Over and over, footage of Rock Hudson standing next to Doris Day was playing on television, and he looked ghastly. His skin was wrinkled and sunken as if by very old age. It was 1985, and it was one of the last close-up images most of us would ever see of the movie icon. And it was terrifying. 

My heart was pounding, and I tried to listen to the voice-over, which spoke of the sudden illness of Rock Hudson and speculation that he might have AIDS. Throughout the newscast, memories of a night in 1982, nearly three years earlier, sprang to life. The images taunted me and screamed at me and said gonna getcha gonna getcha gonna getcha …

Charley and I had recently moved to Los Angeles and the city still held such mystery and promise for us. We were excited about spending our anniversary at the gay restaurant New York Company, where you got a candle on your table and mushrooms on your prime rib and they would probably sing to us or bring a special piece of cake.

No sooner had we settled at our table and ordered drinks than Charley started nudging my arm and staring at something behind me. I glanced in that direction, and was stunned to find Rock Hudson seated there, talking with another man.

In our short time in Los Angeles, I had developed the attitude that famous people deserved their privacy and one shouldn’t ogle them. I thought it was cool not to care they were there, even though I was dying to look. In any case, Charley was staring across our table in a gay restaurant directly at Rock Hudson and I wanted him to stop right this minute.

I was definitely jealous, not only of being upstaged by a movie star at my anniversary dinner, but because I wanted to look at him so badly myself, and Charley had the perfect view. So I pestered poor Charley for the next ten minutes about how rude he was and how I couldn’t believe he found the man so fascinating and why couldn’t he pay attention to me on this special night and all sorts of other such lies.

“You men having any fun?”

There was no mistaking the voice, and I looked up from my pouting stance to Charley, who was grinning across our table at the man behind me. “Sure,” Charley managed to say. I turned around and Rock Hudson was smiling at me. I was a star struck boy and there was no hiding it now.

“Yeah, me too,” I said. How completely embarrassing.

“You sure?” he asked, “Because my friend and I were just discussing it, and I was saying that the two of you were having a fight.”

Rock Hudson was discussing me. Rock Hudson was discussing me.

“Uh no, not at all,” I lied, jumping in before Charley had a chance to say what a bitch I was and how I thought you shouldn’t ogle movie stars. “I think we’re just kinda tired. As a matter of fact, today is our anniversary and we’re celebrating.”

“Yeah,” said Charley, “we’re doing fine. How are you tonight?” He was playing along, had forgiven me, and was asking Rock Hudson a question. This was unbelievable.

“It’s really wonderful that you two are having an anniversary. How long have you been together?”

“Three years,” we said in unison.

“That’s just great. Congratulations.” At this point he introduced his friend, who went “way back” and who’s name I couldn’t tell you in a million years, and then he offered an invitation. “Come sit with us, boys. Have a drink. It’s a special occasion.”

I looked at Charley, holding on to my “protect their privacy” stance for a few more seconds, but he had already risen to join them. What the hell. Like I would have refused. I took my spot beside Rock Hudson because I would have broken Charley’s arm if he had tried that seat and he knew it. Another round of drinks appeared, and the star launched into clever stories that I don’t quite remember but were more than fascinating at the time.

The conversation wandered onto Trivial Pursuit, the game which was then new and all the rage.

“Yes, I’ve heard of that,” Rock said. “I haven’t played it yet.”

“We’ve got the game, Rock,” Charley said. “You should really come over some time and we’ll play it with you.” I couldn’t believe what he was saying. He actually called Mr. Rock Hudson “Rock.” Furthermore, my partner had just invited this man “over some time,” like that was really in the realm of possibility.

More drinks arrived. This man can drink like a cow, I thought, and not even show it. He was playful, though, and shot a few looks my way that I would have taken quite differently if it weren’t clear I was celebrating my anniversary with the man to my immediate left.

“It’s a great game,” I found myself saying. “You wanna come over and play it with us?” I was a teensy bit smashed, no doubt about it.

“Yes, I would.”

I’m sure there was more to it, more of a rationale as to why he felt comfortable crashing our anniversary evening, but I don’t remember. His friend kindly begged off of the event, and it was decided that Charley would take his friend home while I rode with Rock so he had no problem finding our apartment. I still will never believe he parked his classy import on Edgewood Avenue, because it made me nervous parking my car there. Once inside, I found a full bottle of Scotch, poured him a drink, and gave him a tour of our tiny apartment until Charley got back.

I was no fool. What we had here was a prescription for something… unseemly. But I was barreling through these bizarre circumstances and wasn’t weighing the specific possibilities. That’s a lie. I was pursuing it because I suspected what was to come.

We played the game for a couple of hours, Rock winning and drinking. Before it was over the Scotch would be history and I would offer to roll a joint. “Pot makes me horny,” he said, “so I don’t know if I should–” and of course I was passing him the joint faster than you could say Star Fucker.

He talked about movies. And sex. And people he loved and hated. The juiciest tales began with “I was really drunk one night when” and the meanest had to do with people he thought had treated him badly professionally (“You need Julie Andrews like you need a knife in your back,” said he).

Charley had taken it all in, but knew when enough was enough. He excused himself quite late to go to bed, Rock offered to go, I wouldn’t hear of it, and we continued sitting in the dining room passing the joint.

I knew what was being played out. Questions floated about in the back balcony of my head, just within earshot. What kind of guy was I? Was I going to have sex with this man right here in the living room? What about my anniversary? What about the man I loved asleep in the bedroom? Was Rock Hudson as well hung as everyone said? Some questions got my attention more than others.

Rock made motions for the umpteenth time that it was time to go home, so while he whispered another insincere goodnight, I drunkenly opened the pants of Mr. Rock Hudson. The fact that this was a famous escapade had overruled the anniversary etiquette issues.

Thirty minutes or so later, I stood in my robe outside the bathroom, wondering what Rock Hudson thought about the rust stained bathtub in which he was quickly showering. The sex had been in near dark, and without the pretext of romance — no tender caresses or meaningful glances.

I can remember only one direct look from the man. I stared down upon his face after the exhaustion of labored sex — too much bourbon, too much pot — and my eyes tried adjusting to his face in the dark. And then there it was, staring back at me, with a surprisingly impatient look. Stern and almost elderly.

“Are you done?” he asked blankly.

Well, life ain’t the damned movies, I suppose.

I would make small talk with him as he toweled dry and dressed, and then me, in a final act of staking my claim, asking for his autograph. Yes, so help me, I asked the damp, drunk and spent star to scribble “All my best, Rock Hudson” on a piece of notebook paper before his hasty exit down the duplex stairs and out to the dingy street below.

I watched the car pull away and walked slowly back to the bedroom, where Charley was sound asleep and snoring. I laid down in the dark and the night replayed in my mind. Was I triumphant? Excited, thrilled, guilty? I had just bedded the ultimate male screen icon of a generation, and I hadn’t the slightest idea how to feel about it.

Rock Hudson was now a ghastly figure on a television screen in my living room. My heart raced every time the evening news began and some new tidbit of information about his disease, his sex life, his kiss with Linda Evans on “Dynasty,” his lovers and his drug treatments were reported with morbid tones and oh-my-God urgency.

I had not yet been tested for HIV. In 1985, what was the point? There were no known effective treatments, the first drug treatment, AZT, was just being introduced and people with AIDS were dropping like flies. It was politically incorrect to get tested because it could lead to discrimination, brand you as terminal and assure you that every pathetic image of a dying AIDS patient applied directly to you.

And that is exactly what the Rock Hudson coverage was doing to me, test or no test. Magazines and Dan Rather news stories were talking to me specifically. ROCK HUDSON HAS AIDS, the headlines screamed, AND MARK KING WILL DIE AS WELL.

“Rock Hudson is now resting in his Los Angeles home beyond a doctors care,” reported Mary Hart on Entertainment Tonight, “and Mark, you’re an idiot if you think you can escape this now. You’re dead as a door nail, buddy. What were you thinking?”

I would stare at the coverage without a word, and nod my head at parties when someone said how tragic it was and excuse myself.

My parents had been told the censored version of the anniversary night story that very next day, and called me in Los Angeles shortly after Rock was reported ill. “Why not go down to the hospital?” my father asked. “You could try to cheer him up, maybe bring Trivial Pursuit!” I explained the man had a million fans and wouldn’t remember me, without mentioning how trivial the pursuit had been.

In October of 1985, Rock Hudson died in his home. News reports tortured me for months to come.

(Edited from A Place Like This, by Mark S. King. Copyright 2008.)

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I love checking the analytical data produced by my blog software. It tells me what pages of my site you are visiting, what link sent you here, and even where you live (Hello, Cleveland! G’day, Sidney!). It also tells me what keyword searches bring people to my site, and once I sort through all the porn references (that piece on porn star Dawson still reels in the readers), the most popular Google search that brings people to my site, still, is the two words “Rock Hudson.”

Since interest in him remains so high, I don’t mind sharing this piece again (it appeared on my site in 2010). It allows me to provide a perspective on AIDS, celebrity, and our communal fear during the 1980′s that those Google visitors might never have expected.

Thanks for reading, and please be well.

Mark

This article originally appeared on Mark’s own blog My Fabulous Disease here. 

February has really been a busy time for me in so many ways. 2013 started with so many blessings and they just keep coming. There is a smile on my face and I’m embracing the sun on my face while exploring the passion in every single possibility.

February started with a full remodel of my kitchen, bathroom and floors. I was really excited because it meant new granite countertops, new tile on my floors, new cabinets, new stove and a new toilet. To add to the excitement I was so happy to see that all the new items proudly displayed the American flag and something I don’t see very often…MADE IN AMERICA. Well that was true for everything except the new toilet supplied by the Department of Water and Power (DWP) which was made in China.

The remodel lasted for about a week. The workers moved fast, but since my place is small Dodger and I could not be in the living room area of the apartment because it was filled with everything from the kitchen, bathroom and hall closets. I couldn’t even open the blinds to the floor-to-ceiling windows because I could not reach them. Then there was the noise and dust. Dodger didn’t deal too well with that at all and I must admit that not being able to use my kitchen was a major downer. Thank God for my friends who came by to take me to dinner and helped me with food to place in the refrigerator that did not require me to cook. But in the end it was all worth it and I now have a modern kitchen and bathroom with added cabinet space.

I must say that all this is only possible because Hollywood Community Housing Corporation truly cares about their properties and wants to provide awesome apartments where their residents can feel safe and call home. Every time someone new comes by my place they are always surprised that I live in a low income building. I always hear things like “this building is beautiful” and “wow,  Kengi your apartment is great”.  I’m really blessed to live here, because no organization on Skid Row comes even close to offering the high end quality apartments, bungalows and senior living places like Hollywood Community Housing Corporation does, nor can they hold a light to the respectful services HCHC provides.

February is Black History month and this year I celebrated in grand style. I applied for media credentials to cover the Red Carpet events and premiers of the Pan African Film & Arts Festival. Three days after applying, I received an email informing me that I was “approved”.  I can’t even begin to tell you just how excited and humbled I was.

The Pan African Film & Arts Festival was established in 1992 by actress Janet DuBois (Good Times), award winning actor Danny Glover and Ayuko Babu. The festival is America’s largest and most prestigious international Black film festival. This year, the festival selected a total of 154 films, representing 34 countries -- that is, 23 documentaries, 13 short documentaries, 67 narrative features, and 51 narrative shorts covering subjects of HIV and AIDS, Blues, homosexuality, activism, love stories, family stories and the powerful FREE ANGELA & ALL POLITICAL PRISONERS documentary.

To say this event was star studded is a huge understatement. It was a virtual who’s who of entertainment, mixed with emerging talented film makers, directors, producers and actors all holding space and showcasing the incredible gifts and talents of a culture whose history is rooted in greatness.

I had the pleasure of mixing with some awesome and incredibly talented photographers and videographers, all of whom were professionals in full control of their craft and talents. I also had the misfortune of meeting some insanely arrogant, rude and selfish photographers, one of whom pushed me saying “move, I shoot for a very big agency and you need to move”.  Although this was my first time at this particular “rodeo” I was not about to let some troll with a pink lens push me and tell me to move. In the end her and her pink lens and stool stood at the end of the red carpet. It was funny how some photographers acted as if they were comparing dick sizes, but then there was those who were humble and holding their own with the so called “professionals”.

I had the chance to speak with actors like Richard Roundtree and Janet DuBois about my grandmother who cooked and catered for both of them. I had the pleasure of listening to Hollywood’s new power couple DeVon Franklin and Meagan Good speak about FAITH and how it is at the center of who they are and what they do. I was nnspired by Producer Reginald Hudlin’s  (Django Unchained) very candid and honest talk about Django and for sharing his thoughts, advice and encouragement so freely.

There was just so much for me to take in and celebrate, including the film about a little joint on Central Avenue in Los Angeles where everyone came to play the blues. The opportunity to meet many of the musicians my parents, aunts and uncles use to go see perform and albums they played. The chance to see a film honoring the very place I would hear them speaking about as a kid and the awesome woman who started it all. However the cream of the crop was the chance to meet the incredible, inspiring and courageous Angela Davis. Her red carpet movie premier was crazy and out of control, but a chance of a lifetime and very exciting. Having the chance to capture Angela Davis and Jada Pinkett Smith in my lens was such an honor.

So I celebrated Black History month by honoring the greatness of those who have paved the way for me to do what I do. I expanded my skills as photographer and I held my own against those who claim to be such “professionals” I met some pretty amazing photographers whom I’ve already spoken to and hung out with and have even made plans to work with.

Does anyone remember where I was when Bob first interviewed me here on PositiveLite.com? Does anyone recall my first appearance as a writer here? Does anyone recall all that I’ve been through in my life? Now look where I am.  Still standing, still smiling, still working my hardest for the greater good and still thankful for my life, my health and the truly inspiring people in my life.

LIFE is my RED CARPET and each day I must OWN IT.