Cycles

So, he knew, I thought. It seemed like half of the movie industry knew that Mario and I had been lovers for fifteen years. But that was some time ago.

“His family,” I said tersely. And I would normally have left it like that, but Zimmerman seemed to want more and I hadn’t figured out why he was paying this special attention to me—the offer of a social meeting from such a lofty recluse and the ride to the airport. So I finished it off. “Family had become very important to Mario. That’s what ended us and sent me to New York.”

“But you ended it amicably and Mario was instrumental in establishing your career, wasn’t he?” Zimmerman said. He didn’t say it accusingly, though, and there was a sparkle in his eye when he said it.

“Yes, yes, he did,” I admitted.

And that was the basic truth. I probably would not have become a major Broadway producer without Mario DiLane in my life. I’d been just another hunky small-town wonder seeking fame in Hollywood when Mario picked me out of an audition dance line for an eminently forgettable musical he was filming in the years where the big band musicals were the bread and butter of the movie industry. I didn’t get cast, but I did get fucked on the casting couch and then got so much more.