Never mind how long I’d known the director or how many times he’d fucked me in the past, he gave the role to someone else, and I had to wonder if Derek Fall was really a better actor or just a better fuck. Watching him prowl the stage only complicated things. Every time I looked at him a battle started inside me: jealous fury squared off against overwhelming desire. The part was the best thing to come along in years, and every young actor in San Francisco auditioned. Six of us were called back to the ancient Lindsay Theatre for a second reading, and it was then that I knew I was in trouble. Not only did Fall’s reading match my own, but I got hard watching him. Winning a lesser part was little consolation, and I found rehearsals of the four-man, two-act play more difficult than anticipated, because in addition to mastering my supporting role I had to balance envy and lust, which caused me more than once to forget my lines and endure an embarrassing silence that Fall seemed to relish.
