The Libido & The Ego

In 1991, I graduated high school at the Jersey shore and celebrated the summer of my life with the best friends and family a guy could ever ask for. I had already slept with more women than most men do in a lifetime, so I figured the next logical step was to go to Hollywood and become a movie star.

My father pursued acting too, but gave it up at the age of 40 to become a music editor in New York. There he met my mother and settled down, but not before leading the life of a highly active bachelor who had been with nearly 300 women.

He retired when I was 10, and it was like having access to a living, breathing, encyclopedia of sex. Nothing was off topic, and I felt extremely lucky to have him as a mentor, friend, and father.

By the time high school rolled around, I was already a full-blown stud. After meeting a girl on the beach or boardwalk, I’d take her home and screw her brains out. Topless posters plastered my bedroom walls and I was given a subscription to Playboy at 14.

My parents not only backed my sexual freedom, they believed in my thespian dreams and agreed to float me for four years, the same amount of time they would have had I gone to college.

So, now it was my chance for fame and fortune in “the land of opportunity.” In NJ, I was a big fish in a small pond, but in Los Angeles, I was just another type. Not only was there was a ton of competition; they were taller, better built, and better looking.

My acting abilities at the time were virtually non-existent. I had no idea who I was, other than the fact that I could score with women. You’d think I could have slept my way to the top, but somehow that didn’t happen. Instead, my ego created a narcissistic, arrogant cover for my persona, and I walked around like I deserved an Oscar, adding fire to the gasoline.