Most of you know him. A lot of you dream about him. You stroke yourselves and imagine his long, cool fingers wrapped around you. Or you picture yourself gripping him. Almost everyone who has seen him - even if only in that famous, infamous photograph -- wants him. You do. You know it. You don't have to be ashamed. He is stunningly beautiful. Forever young, fresh, enticing. He is a vision to love. I did love him. More fool I.

He was no vision when I saw him first. Just a distraught kid rushing up to my car in the nearly empty parking lot at the Storm KingArtsCenter an hour or so up the Hudson from New York. We had been shooting in the meadows there since early morning. Some weirdo designer's spring line of ugly, metallic hot pants and mini-mini-skirts that looked almost good on the stick figures of the anorexic models. Posing them against the sharp edges and glinting surfaces of the Calders and the David Smiths and the Noguchis had been Giacomo's idea. A good one as usual. The fact that it created hideous lighting problems on a day of mottled September sunshine was my nightmare, not Giacomo's. Somehow, things got worked out, but the stream of crises kept me much too busy to pay attention to the models or notice the few men whom Giacomo imported into his fashion work as hunky foils for the fragility of the women.

So I didn't recognize the boy as he ran up to my car and, panting for breath, begged, "please, please" for a ride back to the city. Except that he acted desperate, he seemed a pretty ordinary number, chinos and an NYU sweatshirt and that long hair - his was brown and tousled - that Giacomo likes on guys. I gestured for him to get into the car. He was just one more thing for me to clean up, a small chore like all the other ones that had kept me on the site an hour or more after the talent had piled into limos and vans and left.

"Thanks a lot," he said, after he slid into the passenger seat. "I'm Herb." He put his hand out. "Herb Regenwasser." (No, that's not his real last name. But it's close enough.)

"Simon Moore," I said grumpily, giving him a quick, cool shake. "What happened to your car?"

"Oh, I don't have a car. I came up in the minivan from the agency, but when they didn't need me any more, you know, I walked around to look at some of the sculpture. Did you see the Henry Moore? Fantastic!"

I hadn't, but he didn't wait for my answer. "And I was so tired, I just lay down under a tree for a catnap, and when I woke up everybody was gone. Everybody but you. You're really a life-saver." He began to gush. "I've got to read for a part tonight, and if I'd been stranded there, I'd have missed the audition and, you never know, it could be a big break for me. I really owe you, Simon. You're great to give me a lift like this."

He gave me a huge smile, and I saw why he was a model. When he lit up, his hazel eyes flashed little specks of gold and he broadcast a knock-em-dead charm that turned an everyday nice-looking face into heart-stopping handsome. Suddenly, he wasn't a nuisance. He was a challenge. I smiled back. "Actors in distress are my specialty," I said. "Have I seen you in anything?"

("I'd like to see you in nothing," was what I was thinking. "I'd like to give that sweatshirt a lift and then lift off your pants and lift your legs up in the air and plow your baby-smooth ass. And have you wrap that incredible smile around my cock. That's what I'd like." I have these dirty thoughts. I can't help it. But I generally keep them to myself.)

"You mean like in a play?" Herb was trying to decipher my words, not my mind. "Not unless you come to student productions. I'm at Tisch. For a master's. I was Mercutio last spring, and I'm understudying Algernon now."

"Next stop, Kowalski?"

"Where?"

"Who, not where. Stanley Kowalski, 'Streetcar Named Desire,' Brando's first big break on Broadway. Don't they teach ancient history at that school?"

"Brando's not ancient history. But I couldn't do his roles. I'm too thin."

("And too literal," I thought. "And ignorant. Kids! They think the Earth was created yesterday.")

"So what's the role you're auditioning for? Obviously not Falstaff."

He laughed. He did know a little something. "And not Prince Hal, either. No, it's for a late-night sitcom on cable. A little raunchy. I'm reading for the part of a gay guy, and I'm kind of nervous about it. See, I don't know what it's like to be gay. I don't even know anybody like that, and I'm not sure what the producers really want."

("You," I thought. "That smile. They're going to want you on the casting couch and in their swimming pools and their beds and their arms. The way I do.")

"Well, you couldn't be gay," I said, "not with your name."

"Regenwasser? I've been thinking of changing it."

"Herb," I explained. "Herberts aren't gay. Or Alberts, or Bertrams, or Huberts. If there's a Bert in the name, the guy is straight. Moore's 37 ^th rule of sexual orientation. It's like parents can take out an insurance policy when they name their sons. Call him Jason or Oliver or Randy, and you're taking a big risk. But Bertrand or Egbert or even Burton. No sweat. Guaranteed grandchildren."

"I was named for my grandfather." The kid was giving me a puzzled, intent, serious look. "I don't think my parents knew about gays. They still don't. They're Mennonites and pretty old-fashioned. If I get the part, it won't matter. They don't have a television." He paused, and his stare escalated a couple of notches, just shy of the point where the rays dart out of Superman's eyes. "Simon," he asked, "how come you know about gays and names and the theater and everything? I thought you were a lighting technician."

("Hey! He noticed me at the shoot. I'm going to have to wear this orange sweater more often.")

"I'm Giacomo's number one, all-purpose assistant and footstool. I do lighting and I do scheduling and I do logistics and I make sure he takes his pills. And I've studied literature and art history and photography and I even go to the theater sometimes. And I'm gay, so you're wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

"You said you didn't know anyone who is gay, but you do. Me. How do you do, Mr. Regenwasser. Welcome to my car and my lifestyle."

He smiled at me again, and I nearly drove the car off the Palisades Parkway. Now I wanted his lips on mine. My dick could wait. Though not too long. Sunlight coming in through the passenger-side window fell on his thighs and turned the tan chinos to cloth of gold. He was a wet dream in a seat belt.

"Simon," now he was back to giving me the once-over. "Is it that big a deal?"

"Is what that big a deal?"

"Your lifestyle. Being gay, I mean. I really meant it when I said I didn't know anybody like you. I mean, maybe I do, but I guess I'm not very curious about other people, so I don't know if someone is gay or not. And it would help if I knew, wouldn't it?"

"Help who?"

"Help me, of course. With the audition tonight. I want to be convincing. That's what matters."

"You want me to tell you the secret of being convincingly gay? Is that it?"

"Would you? That'd be fantastic, Simon. I won't tell anyone else. I promise."

"Herb, kiddo, grow up. There isn't any secret. It's not a club with passwords and handshakes. It's just … (I was having trouble.) Well, you could think of it as just an extra added attraction that some guys have and some guys don't. I do. You don't. There isn't any way to hand it over."

For a couple of seconds he looked disappointed, but then his face lit up again. "But you could teach me, couldn't you, Simon? How to act gay, I mean. I'm just going to be acting. I learned how to fence so I could do Mercutio. Can't I learn how to be gay?"

"How much time have we got?" I was trying to be sarcastic, but it didn't register.

"The audition's at eight, and," he checked the cheap digital watch on his wrist, "it's almost 4:30 now. And I ought to change clothes, so maybe three hours, tops. Do you have time, Simon, to give me a lesson? I'd really appreciate the help."

He was like a needy puppy, and I'm a sucker for puppies. I took him to his place first, a rundown brownstone off Tenth Avenue in the 50s where he said he had a room in an apartment owned by a nearly bed-ridden old lady. I waited in the car while he dressed - black jeans, white button-down shirt, V-neck blue sweater, terminally uncool -- and then drove him to my pad in SoHo. It's half of a loft that had once been a ballet school, and Herb was riveted by the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that still covered most of one wall. He froze in front of them and then started trying out poses. "Simon, this is a fantastic place," he was gushing again. "Fantastic! I've never seen myself this way. It's like a dream. I can try out any gesture, any expression I want and right away I can know if it's right or wrong. Where I live all I've got is a bathroom mirror, and the light there is awful. But this… this is just fantastic."

I was amused by his fascination with the mirrors and with himself. It was almost childlike, and so was he. That innocence might entertain me, but it was probably not what the producers would be looking for at the audition. "'Fantastic' is not gayspeak, Herb," I said, "at least not for mirrors. We can use them, though, for your crash course if you still want it."

"Oh, yes, Simon, please." Since he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of himself, I improvised my lesson. "Pretend you're walking in a strange neighborhood, Herb. It's 3 a.m. Your car broke down. It's a rough part of town. A lot of the streetlights are out."

His shoulders rose; his arms clamped against his body. He crouched slightly and started to flick his eyes sideways."

"You hear footsteps," I continued. "Behind you. Maybe more than one set. They're getting closer. What do you do?"

He paused, straightened up, turned around and stuck out his hand. "Hi," he said. "I'm really glad to see you. I need some help."

"No, man. No," I cut him off. "Wrong. You've just been knifed, robbed and left for dead. What planet are you from, Herb? Did you grow up in some flyspeck town where a crime spree was kids tipping over outhouses at Halloween?"

"How did you know, Simon? Is it that obvious?"

"Sticks out a mile, bubba, but you can get over it. I did."

"You're not from the city?"

"Now I am. Originally, Nowheresville, Nebraska. But I don't think I could find my way back any more. And I wouldn't want to. It was not exactly a great place to grow up queer. Where did you escape from?"

"Iona, Michigan. Actually my dad's farm is outside Iona, but that's where I went to high school. Then I got into Wartburg, it's a Lutheran college in Iowa, and I did some acting, and I got a scholarship to Tisch. I've been in New York a whole year, Simon. I thought I was fitting in."

"Not if you think you should hold out your hand to someone who's about to mug you."

"Well, what should I do? Run? Scream? And what does being mugged have to do with being gay, anyway?"

"Fear and impotence. There's no good way to handle a mugger, Herb, at least not by yourself. Give him your money and show him that you're not a threat and pray he isn't in a bad mood. Being gay is the same. You're always expecting to be mugged, psychically at least. There are lots of ways to handle it, but none of them is good."

"Have you tried martial arts classes, Simon? Karate? Kung fu?" He started to strike poses in front of the mirror again. Tough guy poses. He was quick. I'll give him that.

"You don't get it, Herb. I'm not explaining it right, I guess, but it's about attitude. Somewhere in between Mr. Rogers and Bruce Lee is where most gays live most of the time. Outside our caves, we just naturally assume that we'll get into some kind of trouble. Maybe just a dirty look or a dirty name. People are going to be embarrassed to get too close to us, and they show it, and that hurts. Or another gay guy will put you down because you're not beautiful enough or young enough or willing enough to play his game his way. Or at the very worst you're going to get the shit kicked out of you by a drunken bunch of yahoos from Queens, and if you stay out of that kind of trouble, there's always AIDS."

"You're exaggerating, Simon. Aren't you? It can't be that bad, not all the time or even most of the time. Aren't there groups you can join, people who'll stick up for you?"

"Sure. And who else needs groups like that? The Mafia? Cops? Reformed drunks? Laboratory animals? The hated and the vulnerable, that's who. Herb, it's when you're on your own that the risks are highest, and most people, most of the time, are on their own. So you develop defenses. That's what you need to take into the audition."

He just looked at me. Concerned, sort of. I thought he was worried for me, and that was nice. But not Herb. He was worried about himself.

"How can I learn all that in just an hour or so?" He gave his watch a nervous look. "I've never felt that way. I try to get people to like me. Some people, at least. To want to help me out, you know? What do you do when somebody hates you?"

"You pretend, Herb. That's all. You act. What you want to do for a living. You put on an act. You can try the high camp thing, for instance."

He gave me a puzzled stare.

"Camp it up. Roll your hips like a woman. Bat your eyes. Swing an imaginary purse. Blow the bastard a kiss as if you find him sexy and as if he was putting the make on you. That confuses the shit out of most of them and gives you time to stroll around the corner and start to run like hell."

Herb tried to mime my instructions into the mirror. He got the kiss right, very come-hither, but effeminacy wasn't his thing. ("That's all right," I thought. "I don't mind bottoming now and then.")

"There's another approach that might work better for you, Herb," I said tactfully as his wrist went impossibly limp. "But you have to be quick and really confident to bring it off. You fight back, see, but just with your mouth. You show how smart you are and, if you handle it right, you get them laughing with you or even a little scared of you."

He looked dubious. "I'd rather go with the karate, Simon. I really would. I'm tougher than I look."

"I bet you are, but are you going to flatten everybody who casually insults you? Do you wear your black belt on the subway? I don't think so. No, you have to draw the toughness up from inside and then put a casual, confident mask over it. No," he was scowling at himself in the mirror, "No, Herb, it's not a 'Don't mess with me' look. It's more snakelike, quietly coiled but ready to strike."

The scowl softened but the menace in his posture didn't. "Too much, Herb," I counseled. "You're not the playground bully. You're just a guy who's got a chip on his shoulder that no one else can see. Edgy. You expect trouble and you're ready for it, but you're not asking for it. Do you get the difference?"

"I don't know. Like George Hamilton in 'Love at First Bite'?"

"Missed that one." I winced at the thought of that pretty-boy lightweight. "But he usually overdoes his character, presumably to make up for not having any of his own. No, think Alan Alda but less frenetic or Bruce Willis as a slum priest."

"Calm, collected," Herb was back at the mirrors, "but seething inside. En garde!"

He leapt forward flourishing an invisible light saber. I was getting nowhere, fast. I took him by the shoulder and pushed him into the kitchen.

"Sit down, Herb. A beer? A Coke?" He took a glass of water. I took the other stool. "Herb, I don't think I'm helping you at all."

"Oh, no. You are. It's just that I've never tried a really modern role. Even if I don't get the part, you're teaching me a lot. I didn't realize gays had to be so aggressive."

"See, that's what I mean. You've misunderstood because I haven't been able to explain the idea clearly. You really have to live it yourself before you begin to understand who you are and how to deal with the world. And my way is just mine, not necessarily anybody else's. I just try to be ready all the time for shit to happen."

"And does it?"

He had me there. "I guess not. Not as much as it did before, when I was a kid, at least not to me. Do you know who Barney Frank is?"

"Nope. Who?"

"A congressman from Massachusetts. He's a liberal Democrat and a very witty speaker. And he's gay, not that he was open about it until a kid he was living with was caught hustling."

"What's wrong with hustling?"

"A hustler is a male prostitute. You really don't know about gay life, do you?"

"I told you, Simon. I'm sorry. My life is school and my jobs. I guess I hustle myself so hard that I haven't any time to learn important things."

"I didn't mean to criticize you, kid. Sorry. Not your fault. I just assume that gays are so fascinating that everybody secretly wants to know all about us. Where was I?"

"Barney Frank."

"Right, I heard him tell a story about a man walking around the Boston Common waving a cudgel. A cop came up and asked him what he was carrying, and he said it was an elephant stick. It kept elephants away."

" 'But there aren't any elephants here,' the cop said.

" 'See?' the guy said. 'It works.'"

Herb chuckled. "And you're saying that being always tense, always on guard works because you haven't been trampled by an elephant."

"It works for me, Herb, but we're all different. You'd probably be a very well-adjusted gay." I stood up. "You've got to go. Look, I'll give you one piece of advice that actually might be of some use. Smile. Smile a lot. You're a good-looking guy, but when you smile, you're dazzling, and that's really what the television types are going to be looking for."

He stood too and smiled. "Am I really?" he asked.

"Really what?"

"Dazzling?"

"God, yes. Now get out of here. Let me know how it goes."

"I will." We walked to the door, Herb giving the mirrors a couple of his smiles on the way. We shook hands. He thanked me for rescuing him and for tutoring him and "for everything. I won't forget, Simon, I promise." And then he was gone.