Written by:
Suzanne Westenhoefer
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this Issue of Curve:
Vol. 14#2
My girl and I were having one of those arguments that you have when you’ve been together for more than 11 years.
“Why would you grind the espresso beans for drip coffee? They’re only espresso beans if you use them for espresso! Otherwise, it’s just coffee!”
We didn’t bother to answer the phone, engrossed as we were in our debate. Then I heard my publicist yelling excitedly into the answering machine. “Something great has happened! Call me immediately!”
Now, what’s “great” according to my publicist isn’t always amazing for me. Witness the article on me in last summer’s Penthouse, which garnered me a passel of straight boys who love e-mailing my Web site with their unique questions. All of which, I am proud to say, I can answer.
Putting aside the coffee war, I called back and found out that I was to be the first openly gay comic on Late Show With David Letterman.
I spent the next two days on the phone with my publicist and the producer, meticulously going over each joke I planned to use.
“That’s too lesbian.”
“Can you only be 20 percent lesbian?”
“Are you going to say ‘dyke’?”
“How often?”
The following night, I practiced my set at a club on Sunset Strip that specializes in sketch comedy. Let’s just say that I learned very fast what isn’t funny to 20-something hetero kids.
I had another chance two nights later, when I practiced at the Funny Bone in Columbus, Ohio. Introduced as a “surprise” guest to a few hundred people from the Midwest, I was terrified, I admit, but this was how I got started, after all. This time, the response was great. I left for New York with about four and half truly funny, “Dave-approved” minutes for my debut.
The night before the taping, my girlfriend, the producer and I hit the straight clubs for the final test of my set. As soon as they heard I was about to be on Letterman, the audiences were psyched. The openly lesbian material still shocked them — I guess even with the boys of Queer Eye, we have some work to do.
That night in our hotel, my girlfriend, who is a retired teacher (and obviously misses it), made me repeat my set over and over, correcting my grammar but also telling me, “You are the best.” We worked so hard we forgot to watch Letterman.
The show provided a limo for us the next day, and that’s when everything became truly surreal. The crowds surged forward to the car door as it opened, but when I emerged, I was met with nothing but blank stares. Then I yelled, “Hi! It’s just an unknown lesbian comic!”
There was a long pause, and then someone yelled back, “Well, you might get famous!” Then they all pushed toward me for photos and autographs before we were whisked inside.
My dressing room was set between the aging comic Frank Gorshen and movie star Kiefer Sutherland. Frank, smoking, was chatty and flirty. Kiefer and his posse stayed behind closed doors. My nerves were shot. All I could think about was that this show tapes live. There are no “do-overs.” If I failed, I’d fail on Letterman. I wanted to be the first openly lesbian comic on Letterman, sure, but not the first openly lesbian comic to go down in flames.
Meanwhile, while the guest host rehearsed and everyone got made up, I snuck onto the set to sit in Dave’s chair. A stage hand laughed, “All the comics do that.”
Back in the dressing room, my girl was nervous — not that she’d show it. She had the closet door off its hinges when I walked in. “What the hell are you doing?” I whispered.
“This door was put on crooked; it doesn’t shut properly. I’m fixing it.”
This is how she relaxes.
As the show finally began, I sat, waiting for each guest to be interviewed. I knew I would be interviewed only if the stage manager thought I had done well and signaled me over to the chair. Trying not to let that possibility freak me out, I concentrated everything I had on doing a killer set.
As I stood backstage, I heard the guest host say my name. I walked out. The theatre was full of tourists who didn’t know me. I didn’t know them. They were probably homophobic. Oh, well.
I took the mike and said, “My girlfriend and I have been together for 11 years, and we have nothing in common. Apparently that’s how it works.” Now they knew I was gay. For a split second, I thought, I was wrong. I should have started with something benign and worked up to it.
But they laughed. They laughed at everything. They applauded. Even the band laughed. And the stage manager signaled me to the chair. There was time for only one question, but it got me another laugh.
Everything happened in a fog after that. My nondemonstative girlfriend hugging and grabbing me, Paul Shaffer telling me he knew I’d be funny when he saw the phrase “lesbo cruise” on my cue cards, and celebrating later with my best friends, Joyce and Tricia, in the West Village.
The next morning, as I stood in the hotel elevator with my girlfriend, a man turned to me and said, “Didn’t I see you on TV last night? Very funny. Very brave. Good for you.” My girl looked at me after he got out. “Exactly,” she said. And we went back home.
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