, he rang a little bell and the group fell silent. “Every once in a while,” he said, “we see something different. We come into contact with art in film.” I just sat there stunned. Heathcote was in the room, fiddling with a coin and not looking up at anyone, playing the role of the shy genius. He’d been described as a protégé of Pinter’s, but to actually be in the same room as his literary idol, I guess it all was just too much for him. I ran the film once for Elaine May, the great actress and filmmaker, who told me, “I liked it very much. But don’t you ever show this to the public. You don’t know your fame. You don’t understand it, and you don’t understand how it registers. You must recognize it.” And she was right. You’re too well-known for this sort of thing. You have to be careful, because you’re going to startle people. Don’t put this in a theater. I showed it to Jonas Mekas, the independent-film impresario of downtown Manhattan, who ran The Local Stigmatic at his Anthology Film Archives and told me, somewhat optimistically, that I was going to win an Oscar for it. I kept calling Andrew Sarris, the film critic for The Village Voice, to come and see it. And he said, “Stop bothering me, Al. I’ve seen it three times already. I’ve told you what I think. Just show the thing already.” I was trying to get the confidence to screen it for wider audiences. I never did. I’ve come to realize that when I do my own things, nobody goes. Those avant-garde influences that I was brought up with never left my brain. When I’m left on my own, that’s just what seems to come out. It’s a drawback. People come in with expectations, and they leave angry. The Local Stigmatic is such a specific distillation of me and my take on this subject. It’s 150 proof, which can be a little strong for some people.

It had started with Brando. He was the influence. The force. The originator. What he had created, together with collaborators like Tennessee Williams and Elia Kazan, was more visceral. It was threatening. Brando had become part of a triumvirate of actors, along with Montgomery Clift and James Dean. Clift had the beauty and the soul, the vulnerability. Dean was like a sonnet, compact and economical, able to do so much with the merest gesture or nuance. And if Dean was a sonnet, then Brando was an epic poem. He had the looks. He had the charisma. He had the talent. There’s that classic sequence from A Streetcar Named Desirewhere Brando completely loses it during the card game, until he’s at the bottom of the stairs, yelling, “Stella! Stella!” It’s an episode that builds gradually, which of course comes from Kazan’s original staging of the play and Brando’s memory of it as he had done it every night. But by the time Brando got this on film, he had become one with the elements. You experienced that sequence like you experienced a tornado or monsoon. It was that captivating. But evolution always makes people nervous. There was anger toward Brando. People said he mumbled. They said his features were too soft, too delicate. They said he liked to show off his chest. If people disparaged his approach it was because they didn’t see the technique that went into it. But he found whatever it was that opened the door to his expression, that allowed him to reveal himself and communicate it to audiences so that they identified with him. Brando made possible the Paul Newmans of the world, the Ben Gazzaras, the Anthony Franciosas, and the Peter Falks, people like John Cassavetes, who was his own special kind of phenomenon. These were the idols of an era just before mine, actors who had already moved beyond the studios and had been out in the world for a decade or more by the time I arrived there.

And then Dustin Hoffman just blasted open the door for actors. Dustin was a student of Lee Strasberg’s at the Actors Studio when I started to hear about him. You would pick up on other students discussing him with a strange reverence, like he was a ghost or a wanted criminal. There was such energy around his name you had to see him for yourself, to see if he lived up to his formidable reputation. And then Mike Nichols got hold of him, all of him, for The Graduate. The Graduate was contemporary and of the moment, a commentary on the world we were living in, and it fit him perfectly. It came along at the right time, right when we were ready for it. And its success made Dustin a movie star supreme. I was working up in Boston when The Graduate opened, and I said, this is it, man—it’s over. He’s broken the sound barrier. The excitement for me was in seeing an artist doing something so well, something original, that you recognized had never been done before.

The sexuality of the character I played in Dog Day Afternoon is a complex thing. What I interpreted from the screenplay was that he is a man with a wife and kids who also happens to be in an affair with a person who identifies as a woman, and who today we would understand is transgender. But knowing this about him didn’t excite me or bother me; it didn’t make the role seem any more appealing or risky. Though I may be a kid who started in the South Bronx, I had been living in the Village since my teens. I had friends, roommates, and colleagues who were attracted to different people than I was attracted to, and none of that was ever rebellious or groundbreaking or unusual. It just was. Perhaps at the time of Dog Day Afternoon it was an uncommon thing to have a main character in a Hollywood movie who was gay or queer, and who was treated as heroic or worthy of an audience’s affection—even if he did rob banks. But you have to understand that none of that enters into my consideration. I am an actor portraying a character in a film. I am playing the part because I think I can bring something to the role. As far as I was concerned, Dog Day Afternoon was just cool, a continuation of the work I had been doing my whole life. It was inevitable that an audience would have certain feelings about me because of the choices I made, and the slings and arrows were going to keep coming either way. I try to stay away from things that are controversial, and I find myself in controversies anyway. If people think that I helped to advance a particular issue of representation, that’s fine. If there is credit or blame to go around, I don’t feel entitled to any of it. All I know is, I play a role to find as much humanity as there is that I can portray.

Getting more into one-on-one therapy helped. It helped me to keep going, and it helped me to quit drinking. I almost feel it’s mandatory in my position. C’mon, buddy, you’ve got to get your head shrunk. Because your head gets so big, you need to shrink it. You need to go to some guy who’s going to tell you what you already know about yourself and pay attention to you for an hour straight. Which we all like. We all need a little attention. The first time I ever considered therapy was back in Boston, during my run in Richard III. I was staying at our director David Wheeler’s house for a few days, and he came into my room one morning to share some good news with me. “Hey, Al!” he said. “You just won the National Board of Review!” It was my first major film award for The Godfather. I said to him, in the softest voice I could summon up, “I was going to ask you, David, do you have the name of a psychiatrist? Because I need one.” That was my answer to him. Not that I was unhappy about winning such a prestigious award, but there were just other things on my mind. I saw a psychiatrist in Boston first, and then I went and got myself a guy in New York. I fell in love with the process, and I got to a point where I was in therapy five days a week at certain times. I highly recommend therapy if you’re at all leaning in that direction. Maybe you don’t need it five times a week, but give it a whirl. There’s an old story: A woman goes to a therapist for years. It’s her last appointment, because she feels she’s come to a great place in her life and is ready to move on. She wants to congratulate her therapist and say goodbye. So she tells him, “You’ve done so much good for me. I love my husband so much. Every day with my kids is just a joy. My work is going off the charts. I’m seeing a whole new side of life. You’ve been so wonderful. I never hear you speak. You just take it all in. Please tell me, how did you do it?” The doctor looks at her and says, “No habla inglés.” That’s an interpretation of therapy too; you need to talk and get it out. When I was living with Jill, before I ever went to therapy, I used to just sit in the bathtub alone and talk about things. I cleared my mind to myself. It’s an unusual relationship that you forge when you find a good doctor, someone you feel has that kind of commitment to you. And then they take some colossal amount of time off, and you don’t see them for the whole summer. I had one of those episodes when I couldn’t find my doctor. I might have been spared about twenty years of tsuris if I could have avoided it. It’s a good idea that when your psychiatrist goes away, you know where they are and you can call them when you’re in trouble. They need rest too. I can deal with, “Hey, my daughter’s graduating college, I’ll be out for a few days.” But going up a fucking river somewhere, to not be available for, like, six weeks? Come on, my life was capable of going right off the rails in far less time than that. I used to have recurring dreams in which I go to my psychiatrist’s office but can’t find him anywhere. He’s in the building, but he’s unavailable. I’m at the door, but there’s not even a buzzer I can press to let him know I’m there and no way to let me in. That was my dream. Now I have that feeling about my agent.

And he said, “Because life’s on the wire. The rest is just waiting.” I understood immediately why Charlie was telling me this story. It stuck with me for a long time. Life’s on the wire, man. That’s my acting, my life. When I work, I’m on the wire. When I’m going for it. When I’m taking chances. I want to take chances. I want to fly and fail. I want to bang into something when I do it, because it’s how I know I’m alive. It’s what’s kept me alive.

But this is just who I am and always was. I look at a situation and I say, what am I doing here? And it seems to not matter where it is, what situation I’m in. I want to leave. I don’t leave, because I really don’t want to be rude, so I stay. But I really want to go.

A New Yorker anywhere outside of New York is an alien.

It was threatening. Brando had become part of a triumvirate of actors, along with Montgomery Clift and James Dean. Clift had the beauty and the soul, the vulnerability. Dean was like a sonnet, compact and economical, able to do so much with the merest gesture or nuance. And if Dean was a sonnet, then Brando was an epic poem. He had the looks. He had the charisma. He had the talent.

Of course Sasha chose that moment to open the door. "Cam? Oh. Shit. Sorry." Cam met Sasha's liquid gaze and forgot all about his friends at his knees. "Hey." "Hey, yourself." Sasha ventured farther into the room. "Is this a private party, or can anyone play?" "Depends," Sonny quipped from the floor. "Do you have lopsided balls? We're doing an in-depth analysis here.

Sonny was a spiky ray of light to those lucky enough to be close to him, but life had taught him to play his cards close to his chest.

Wow. I didn't think I'd ever see you like that." Cam trembled; he couldn't help it. He felt like his body was not his own. "Like what?" "So..." Sasha seemed to search for the right word. "Involved, maybe? On-screen, you all seem kinda cold. I guess I figured you'd done it all before." Cam took a moment to gather himself. A phrase came to him, and he allowed himself a wry grin. "It's not the same. That's work, even if it's one of my friends. This is real sex.

Still writing tales?” he said. I told him yes and he nodded once, returning his attention to the snake. Very few of the boys I grew up with had finished high school, but they accepted that I was a writer. I was merely doing what other men did—following in my father’s footsteps. Sonny was a plumber. The son of a local drunk was the town drunk in two towns. Sons of soldiers joined the army. That I had become a writer was perfectly normal.

We both look up as Katherine, Connor, and Dad enter the kitchen. Kiernan tries to be polite and stand, but I’m on the outside of the bench, and the table has him wedged in, so the most he can manage is a half crouch, which looks terribly uncomfortable. I grab the back of his shirt and tug him back down to the bench. “Dad, Connor, this is Kiernan. Katherine, you’ve already met.” “He’s changed quite a bit in the past thirteen years, however,” she says. “And I suspect that I’ve changed even more in the past five decades.” Kiernan returns her smile. “It’s good to see you again.” Dad steps forward and shakes Kiernan’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” “My privilege, Mr. Keller.” “It’s Harry, please. You saved my daughter’s life, so I think we can dispense with the formalities.” I’ve rarely seen Kiernan blush, but he does now, and then he nods. “Harry, then. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Connor follows Dad’s lead and steps forward to take Kiernan’s hand. “I’m Connor Dunne. And you can call me Mr. Dunne.” There’s a slight twinkle in Connor’s eye, so I think he’s joking. But whether he meant it that way or not, Kiernan laughs. “The hell I will, sonny boy. You need to show your elders the proper respect, or I’ll take you behind the barn and give you a good strapping.” Connor snorts. “No barn, and I’d love to see you try.

Connor follows Dad’s lead and steps forward to take Kiernan’s hand. “I’m Connor Dunne. And you can call me Mr. Dunne.” There’s a slight twinkle in Connor’s eye, so I think he’s joking. But whether he meant it that way or not, Kiernan laughs. “The hell I will, sonny boy. You need to show your elders the proper respect, or I’ll take you behind the barn and give you a good strapping.” Connor snorts. “No barn, and I’d love to see you try.

Every few blocks were vacant lots where victory gardens had been planted at the height of the war. By then, they were wrecked and full of debris. Once in a while, when you looked down at the sidewalk along the lots, you’d see a blade of grass growing up out of the concrete. That’s what my friend, the acting teacher Lee Strasberg, once called talent: a blade of grass growing up out of a block of concrete.

Where do I go to get a director? I’ve never hired one in my life. I’ve only starred in three films. I said, “Marty, I don’t know how to interview anybody. This is completely crazy.” He said, “No, you’ve got to do it. That’s it.” So now I had to go to California. I was very unhappy. I went to San Francisco to talk to Peter Yates, who made Bullitt. I went to LA to talk to Mark Rydell. I wound up in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, in what I called the Pompous Room—I didn’t know any other name for it. I’m talking to some guy who’s sort of quiet like me, who’s young and just starting out, but he’s hot off an art film of sorts called Mean Streets, which I hadn’t seen yet, and I’m too busy looking at the tables with red and green felt and the wallpaper with ducks and peacocks on them to understand that I’m speaking to one of our finest filmmakers ever, Martin Scorsese. I was just dizzy and I don’t think we hardly said a word to each other. I guess he must have known I didn’t know my ass from my elbow when it came to hiring a director.

don't know, Dare," Zed whispered back, using my nickname for the first time in five years. It shocked me almost as much as seeing that tattoo on Sonny-boy. "We'll figure it out though. Whoever it is, they're just trying to get inside our heads. Don't let them." His index finger pressed under my chin, lifting my gaze up to meet his. "You're Hades, remember? No one scares you. Not even a ghost." I wanted to believe that so badly, but he was wrong. No one scared me more than this particular ghost.

«Non cercare risposte nel sesso. Lì non ne troverai più.» «Oppure, chiama almeno il tuo amico misterioso e invitalo,» scherzò Sonny, anche se la sua energia pazzesca sembrava essere svanita mentre Cam stava vomitando l’anima in bagno. Cam si sedette sul bracciolo del divano mentre guardava Levi che balzava su Sonny e lo inchiodava al letto con un braccio. Nel suo cuore sapeva che Levi aveva ragione e il messaggio di fondo lo colse di sorpresa. Aveva cercato conforto da Jon nel peggiore dei modi e dove l’aveva condotto tutto ciò? A reggere il moccolo ai suoi due migliori amici.

«Per la precisione, cos’è che pensi che io non sia in grado di affrontare?» L’altro scrollò le spalle. «Sei un top egoista. Per te un passivo non è altro che un bel pezzo di culo, un buco da sfondare per soldi. Ti sei mai fermato a pensare alla persona che strapazzi sul set?» Lui rispose con un verso di derisione, senza riuscire a trattenersi. «Siete voi twink a chiedere quella merda.» «Già, perché ci pagano per quello, è ciò che il pubblico vuole. Questo non significa che ci piaccia sempre. Lo hai mai chiesto? Ti è mai interessato?» «Cosa ti rende tanto informato su di me?» «Ho visto il modo in cui lavori. Gli altri twink potranno anche pensare che sei uno stallone, io però credo tu sia uno stronzo. Non ho paura di te. Farò il video, ma se credi che ti permetterò di maltrattarmi come hai fatto con Diego la scorsa settimana, ti sbagli.» Anche se Levi era sorpreso per l’astio che sentiva nella voce di Sonny, sapeva che quella critica non era del tutto infondata. Il ragazzino aveva ragione ad accusarlo di non fermarsi mai a pensare alla persona attaccata al culo che stava fottendo. Per Levi, quello era lo scopo del porno: non si trattava di niente di personale. Per lui era davvero soltanto un lavoro. «Già, bene. Non sforzarti troppo per colpa mia. Qui dentro è pieno di bottom che sarebbero felici di prendere il tuo posto.» «Vero,» replicò il ballerino. «Ma non me lo perderei per niente al mondo. Fidati, non importa quello che dice Jon, Rex ti si sbatterà a morte. E io mi godrò ogni strillo che uscirà da quella tua bocca arrogante.»

«Posso chiederti una cosa?» Kai, che stava cercando di infilarsi i jeans, alzò lo sguardo. La pelle umida di sudore rendeva il compito più complicato rispetto a quando ne era sgusciato fuori in preda alla lussuria. «Certo.» «Compreso Jon, sono stato solo con quattro persone.» Kai si strinse nelle spalle. «Quindi?» Matthew si morse il labbro inferiore. «Quindi niente. Ho solo pensato che potresti chiederti perché faccio schifo a stare calmo e a mantenere il controllo. Pensi che si vedrà sullo schermo?» Kai si abbottonò i jeans con cura eccessiva. Lui e Matthew avevano quasi la stessa età, ma all’improvviso si sentì più vecchio… molto più vecchio. Da quando era diventato quello che conosceva tutte le risposte? «Gli spettatori del porno vedono ciò che vogliono vedere. Non dovresti preoccuparti di questo.» «Non pensi che sia un cretino?» «Cosa? No. Ho perso il conto dei ragazzi con cui sono stato. Pensi che sia una puttana?» «No.» Matthew si accigliò. «Perché dovrei pensarlo?» «Appunto.» Kai infilò la testa nella maglietta. «I numeri non significano nulla a meno che tu non glielo permetta.» La risposta che aveva rubato a Sonny sembrò rassicurare un po’ l’altro e il lieve bacio che ne seguì completò l’opera. Cavolo, questo ragazzo è troppo carino

For Sonny, the problem with America wasn't segregation but the fact that you could not, in fact, segregate. Sonny had been trying to get away from white people for as long as he could remember, but, big as this country was, there was nowhere to go. Not even Harlem, where white folks owned just about everything an eye could see or a hand could touch. What Sonny wanted was Africa. Marcus Garvey had been onto something. Liberia and Sierra Leone, those two efforts had been a good thing, in theory at least. The problem was that in practice things didn't work out the way they did in theory. The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called 'boy' by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.

For Sonny, the problem with America wasn’t segregation but the fact that you could not, in fact, segregate. Sonny had been trying to get away from white people for as long as he could remember, but, big as this country was, there was nowhere to go. Not even Harlem, where white folks owned just about everything an eye could see or a hand could touch. What Sonny wanted was Africa. Marcus Garvey had been onto something. Liberia and Sierra Leone, those two efforts had been a good thing, in theory at least. The problem was that in practice things didn’t work the way they did in theory. The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called “boy” by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.

«Levi e io facciamo delle cose insieme che non facciamo con nessun altro. Che io non ho mai fatto con nessun altro. Forse dovresti farlo anche tu. Trova qualcuno con cui condividere qualcosa di speciale. Separa la tua vita sessuale reale dallo studio.» Cam aprì la cassa. Avrebbe mentito se avesse affermato di non essersi mai posto delle domande sulla vita sessuale di Sonny e Levi. Sonny era piuttosto dominante ed esigente per essere un bottom e Levi amava avere il controllo. Erano un mix interessante e lui ci aveva riflettuto sopra parecchio. Ma la scelta delle parole di Sonny lo distolse da qualunque pensiero vietato ai minori e non in senso positivo. L’amico parlava sempre di sesso vero come se ci fosse un altro mondo là fuori, lontano dal porno, un mondo che lui aveva dimenticato.

«Hai girato qualcosa, oggi?» «Sì.» Con uno scatto degno di un gatto, il ballerino balzò oltre lo schienale della poltrona ormai vuota di Jon e si lasciò scivolare sul cuscino. «Un merdoso filmetto di seghe con Jay e Nico. Diavolo, era così forzato, cazzo.» «Perché lo fai, allora?» sbottò lui. Irrazionalmente, sentiva il dovere di difendere la professione che aveva iniziato a detestare. «Pensavo fossi soltanto un ballerino.» «Soltanto un ballerino?» ritorse Sonny. «Io non mi limito a essere soltanto qualcosa, stronzo. E forse dovresti rispondere alla tua stessa domanda. Sei tu che ti tormenti per una scena di sesso passivo che, chiaramente, non vuoi girare. Forse dovresti preoccuparti più di te stesso che di me. Sembra che tu stia per ricevere un assaggio della tua stessa medicina.»

«Beh, potrà sembrarti buffo, ma sono stanco morto.» Sonny fece per uscire dall’auto. Si bloccò con la mano sulla portiera. «Se cambi idea, il mio appartamento è il numero ventiquattro.» «Idea su cosa?» L’altro scosse la testa. «Se vuoi liberarti di ciò che ti tormenta. Non devi stare per forza da solo. Non so perché cazzo mi interessi, ma è così. Mi trovi qui, se cambi idea.» Sgusciò fuori dal veicolo e si allontanò prima che lui potesse formulare una risposta.

«Quindi? Qual è la differenza? Sonny, Zeb, Cam… ti ho visto pomiciare con tutti loro. Perché per me è diverso? Si tratta di me? Sì, deve essere così. Tu puoi baciare i tuoi amici quanto ti pare, ma io sono solo una puttana, giusto? Un bel culo che puoi martellare durante una scena.» La scelta di parole dell’altro colpì nel segno. Le sue convinzioni crollarono e per Kai fu come ricevere un pugno nello stomaco. «Non sei un bel culo.» «Davvero? Allora non trattarmi come se lo fossi, cazzo, o come se fossi una puttana. Se pensi davvero che bacio chiunque come bacio te, allora non mi conosci affatto.» «Ma non sei nemmeno gay.» «Non ho mai detto di esserlo.» Lo stomaco di Kai si ribaltò. «Balli in un locale gay. Sei un pornoattore gay. Come fai a non essere gay, cazzo?» «Perché devo esserlo per forza?» Matthew lanciò le mani per aria. «Sai cosa? Non devo spiegare nulla. Sono stanco e tu sei uno stronzo. Vado a casa, Kai. Ti auguro una buona vita.» Matthew iniziò a voltargli le spalle. Kai gliene afferrò una. «Te ne stai andando? Sì, è davvero un comportamento molto maturo.» «Maturo? Mi stai prendendo in giro?» Matthew si scrollò dalla sua presa e lo spinse forte. «Ho baciato la mia migliore amica per salutarla. Sì, quando ero un ragazzino ho fatto lo stupido con lei, ma sono cresciuto. Forse è ora che lo faccia anche tu, idiota.»

«Lui viene con me.» Kai ruotò su se stesso. Levi si trovava a pochi metri di distanza, a lato della carreggiata c’era il suo pick-up, il motore girava al minimo. Con il rumore delle autopompe dall’altra parte della strada, nessuno lo aveva sentito accostare. Sonny inarcò un sopracciglio e fissò Levi con un atteggiamento di sfida che non sembrava del tutto amichevole. «Il mio cavaliere dall’armatura scintillante?» Levi gli porse la sua giacca. «Sali su quel dannato pick-up. Voglio portarti a casa.» Nemmeno Sonny poteva rifiutare quell’offerta. Salì sul veicolo, si mosse sul sedile anteriore e baciò la guancia del suo uomo. Levi lo guardò come se fosse l’unico ragazzo al mondo e insieme se ne andarono. Kai li guardò allontanarsi mentre avvertiva nel petto una sensazione dolceamara di calore. In qualsiasi modo fosse finita la serata, lui sarebbe andato a letto da solo e poteva biasimare soltanto se stesso

Di tanto in tanto, scartabellava i resoconti scarabocchiati per cercare di monitorare il suo stato d’animo di mese in mese, anno dopo anno, ma era passato del tempo e al momento era un po’ spaventato da quello che avrebbe potuto trovare. Era davvero diventato un tale maniaco che era felice solo se si scopava il mondo? Cavolo, sperava di no. Poteva anche essere un pornodivo, ma nella vita c’era altro oltre il sesso. Doveva esserci, perché, il Signore lo sapeva, lui non aveva niente. Almeno, niente che contasse. Ricordò in parte le parole di Sonny. “Sesso vero… quello durante il quale qualcuno ti guarda come se fossi tutto il suo mondo. Nel porno non ti capita, Cam.

«Dagli un bacio, Levi. Gli tirerà su il morale.» Cam aprì un occhio. «Levi non bacia.» Il sorriso di Sonny era compiaciuto. «Bacia me.» «Davvero?» Cam guardò Levi che sembrava divertito. «Non pensavi che baciare fosse da stupidi?» «Cosa posso dire?» Impassibile, Levi si strinse nelle spalle. «Sonny mi ha logorato.» Sonny sibilò tra i denti. «Non ci è voluto molto a persuaderti.» Cam assimilò lo sguardo ardente che Levi aveva lanciato a Sonny con emozioni contrastanti. L’evidente affetto tra i suoi amici gli scaldava il cuore ma, al di là di tutto, era geloso. Desiderava la stessa cosa per se stesso, non da loro, ma da Sasha. E, peggio ancora, sapeva che quel tipo di rapporto era stato a portata di mano prima che Jon Kellar e il suo impero del porno si mettessero in mezzo

«Non volevo portare quella parte di me qui in studio,» affermò Sonny. «Negli ultimi tre anni sono stato attivo solo con un ragazzo e lui è tutto per me. È personale, sai? Devi tenere qualcosa per te stesso altrimenti non hai niente per cui tornare a casa.»

«Pratica? Vuoi che ti scopi prima di filmare la scena?» Matthew scrollò le spalle. «Forse. Male non farebbe, vero? Sonny mi ha raccontato che non gira mai una scena con qualcuno che non ha mai visto da vicino e nudo prima delle riprese.» Kai non faceva fatica a crederci. Sonny era disponibile a qualsiasi cosa, ma sempre, sempre, alle sue condizioni. Nessuno diceva a Sonny cosa fare. Kai prese il suo drink e studiò Matthew al di sopra del bordo del bicchiere. Erano seduti sul piccolo divano e si sfioravano. Kai riusciva a percepire il calore del suo corpo ed era allettante… invitante, ma chissà perché l’idea di saltargli addosso e scoparlo sul tavolino da caffè non gli sembrava opportuna. Così tanto giusta. O forse non abbastanza giusta. Kai non voleva infilarsi dentro Matthew e passare alla scena successiva. Voleva fare qualcosa… di più. «Forse dovremmo prenderla con calma.» Matthew fece un sorrisetto. «“Con calma”, tipo, uscire insieme?» «Uscire insieme?» Kai roteò gli occhi. «Mi riferisco al sesso, cazzone. Andare dritto al sodo potrebbe non essere positivo. Non l’ho mai fatto prima.» «Okay.» Matthew sembrò rifletterci sopra. «Allora, forse, “con calma” dovrebbe essere come uscire insieme. Tipo, baciarsi, fare petting e tutto il resto. Immagino che non abbia senso provare a scopare se non riusciamo a fare bene la prima parte.»

As I found out in Hollywood, sometimes not wanting something is the best way of getting it.