Most Talkative: Stories From the Front Lines of Pop Culture Andy Cohen (nice books to read .TXT) 📖

“If Jeanne came in naked, would you get turned on by her?”

“Um, well, no,” I said. “But if she rubbed herself all over me, and I closed my eyes, I probably would.”

We both got up, and he walked over to me and said that whatever I decided was fine with him, that he would always be my father, and that he loved me. I told him I loved him, and we hugged, and then Mom and I hugged, and then I went to Jackie’s.

The next day my dad took me to Steak ’n Shake to talk to me about AIDS and condoms. It was as awkward as any conversation about AIDS at Steak ’n Shake could possibly be, but it only made me love him more than I ever thought I could before, and it more than made up for the time he couldn’t get me reinstated on the water polo team.

When I got back to BU, I told a couple more friends. After the hurdle of telling my parents, I wanted to pick off a few easy targets before marshaling my strength to come out to my nearest and dearest. Eight weeks after I’d returned from London, I let myself into Dave’s room, lined up five shot glasses, and filled them all from a brown-bagged bottle of Jack Daniel’s I’d brought. It was February 14.

“What’s this?” he said as he walked in the door wearing a scarlet BU jersey. He didn’t have a girlfriend, nor did he buy into the idea of a Hallmark-made holiday, so the fact that it was Valentine’s Day was thankfully not on his radar. I will go to my grave believing it was a coincidence that I told him on that day of all days, but you are welcome to insert your own Freudian theories right here.

Me and Dave. Do I look straight or what?

“I gotta talk to you,” I said. “Have a shot, or two.” He took a shot. I could tell he thought I was priming him for a typical night of fun and drinking. It took me a few minutes to get up the courage, and I did a shot before launching in.

“I need you to read this.” My hands shook as I handed him an envelope with a letter I’d written to him, which was a more personalized version of what I’d put in my journal.

We were sitting on the edge of the bed as he read the letter. It began with me reminding him how open he was and stating my hope that he could handle something that I needed him to know. I could hear my heart beating as his eyes moved down the page reading the part where I told him that I was exactly the same person he’d known and assured him that I was not physically attracted to him and that our relationship didn’t have to change. He finished the letter and turned to me.

When his eyes met mine, I flinched. I pulled back. I can’t believe it now, but at that moment what I expected was for him to hit me, to beat me up. He looked at my eyes and saw fear. But I just sat there as he came toward me and crushed me with a strong embrace.

“I love you,” Dave said. “I would never hurt you.” The bear hug did kind of hurt, but in the best way possible. Dave was shaken, but supportive. He quickly did two more shots. (I patted myself on the back for having the foresight to bring Jack Daniel’s.) He asked how long I’d known—and, most importantly, why I hadn’t told him sooner. Apparently, his parents had been on him since freshman year about whether I was gay and he’d been denying it to them all along. The longer we talked, the more he began to feel that I’d betrayed him by keeping something so big from him for so long. He wasn’t that upset that I was gay. He was upset that I’d lied. I decided to wait awhile before admitting that, additionally, I didn’t really care as much about Led Zeppelin as I’d led him to believe, either.

I spent the next few months breaking out my journal, reading my coming-out passage to various friends. Overall, the support was overwhelming, although two friends later confessed to barfing hours after our conversations. I’m going to choose to blame that one on processed foods, whether it’s true or not. Dave had a bumpier road to full acceptance, which came to require weekly phone conversations with Evelyn Cohen. I don’t know who helped whom more, but I was grateful they had each other. Even if it is incredibly weird to have your best friend calling your mom to rap about your sexual orientation.

But as for me, the road ahead, for once, seemed open and smooth. I finally felt free.

The Jewfro, brushed out to full effect, always got a laugh.

I DON’T TRANSCRIBE

In the summer of 1989 the terror I had felt about coming out—about ever fitting in—was forgotten the instant I stepped into the massive brick monstrosity on a decidedly ungentrified block of Hell’s Kitchen, a building anyone might have assumed was a rehab center or insurance headquarters if not for the simple and chic little black dress of an awning over the front entrance that read CBS BROADCAST CENTER.

I can remember sitting in the den in St. Louis as a thirteen-year-old with my mom and our neighbor, Mrs. Arkin, while they drank their scotch and watched Walter Cronkite hand the CBS Evening News over to Dan Rather in 1981. Even as a ’tween, I knew what a huge deal this was. It was an era when anchormen were anchormen—trusted, unbiased, larger-than-life authorities on the news. They were real journalists who mattered.

So when it came time to apply for summer internships in college, I had my heart set on working for the CBS Evening News. Did I want to be an anchor,