So, I'm at the Texaco on Beverly, the one that's not there anymore, and I'm takin' a crap and catchin' a little buzz at the same time, y'know, when some guy comes in to use the urinal. I think nothing of it, I finish my business, and just as I'm flushing, I hear this fantastic, booming voice say, "Four score and seven years ago..." And it freezes me. I mean, I got chills just from the sound of it. Then I don't hear anything else, so I come out of the stall, and there's this incredible specimen of a man. Don't get me wrong, I'm no fudgepacker or nothin', but even from the back, I can tell this guy's a stud. So, he's at the pisser, decked out in a really nice double-knit suit, except he's got the pants down around his ankles, and he's just standing there with his eyes closed, not moving.

     So I say, "You alright there, Abraham?" and right when I do, it hits me that it's him. It's him! Ben-Fucking-Hur, right there in the Texaco men's room with me! Only somethin' ain't right. With him, I mean. He's just standing there with his head back and his eyes closed, and he's holding his Johnson (even though it looks like he's through takin' his whiz) and then his voice booms out again, real dramatic: "To be ... or not to be ..." And it sounds amazing with the echo off the tile and everything, but all I can think is "Holy shit, he's ripped!" And he is. I don't know what he's on, but he's trippin' hard, and he starts rocking back and forth a little, still with his head back and his eyes shut. Now I'm wondering where his handler is, or his driver, or whatever, 'cause movie star or not, Chuck looks like he needs some help. So I take a step closer and I say, "You need any help, Mr. Heston?" and he suddenly spins around like fucking Kung Fu, and he looks me right in the eye, and he kinda whispers to me: "Could you give your heart to an aging thespian, even if it's only for the night?"

     Now, I don't know if it was the bud I'd just smoked, or the desperate quality in his beautiful voice, or the lighting in there, or the sight of the most perfectly formed penis I've ever seen .... Maybe it was all those things, I don't know. All I know is that in that instant, in that moment of magical poignancy, something happened inside me. I knew right then and there that for as long as he'd have me, I was going to go wherever, and do whatever Charlie wanted me to. It was love at first sight, pure and simple. And the funny thing about it was that I'd never had those kinds of feelings for another man before. Oh, sure, I'd had a few drunken experiments and three-way cocaine parties and such, just like anybody, I guess. But I don't think I've felt that kind of an immediate bond with any man, woman or beast, before or since.

     After a minute or two of us just gazing at each other and letting our eyes do the talking, he pulled his pants up and ran his hands through his hair. Then, without speaking a word, we walked out to where his limo was waiting and climbed inside. The driver, whose face I never saw and whose name I never knew, pulled out of the station and drove soundlessly up into the hills of Beachwood Canyon. After a while, maybe 10 minutes, or maybe an hour, we arrived at a huge, secluded house, set back from whatever street we were on. I don't think I could find my way back again if my life depended on it, for it was as if I was in a dream. Time became hazy, and details unimportant, as the two of us, Charlton and I, silently explored each others souls. We hadn't even dared to touch one another yet, but I knew just from the burning look in his passionate eyes that we'd been making love in our own spiritual way ever since we left the men's room. And then we were in the hot tub.

     I don't remember getting undressed, and I don't know where my hairnet came from, but there I was, all steamy and sudsy. And sitting across from me, smiling his beatific smile and flexing his powerful deltoids, was the one and only El Cid, gleaming like an angel of lust and passion. "Woof," I said, and he threw his head back and laughed. God, that magnificent laugh of his. I'm sure I'll hear it 'til the day I die. Such a glorious sound. And still, lurking behind it somewhere was a strange sadness. A clear, yet undefined sadness that hinted at great pain and loss. Poor El Cid. My sad, sad warrior. We wept together, he and I. But that was much later that night. A lifetime later, in fact.

     To be continued ....

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