Scott Sherman: Third You Die

“I’ve always known I was a star,” my mother told me calmly in her office, as her staff whooped and hollered after the show’s first month’s shockingly high ratings hinted that her fame was possibly more than a passing fad. “I’m just glad everyone else figured it out, too.”

“The only saving grace about your mother’s newfound notoriety,” my long-suffering father told me on the phone later that day, with his trademark blend of pessimistic optimism, “is that she was already impossible to live with. It’s not like she could get any worse. Plus, this fakakte TV show keeps her out of the house. So, that’s good.”

Meanwhile, the show was an opportunity for me, too. I’d been getting away with calling myself a “consultant” for the past few years, but I knew I’d eventually need a “real” job. When Andrew approached me about working on my mother’s show, I was initially reluctant. For one thing, the idea of spending that much time with my mother, in a high-pressure environment, was about as appealing as a colonoscopy, only with more crap involved. It’s not that I don’t love her-I do-it’s just she drives me crazy.

For another, I didn’t have any experience in television. What would I do?

Luckily, this time Andrew got it right. His idea was to make me the coordinator of casting. This meant it was my job to help choose and screen the guests that appeared on the show.

I might have never worked in TV before, but years of being a call boy had taught me how to quickly size up people, figure out if they were crazy or not, and how to bring out their best.

Those skills proved right in line with those needed to pick the kinds of guests who’d “pop” on a daytime talk show. I had a knack for getting inside the heads of potential interviewees. I could help them find their most interesting story and focus them on how to tell it. I could also craft the questions for my mother to ask and help the producers with setups that would wring the most drama from the guest’s appearance.

Part of what made me successful at getting people to open up to me was my personality, but part was my appearance. I’m not the handsomest guy in the world, but what I am is cute. Short, boyish, with floppy blond hair and a button nose, I’m unthreatening and look trustworthy, the archetypal All-American boy next door. That image supported me for years as a hustler; now it worked for me as an interviewer.

Hey, you gotta play the hand you’re dealt.

Plus, no longer making my living in an illegal profession definitely made things easier with Tony Rinaldi, the cop who recently graduated from being my semi-boyfriend to full-time lover. He’d been tolerant of my work, but I knew he didn’t approve. Plus, now that we were kind of raising a kid together, it was even more complicated. So, Sophie’s Voice, while not without its challenges, was proving to be a good thing.

Of course, we’d see how things went after today’s taping. This was a pretty far-out panel. It had the potential of being an episode that would keep people talking for days, or the kind of train wreck that would have people switching to the Food Network as fast as their remotes could carry them.

I was about to find out.

“Come on, ladies,” my mother yelled as she strode onstage, shouting to be heard over the raucous cries of her studio audience. “Let’s be real for a minute. We all like to get a little… wild.. in the bedroom every once in a while, don’t we?”

The audience hooted their agreement as I struggled not to imagine what my mother might have done in the bedroom that would qualify as “wild.”

Must. Turn. Off. Brain.

“All right,” my mother said, settling into the easy chair from which she hosted the show. She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe not all of us. Let’s face it, I’m pretty sure the wildest thing I’ve ever done in the bedroom was wear my rollers to sleep.”

The audience exploded in laughter.

“What can I say? I’m a nice Jewish girl from Long Island. But, you know what? It takes all kinds. And today, we have a panel of playful and proud entrepreneurs who’ve figured out how to turn their kinks into cash. Or, as we like to call it, fetishes for fun and profit!”

More whooping from the suburban housewives in the stands. They knew my mother was about to give them a PG-13 glimpse into a world they’d previously experienced only through the genius of Sidney Sheldon and Judith Krantz.

It was also a world in which I’ve done a lot more than read about it. When things got serious between me and Tony, I’d made a deal with him: I wouldn’t give up working as a paid escort, but I’d only do “non-insertive” sex work. That meant no blow jobs, no fucking. I had to get creative.

So, I wound up specializing in guys who had more… elaborate fantasies. I acted out all kinds of doctor/patient, naughty schoolboy and look-but-don’t-touch scenes. I had sessions with a john who wanted me to pelt him with pies while dressed like a clown and got paid $500 from another who just wanted to smell my wet hair. It wasn’t a bad gig.

I also enjoyed it beyond the financial rewards. I felt like I was doing these guys a real service. What got them off didn’t hurt anyone but them. And not physically, either-I’m talking about the emotional pain that accompanies sexual drives that don’t fit the “norm.” When one of my clients got into a relationship, there was always a tension for him-does he dare tell his partner the truth about what he wants? Or is it wiser to play it safe and not risk the rejection that might accompany telling your lover that you want him to dress up like Captain America and throw his shield at your balls?

It’s a terrible thing to be ashamed of your own sexuality.

What my mother was about to expose her audience to was tame in comparison to some of the things I’d done.

“First, we’ll hear from a woman who gets paid hundreds of dollars from men who want her to spank them!” my mother continued. The audience’s cheers went even wilder when my mother mock-whispered, “although, those of us who are married probably would be more than happy to do it for free when our husbands forget to take out the garbage for the fifth time in a row, right, ladies?

“Then, we meet a gay man who didn’t have the courage to come out until he found out he could get paid for it-and now he’s one of the adult film industry’s biggest stars. And let me tell you, ladies, I got a look at this guy backstage as he was getting dressed for the show, and I can see why he’s so ‘big,’ in the business, if you know what I mean.” Her wink made the comment more adorable than lewd.

“Last, but not least, we’ll be introducing you to the world of plushophiles, people who get their jollies from dressing like stuffed animals. At least, I hope we’ll be introducing you to that world. Because, if you’re already into that kind of thing, what are you doing here? There’s a Build-A-Bear Workshop not two blocks away!”

More laughter. I’d suggested that line and was happy to hear it go over so well.

“Then, we’ll bring ’em all together and see how they get along. Is there harmony among those who walk on the saucy side of the street, or is business the dirtiest game of all? Stay tuned, and we’ll be back with our wildest show yet!”

The APPLAUSE sign lit up, but it wasn’t needed. As always, my mom had the crowd in the palm of her hand.

I just hoped she could keep it there.

“Well, my boy,” Andrew Miller said in a mock-authoritative tone, “once again, you done me proud.”

We were standing in the back of the studio as the crowd rose to cheer the departing panel of perverts who’d entertained them for the past forty minutes. The show had gone great. My mother kept the conversation just racy enough to be entertaining without it becoming threatening. She found the humor in every kink, but was never demeaning. The guests seemed to genuinely enjoy talking with her. The last segment, where they all came out together, was raunchy, raucous, and, in the end, good-natured. The highlight was when Mistress Vesper spanked the gay porn star Brock Peters to demonstrate her craft.