Everyone has their own scandalous stories about the third floor upstairs at Max’s, and I was no exception.
One night, I went up to see Peter and when I walked in, I saw Marc “10½ inch” Stevens,1 the infamous porn star. He was sitting there with his soon-to-be transsexual wife, Jill Munroe. Peter introduced us and we talked for a bit, then after about a half-hour, Marc sent Jill home and he turned to me and said he thought I was cute.
He ended up asking me to go home with him to his apartment at 72 Bleecker Street. Being a bit of an upstart who thought he knew everything, I had no worries about handling this porn star, who was nearly twenty years older than me.
After we entered his place, he locked the door from the inside with a key and put it inside his pocket. That struck me as strange.
“Take off your clothes,” he said, rather seductively.
I was a bit astonished. So, I asked, “May I have something to drink first?”
He brought me a beer and told me he’d be right back. He then disappeared into the bathroom for what seemed like an eternity. When he came out, he was naked and fully erect and asked me if I wanted some cocaine. I shook my head and told him I didn’t want any. He told me again to take off my clothes. I panicked, and said: “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Really?” he said, in a kind of disbelief. “You’re here, and we’re going to have sex. So, take off your clothes,” he demanded.
He was very tough with me, and I was nervous. Then he opened up the drawer of the night table and took out what looked like a small pistol. He placed it on top of the table and then poured out three lines of cocaine. He offered me the coke again. My gut twisted. I turned down the offer and said to him, kind of forcefully, “You know, I want to leave now.”
“You’re not leaving yet,” he insisted.
“If you don’t let me leave,” I said. “I’m going to wreck your apartment and everyone in the building’s gonna hear me!”
I don’t know where I got the nerve to say that—I just wanted to get out of there right away.
He became furious, nearly enraged. He put on his underwear and pushed me to the front door and said:
“Get the fuck out of here! You’re wasting my fucking time!”
He took out his key, unlocked the door and shoved me out onto the street. It must’ve been around 3 a.m. I just stood there trembling, wondering how I was going to pull myself together. I was so thrown by the whole situation. It took me about twenty minutes to compose myself and head for the B train back to Brooklyn.
Adventures weren’t always trouble-free. In fact, sometimes they could be downright frightening. It still amazes me when thinking about all of the risky situations I’ve been in that I was never physically hurt, or worse. I had this fearlessness, this gutsiness that I could do anything I wanted to, and I was sure I would be safe. Somehow, luck was on my side—for a little while at least.