Rachel told me to escort her to a cocktail soiree at Sardi's, an event held specifically to entice rich gay men to invest in Broadway musicals that will be opening sometime in the near future (this and this).
"Wow!" I thought. "I could make some money tonight!" I wanted to dress like an innocent Japanese schoolboy in desperate need of a sugar daddy to support my theater career, but, alas, I didn't pack any shorts. I did practice my best shy, submissive, Asian laugh, and practiced saying with a thick accent, "My benefactor just died, and I need a new one."
When I arrived, I wanted to make sure that I wasn't too self-obsessed and that I was of some use, so I told the producer who organized the event, "I just want to let you know that I am perfectly willing to service any of your potential investors in the bathroom if that will help." The producer walked away and when he walked back later I reiterated, "I'm here to be exploited in any way you need me."
The investment pitch for these multimillion-dollar productions was so exciting that I wanted to invest, particularly in the second show. "I have $100!" I thought to myself, before finding out that the minimum investment was $25,000.
I approached the producer and his associate after the event and declared, "That was so great that I want to invest!" They both beamed with excitement. "I have $100!" I declared. They chuckled and scampered away, crushing my desire to be a part of Broadway history.
I'm going to e-mail Rachel tomorrow and see if she can convince her associates to take my 100 bucks, which means I will make something like 0.01 percent of the profits. But I'm not good at math, so it's probably even less.
The battle between me looking for a benefactor and me being a benefactor rages on. Which "me" will emerge victorious in the months to come?