Year of My Sticky

This S-T-A-R-T-S when I S-T-O-P-P-E-D. I was all, “Leave me alone, can’t you?” After being in three American movies, two Moroccan fight features, one weird documentary, plus Freakkkky Fashion Shit. “I quit. I quit.” That’s me. Squawk-Squawk-Squawker Voice. But can I? That’s the question. Can I quit? Can I resist the shitlift of being interviewed and photographed with no shirt on? Can I refuse cover shots for Maxim, GQ, Huomo Vogue -- pants casually undone, Low-Slung Art-Directed Open-Pants-Guy. How ‘bout the thrill of going places? I’m not talking around the world, sweetheart. I mean check this out. 70-millimeter lens aims right at me, lights on, smoke set, camera rolling, our lord and master cries ACTION, the crew freezes. “Will he nail it this time?” Slo-mo suspense. “Can we get doughnuts after this take?” No dialogue, just my eyes forty feet wide on the big screen, deranged and passionate. “Humiliation,” the director whispers in my ear, “is power. Now show us.” Takes 1 through 8 suck. Bad-assed reaction shot, funky and deep, what’s the problem? Why can’t I deliver? “Hel-lo?” The director beats his forehead against my chest. “Anybody home?” 9 through 14 are better. Then 15 is bingo, beguiling mystery rushes out my eyes, hurt and power, power and hurt. Braids Of Grief And Strength. “Print the jolly fuckers! All three cameras, check gates!” The director French kisses me. A thousand more shots, a thousand more scenes – I end up the Details January cover, pants slip-slip-slipping down. Veins on my lower abdomen, Blue Highways To Heaven. Now come close, darlings, come here. Don’t be frightened, take a look. Checkmate is on 2,200 screens across America. And I’m The Star. Oops, stop, wait. Rule Number One, as given to me by my very own Paramount Pictures P.R. team, “Do not brag,” they scolded me in a stage whisper before the Today show. “Meredith Viera hates braggarts.” Bryan Lourd, my CAA agent, smoothes the moment. Bryan never scolds, Bryan’s always cheerful, always at my disposal, doesn’t care how early in the morning, doesn’t mind how phony the dealio. “Know what you are?” Bryan’s Got A Mantra. “You’re the best goddamn actor of your generation.” Bryan discovered me in Morocco. Blond/blue, 6’1”, swimmer’s bod, I was doing cheap fight pictures, kick-boxing to hell. Bryan got me two B movies and then got me Checkmate. “You’re terrific” -- he’s text messaging right now -- “let’s line up another film.” Bryan’s buzzing outside my house gate, see --or if he calls on any of my phone lines-- nobody’s allowed to answer. I’m like, “No thanks, Bry. I don’t think so.” I’m A Squawk-Squawk-Squawker Guy. Here’s why. Fasten seat belts, take a deep breath for this. No plastic overlay interruption. No note to publisher, ain’t got time. Academy Award For Best Actor. This year. Yikes, yikes, yikes. I mean, Jee whiz, How Fucking Insane. Why’d they have to choose me? Stupid Assholes In Hollywood, Stop Screwing With My Life. OK, sorry, wasn’t gonna freak out, page five, but this is the truth. As you pretty much kinda know. I mean, “Mr. and Mrs. Reader, you breathing?” Yes? You are? Then OK, you know me. This is Sebastian Long, Captain for the Ride. Live from the upper terraces of the Chateau. You should see the searchlights and sirens from up here, nighttime Godzilla glitzville. Sebastian Long, you say? Yes, hon, pleased to make your acquaintance. And you, babe. Don’t you look nice. Sebastian, is it? Yes, darlin’. As in Saint Sebastian, Lord Sebastian, Lost Soul Sebastian. Last name Long? As in what do I have on me that’s long? MSD-D. My Sweet Dickie-Doo. Touch it, ma’am. M-C-C. My Cool Cock. Suck It, Why Don’t You? Oops, that’s rude, I apologize. But listen. Sebastian Long’s not my real name. Big fucking doi, Sebastian Long isn’t anyone’s real name, is it? Someone gave me this handle, Sebastian Long, I had to make up reasons why I liked it. Academy Award for Best Actor, this year, three weeks ago – that is not one of the reasons, believe me. Award for best performance? Me? Shi-i-i-i-t. W-h-o-a. Je-sus. How’d that happen? I mean let’s be honest, my career before Checkmate was punching meat. Take after dumb-ass sweat-flying take. Most I ever did before Checkmate, I mean for dialogue, was grunt before letting fly a punch. Guy Who Could Not Express – That Was Me. Now here I am. Doing Musical Chairs with Robert, Colin, Ethan, Jude. The whole world has a hard-on for Jude. But surprise, surprise, I swiped Oscar out his ass. I won the Golden Nude Dude. At the Kodak Theater. On Oscar Night. For playing Hans. In a film called Checkmate. Case you don’t know, we’re talking one crazy movie, I gotta tell you, Checkmate’s Freakkkin’ Weird. Nazi European history drama, 1940’s Europe. So, shit, jeez, yawn-yawn, what’s the fuss? Why’s this movie making waves? It’s not about aliens, it’s not about baseball. Here ya go, babe. Lemme spill the news. Here’s the Big Why. I’m Naked Onscreen for more than one hour – that’s the dealio. But not always sexual naked. More like Out-There Naked. Pure Survival Naked. Biggest Tragedy in the Whole World Naked. Doomed Naked. Ruthless Naked, and Terrible Naked. But not Harvey Kietel naked, no, sir. We’re talking cute guy naked. Young guy naked. Dolce & Gabbana type guy naked. For this one scene, see, I have Nazi generals throwing whiskey at me. I’m slobbering and shivering on a banquet table, Trying To Get Away. Begging To Live. All my nerves pop-pop-popping through my skin. Clear snot droplets slide off my chin. Drool snot parades down my tits. Rivers Of Emotion. Fear And Panic. Sad Panic Eyes. The director filmed whiskey rivers streaming down my abs. He shot snot droplets suspended from my chin -- different angles, different light, different filters. Real tears on my left cheek. Fake tears down my right. Combo-tears on my shaking upper lip. The scene took a week of 16-hour days, four cameras, ten miles of Kodak film #5218, enough electricity to tart up Romania for a year. “Beauty craves punishment,” the director licked my ear. “And …ACTION!” Whoa, terrific job, magnificent performance. I mean it, What A Scaredy-Cat Guy. Plus you see my dick. The director makes sure my dick’s in every master. How long was Richard Gere naked in American Gigolo? Five seconds? I never saw that movie, but people say it was some kinda big deal. Try one fucking hour, man, that’s me in Checkmate. “Show the guy, show the guy. We’ve seen the girl, please show us the guy. We Wanta See The Guy.” Last Frontier In America. Male Movie Star Naked On Screen. Is Cock Fun To Look At? Golden nude dude, Academy Award Winner, zero to a hundred. Long story short, my performance made quite the impression. These days there’s hyper demand for my prof-fes-sion-al ser-vic-es. “Sir Vice, Sir Vice, please be in our next picture.” Famous directors banging on the door, Brett Radner, Brad Silberling, Mike Newell. The Coens, Miss Smarty Pants Coppola and her dad, Senor Coppola Senior, speed dialing to set up meetings. Academy Award Winner – wow, freakish, freaky thing-thang-thing. I call it AAW. As in AAW, shucks. AAW, gimme a break. AAW, go fuck yourself. “Delicious.” “Brilliant.” “Sublimo.” That’s Joe Roth, Amy Pascal, Sony Pictures, the Weinsteins at their new joint – old time Tom, Dicks and Harveys ready to slick my balls with cash. If I repeat the naked thing.