Free Master of Ceremonies: A Memoir by Joel Grey

growth toward independence or a necessity given the wrath that would be my punishment, I had learned earlier in my life to lie really well to my parents and others about where I was going and whom I was seeing. And so no one ever challenged me or suspected a thing.
    I felt completely safe with Paul, so much so that even when he suggested that we go horseback riding at Will Rogers Park in the Santa Monica Mountains I wasn’t terribly concerned. My only experience with horses was being photographed seated on a pony, wearing a redand-white kerchief round my neck, at the age of five. I told Paul that I didn’t ride, but he was very reassuring, explaining that these horses were gentle and besides, he was very experienced. “Don’t worry,” he said. And I didn’t worry; I never worried with Paul. While I felt as much connection to Paul as I had with Walter, there was no comparison. Although Walter was older than I, he was still my contemporary. Paul, however, was a figure of authority and experience.
    The 186 acres of land overlooking the Pacific Ocean had once been home to the much-loved humorist, vaudeville cowboy, newspaper columnist, and legendary actor but was left to the state by his widow. Paul rented horses for us from the stables, mounting his expertly. With a boost from one of the cowboys at the park, I soon sat tall on a big beautiful horse and pretended all was well, as I often did. I wasn’t exactly relaxed, but I was with Paul, and his confidence was not only reassuring, it boosted my own. After about a half hour, with Paul leading at only a slow trot, we left the trail and went into the more densely wooded area.
    Being among the trees with no one else around was like being in a movie. I was starting to enjoy the ride. When we found ourselves in a clearing, we climbed down, and Paul tied the horses to a tree. We got right to setting up the blanket. Even as deep into the woods as we were, there was still the slight chance that we could be discovered. But the risk only heightened the moment. He had hidden a split of champagne in his jacket pocket. While he was tying the horses to a tree, I put my arms around him. Paul turned around and as he began to unbutton my shirt, I opened his belt. Naked atop the blanket, I thought, So this was grown-up passion , what caring and being cared for felt like.
    Our relationship had to be a secret, but I never doubted that it was real. Although I was dating girls at school, Paul became my obsession. With him I was at my most. Not to say I didn’t experience pleasure with girls, but there were just so many more levels to the pleasure I had with Paul. In turn, he was attentive, passionate, and seemingly sincere. So when Linda, a friend from the temple, whispered in confidence to me during Friday-night services that she had a “crush” on Paul, I genuinely felt bad for her. Not that she wasn’t attractive, because she was. In fact, Linda had everything: looks, intelligence, and a wealthy family (her parents were big donors to the synagogue).
    Although my dad had become more and more successful as a musician and comedian, you would never consider us well-to-do. During Dad’s lean periods, we moved a lot; all of us once crammed into a one-room apartment over a garage for a few weeks. But Dad finally saved enough for a down payment on a small, pale-green ranch house in the city’s Palms neighborhood. I loved that house on Malcolm Avenue where we had not only had a victory garden but also a fox terrier we named Lulu.
    Still, it was nothing compared with Linda’s family and their Beverly Hills mansion. She would pick me up after school sometimes in her white Oldsmobile convertible—all the jocks whistling and shouting catcalls. Whenever the gorgeous nineteen-year-old arrived at the school with the top down, my stock at Hami went way up.
    It never occurred to me, though, that Paul would be the least bit interested. She’d go on and on, mooning over him, and planning an attack to