I confess, because I desperately wanted my time in the limelight to last a little longer than 15 minutes, I made some questionable decisions during my lamentably short and comically tragic acting career.
In the mid 1980s, Hollywood icon Rock Hudson and actress Linda Evans shot some hot and heavy love scenes for the seductively popular, primetime drama, Dynasty. Not long after, Hudson was villainized when it was discovered that he had hidden his AIDS diagnosis from his costar prior to filming. The backlash was not surprising then, especially in an industry still rife with homophobia, and at a time when an AIDS diagnosis was considered an agonizing death sentence.
Flash forward a couple of decades, and there I was in Rock Hudson’s infamous shoes. Standing under bright lights, on a Hollywood soundstage, with cameras ready to roll, I was about to film and intimate scene with an actor who was not fully informed about my HIV-positive status. In that moment, I had a choice. To tell, or not to tell? That was the question.
First, let me contextualize how I came to be standing on that particular soundstage in the first place. By the time I was called in to audition for Days of Our Lives in 2006, I had already spent two decades as a struggling actor in Los Angeles with very little success. I was also already a long-term survivor of the AIDS pandemic. I was one of the lucky ones. First diagnosed as HIV-positive in 1986, I had managed to avoid any major illnesses for twenty years. My survival was equal parts luck and locality. Living in a large city like LA afforded me access to cutting edge medical resources. I was able to hopscotch from medication to medication as each new treatment became available. So, when I was finally cast in a recurring role on a long-running daytime drama, I began to fantasize about the possibility of success. Perhaps this gig would be my long overdue, first step on the road to superstardom. I mean, even a middle-aged, HIV-positive, gay dude can dream. Can’t he?
Landing the part in the first place was a bit of a fluke, and not without some controversy. You see, I would be playing the part of Benjy Hawk Dimera, the long-lost, Deaf son of Salem’s resident bad guy, Stephano Dimera. Issue one, I’m not Deaf. The casting director knew this, of course. There was certainly no deceit involved. It just so happened that I was paying my bills at the time by working as an American Sign Language (ASL) interpreter at a local community college. So, yes, I had the language skills required for the part. But, even back then, it crossed my mind that I should refuse the role and suggest to the producers that they cast a Deaf actor instead. But, after so many years of rejection, it was heartbreaking to think about walking away from a job that might realistically lead to more acting work. I wrestled with my conscience, and I solicited advice from friends and colleagues who I assumed would give me the answer that I wanted to hear, “Take the job, you earned it.”
In the end, I did take the job. Placating my guilt by concocting an imagined future for the Deaf character I was about to play. Perhaps Benjy’s narrative would arc into the surprising discovery of his identical, villainous, hearing twin. For the sake of this idiotic argument, let’s just call him Cujo. A plausible plot twist, I hypothesized, considering the relatively outlandish world of soap operas. And the role of Cujo, I reasoned, would obviously require a hearing actor who looked just like Benjy. Me! Yes, I know. A pathetically ludicrous justification for what was, in retrospect, an ethical and professional misstep. A past error in judgement that I am now more than happy to acknowledge and own. Back then, however, with my integrity safely stowed on the lowest moral shelf I could find, I soon found myself on a set at NBC rehearsing for my first day of shooting.
“Benjy, take your mark outside the waiting room door,” the director’s disembodied voice boomed at me from an invisible speaker somewhere in the cavernous darkness.
My character’s first appearance was meant to be cloaked in mystery. Only my face would be seen through a small window in the swinging door that led into a hospital waiting room. Leaving the audience to wonder for a while about the unidentified stranger lurking the halls of Salem University Hospital. So, once I found my mark, I peered through the small pane of glass into the realistically appointed set where there were four different actors milling about.
“Benjy, I need you to look at Bo,” the phantom voice bellowed again.
Bo? Who the hell is Bo, I thought to myself? Unfortunately, I’d never watched Days of Our Lives. Not a single episode. Ever. My heart began to race as my eyes scanned the room. There were two men and two women staring back at me. I didn’t even know what gender I was looking for. I mean, was I looking for Bo as in Bo Derek, or rather, Bo as in Bo Diddley. I was paralyzed.
After an excruciatingly awkward silence, an annoyed exhale came through the loudspeaker followed by some further clarification from the director. “He’s the one with the cell phone.”
He! Okay, that narrowed the possible field by half. There were only two men on set, but both were holding cell phones. At least now it was even money. All I had to do was choose one. There was another uncomfortable pause as my eyes darted back and forth between the two handsome faces.
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. One of you I know is Bo—
Before I could commit, one of the actors finally spoke up.
“He doesn’t know who Bo is,” chuckled handsome face number two. And then he confirmed, “I’m Bo.”
In retrospect, it seems appropriate that it was the dashing, Salem Police detective Bo Brady, played by the chiseled and hunky Peter Recknell, who finally came to my rescue. He smiled and winked, and somehow, I managed not to swoon. Not visibly, anyway. My anguish slowly subsided. Needless to say, I did a lot of online research before I was back on set the following week. And it was that cyber-sleuthing that led me to discover my burgeoning, D-list, celebrity status.
I stumbled into a multitude of blogs and chatrooms entirely dedicated to the world of DOOL (that’s Days of our Lives for those in the know). When my picture first appeared in Soap Opera Digest along with the announcement of my casting, the online response was brutal. “He’s so old,” was the recurring, online criticism. I convinced myself that the complaints about my age were simply due to the awful picture the publication had used. I immediately went out and had pictures taken that were much more in line with what I thought the ‘Doolies’ might like to see. The new photo was more of a full body shot. Tight jeans, cut off sleeves, and a little peek-a-boo midriff. When I surreptitiously uploaded that sizzling photo into the buzzing, daytime, chatmosphere, the response was similarly brutal. “He must be gay,” became the new refrain. So, before I even appeared on the show, I had already been proclaimed a DOOL dud. Old and gay. Boy, did they have me pegged. And so dreadfully accurate. On the upside, however, when I did finally make my onscreen debut, the response was far more kind. But would a small ripple of cyber support be enough to keep my character viable?
My on-again, off-again appearances continued for a year or so. During that time, I did my best to try and safeguard Benjy’s longevity. In a town like Salem, you’ve got to watch your back. My tactics on this front ranged from desperate to ridiculous. I sent a thank you to the production office in the form of a muffin basket accompanied by copies of my cheese-cakey, crop-topped, 8×10 glossies. I invited members of the writing staff to a play I had written that was running at a local theatre. I even composed and mailed a few gushing letters to myself from fictional fans to see if an adoring public might have some contractual sway. It is mortifying to admit all of this now, but I was enjoying my 15 minutes. And I certainly wasn’t above borrowing a few pages from Lucy Ricardo’s madcap playbook to try and keep myself in the show.
In the end, however, my covert antics had little or no impact on Benjy’s precarious fate. It turned out that my father needed a liver transplant. So, like any loving parent in Salem would do, he sent his henchmen to steal mine. I was kidnapped, carved up, and left in a dumpster to die. Shirtless, by the way. It is slightly satisfying to think that perhaps those cheesy photos I circulated to the producers didn’t go completely unnoticed. Luckily, before the trash truck came around, I was discovered unconscious and rescued, once again by Bo Brady. But sadly, after a brief convalescence in the hospital, I was again abducted, this time by my evil cousin, Andre, and buried alive. So much for the persuasive power of thank you muffins.
So, there I was on my final day of shooting. The set was a dark and gloomy graveyard. My casket had been exhumed and I was lying face up, dead, on a blanket of wet sod. The world’s last, tragic glimpse of Benjy would be Steve Johnson, my character’s surrogate father played by Stephen Nichols, trying desperately to revive Benjy’s gaunt and rigid corpse with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
When I first read those dramatically fraught pages in that final script, my mind immediately flashed on those long-ago tabloid photos of Rock Hudson in his last, challenging days. I thought about how difficult it must have been for him. Especially back then. And with so much more at stake. Sure, my scene with Stephen Nichols would be a far cry from the lusty make out sessions between Rock Hudson and Linda Evans. Even so, another actor’s lips would be pressed to mine and the emotional scene, as scripted, was undeniably intimate. And what if there were multiple takes?
At the time, my viral load had been undetectable for years, and science had long since determined that HIV was not transmitted through saliva. But still, I was feeling torn about whether or not I should share my positive status with my scene partner. Again, I sought out the opinions of friends and medical professionals who I assumed would give me the answer I wanted to hear. “You don’t need to tell anyone. There is no danger. Just do your job,” they reassured me.
Ultimately, I chose not to share my HIV status with my fellow actor. And when the cameras rolled, Stephen Nichols played the scene beautifully; weeping as he tried desperately to breathe existence back into Benjy’s lifeless body.
In the years since, I have acquired a spiritual peace around my decision to remain silent in that particular situation. Given the chance to do it all over again, however, I would likely navigate my brush with fame a little differently. That is, of course, to be expected. After all, in many ways, I am a markedly different person. First and foremost, I have a husband and a child now. It is largely because of my deep love for them that I challenge myself every day to be the best partner, father, and human that I can possibly be. In addition, after many years, a lot of writing, and a smattering of therapy here and there, I harbor far less fear and shame related to my queerness and my HIV. Through the long decades of AIDS, I have watched people like Rock Hudson, Greg Louganis, and Billy Porter courageously confront their demons in a very public way. Their bravery, and the fearlessness of so many others that I have known personally, are touchstones.
Yes, given the chance to do it all again, I’d like to think that I would follow my initial impulse to be transparent. More fearless. That I would trust my faith in human goodness. I like to imagine my younger self boldly knocking on Stephen’s dressing room door that day and sharing my truth. In my daydream, Stephen and I have a short chat about how best to proceed and he thanks me for the heads up. And then, I fantasize that my last day of filming goes much like it actually did. Some adjustments perhaps. Sure. But, regardless of the outcome, I believe it would have empowered us both in that moment to have had a more truthful partnership in the decision-making process.
Of course, it’s impossible to know now just how my truth telling back then might have altered the flow of sands through the hourglass on that particular day of my life. Or, for that matter, all the days that followed. There is, however, one thing I do know without a doubt. If I had shared my HIV status with Stephen Nichols, and all had gone well, the following morning he would have opened his dressing room door to discover an overflowing basket of muffins, a thank you card, and one of my desperately cheesy headshots. What can I say? After all is said and done, regardless of the circumstance, I still believe that fresh baked goods are a universally appropriate way to say thanks, good luck, and don’t forget that there’s a middle-aged, HIV-positive, gay dude out here, still dreaming of his big break.
