Naked Man

The bathroom is so close to the rehearsal room that, inside, I feel I’m still with my castmates. During a scene I’m not in, I lock myself in the bathroom and then the one stall. The toilet is well-worn with scratches like teeth marks on the seat. Outside the door, my castmates struggle with their lines. “That’s too much money to fix the roof,” Chris Blair shouts. This will be his first off-Broadway show, and mine. Then I do what I came in here for.

I step out of my shoes and socks, my jeans and underwear. I pull off my dark, I’m-a-serious-actor shirt. I feel like a body. My face is warm from acting. I leave my clothes in the stall and walk naked and aroused toward the door. In the trash can, there are four peach pits; Winston May won’t eat anything but peaches and carrots before 5 pm. I press my forehead against the door, which feels sticky, like the gray paint might mark me. Then my hip is on the door. Then my chest. I feel my castmates on the other side. There are those videos of rural men walking naked in the street; they parade in front of their car lights; some are erect, some embarrassed, many both, all exhibitionists, all on video. I unlock the bathroom door. “I hate the rain,” Chris Blair yells on the other side. I squat down, my hand now far from the lock. Anyone could walk in. Then, too soon, I’m dressed.

At the end of rehearsal, Chris Blair, Winston May, Lucas Chu, and I sit in folding chairs in front of a reporter. We’re the stars of Easy Street. Chris Blair describes our play as “a profound drama about four gay men fixing up a house and living together at One-One-One Easy Street.” It’s an ordinary play. We start previews in two weeks. Eventually, the reporter says, “I hear there’s nudity.” I raise my hand as if to announce, “I have a beautiful body.” I say, “The nudity will be my job.” At the end of the play, I have a twenty-minute naked scene. Without clothes on, I fix dinner, set the table, argue about homemaking and the size of my ass and friendship, hide behind the couch, sob, beat my chest, and then get carried offstage by Chris Blair. The reporter asks how I feel about being naked. I say, “I’m a very physical actor.”

 

There are those videos online of men giving thumbs up and saying, “I love being naked for you.” Some kneel and shake their bodies. Some show their driver’s licenses to the camera, elated to part with their privacy. Those videos leave me salivating.

I’ve messaged with the guy, TT121256, who collects those types of videos from men and posts them to porn sites. TT’s encouraging. He’s polite until you ask him not to be. I’ve made him a video to be kept offline. “I love being naked for you,” I said to the camera, my voice cracking, unsure if I should trust him. Then I danced, still naked, to “New York, New York” with a broom as my partner. Sinatra’s voice gave me pep. TT responded, Old school slut. I imagine him as 70, retired, bored, transitioning his life online. I message TT every week or so. He asks if I’m having a good day. Or he replies with a clip of my joyful, naked body and asks, Ready to be posted online? I’m always surprised by how disappointing it feels to say no.

The night after they cast me in Easy Street, I dreamt of my naked body in a theater, hopping slowly down the aisle, low gravity, moon-like, my ass round and waving at the audience, my face proud, applauded. I woke up hoping for stardom and asked TT to delete my dancing video from his phone. He didn’t.

 

As a child, I’d stray from the bus stop and hide behind my neighbor’s pink house. Then I’d pull down my pants and press my ass against the wood. It felt nicest in winter when the house was cold. I imagined my skin and the wood freezing together. I fantasized about getting caught. In fourth grade, they taught us about sex. We saw a baby in a belly and passed around a condom. The word pleasure was used. That class, I sat terrified at my desk, worrying that the pink house would be the only sexual excitement I’d ever find in my life. There must be an easier way, I thought.

 

At rehearsal, the director lowers her head and tells me, “Soon you’ll have to be naked for real.” I pull at my shirt and say, “Yes, of course, I’m ready,” unsure if I sound too eager, too transparent. But I don’t appreciate the delaying and delaying. The longer we wait, the less controlled I’ll be as a naked actor. I’ll be revved up and bouncy. The pleasure will look too bright on me.

 

I wasn’t certain I wanted to be an actor until halfway through Beth King’s class my junior year of college. For a showcase, we were preparing a scene from The Seagull. I was Treplev, who wants love, approval, fame. Once, before rehearsing the scene, Beth had me tell the room about my memories of love. I’m not a particularly love-focused person, but I talked about a boy I knew in seventh grade: Jiang. During lunch, we sometimes kissed each other in the third stall of the school’s most remote bathroom. His lips were often chapped and sweet. We told each other our faces were beautiful. When we kissed, I felt the whole town was directing its attention at us, smiling. Beth said, “That’s love and fame!” Then we did the scene, and I thought of Jiang, and I felt like a complicated, full person, as if, through the constraints of putting on a character, I could view a complete version of myself. After the scene, I felt gleeful. Eight years later, when acting, I can occasionally get back to that state.

 

In Easy Street, I play the rugged one. Before the naked scene, I wear cargo pants, a baseball hat, and t-shirts stained from fixing up the house. They’re giving me a toolbelt, as if I’m a fantasy man. I ask the director if, for the nude scene, my crotch should be natural or trimmed or waxed. “That’s a costume question,” she says. When I ask Mary, who’s sewing a billowy tank top, about my pubic hair, she grimaces, uneasy, like I’ve flung tar at her. At her blushing face, I feel like a dirty man. I hope she doesn’t hate me. I say, “Oh, I’m sorry, really sorry,” and disappear to call the intimacy coordinator, who assures me Mary will accept my apology one day.

 

Preparing for Easy Street was my first experience of learning a special skill for a role. Our director found the budget to send me to four woodworking classes. I tired out my arms with hammers and saws. I made a collapsible lap desk. While taking those classes, I felt invested in, believed in, like the director knew I’d be good in the play.

 

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