Scott Capurro

Scott Capurro
GT
August, 2007

Prague is a beautiful city, but that’s not the reason lots of gay porn is produced there. The men are inexpensive and slightly desperate.

More importantly, they’re incredibly hot. They’re the sweet side of Slavic, some with blond hair and tan lines, others with pale 8-packs and shiny black pubes, but all with soft, wide features and plump, hungry lips. Czechs are the master race, which might be why they’ve been invaded so often. Everyone wants a piece.

Just don’t call these porn stars gay. Unlike Paris Hilton, they go limp over labels. The country is 70% atheist, and they’ve never had any laws against homosex. Without a common enemy, no queer ghetto developed, and anyway everyone loves cock. The world is cock-centric, and for several hours, I hovered over ground zero.

An American friend named Kevin who runs a porn company’s publicity department invited me to a shoot. I happened to be in town for a festival, and I had seen enough kitsch buildings. Kevin is gay, but almost all of the actors on the set that morning were straight. 30 young men had been hired from a local ‘modeling’ agency, hand picked for their beauty and stamina. There was no booze on the stage where they’d be screwing, although the ‘extras’ – another 40 models who’d been brought in to cheer on the greased-up performers from cabaret tables dotted about – were drinking beer and posturing. I asked Kevin why the extras were all wearing brown wristbands.

“So they can play. You can only join in if you have a wristband.” Kevin smiled at an actor. “Or if you’re me. God I love my job.”

Bowls of Viagra were everywhere, and I wondered, at first, how they knew it was my drug of choice. I felt like an honored guest, until I was reminded that straight guys need artificial stimulation to poke boy butt.

Setting up took hours. A few young women wandered in and out. They were waiting patiently for their boyfriends to fuck each other so they could all drive home together. Wherever home was. Most of these folks can’t afford to live in the city. I saw one actor fastidiously polishing his belt buckle. It was Gucci. He was obviously very proud of it.

I sat quietly, on a folding chair, legs crossed, away from the action. I felt like a chaperone, trying to appear slightly aloof as I read an English newspaper. I wasn’t sure how I was meant to behave. I’ve never been a porn fan, because I can’t suspend my disbelief enough to imagine the people I’m watching are enjoying themselves. When I looked up, I saw a very muscle-y brute smiling at the camera while banging away at one of only two gay-identified actors, barely 18, lying back on a black sofa, almost like he’d fainted, his lithe body being rocked by the pounding. He appeared, I dunno, lonely. I watched his distracted gaze slowly wander around the room, as his small hands reached for the bronzed thighs of his oppressor, hoping, I imagined, for something tactile, something real, to remind him why he was throwing away his youth. When I noticed the Tag Heuer watch on his thin wrist, I remembered why.

He made eye contact with me, and winked. I sincerely did one of those double takes you only see comedies, looking behind, not sure whom he was trying to lure. Then I realized it was me. Like a nurse I bolted to his side, grabbing his hard, hot cock as if it had been sprained and needed a splint. In broken English he said, ‘No band. No. No.’ He pushed my hand away. I fell back off the stage, heading for the exit door, my tail between my shaved legs.

Before leaving, I turned and noticed, really for the first time, a sea of men practically eating each other. There was so much activity that I couldn’t, initially, identify who was penetrating whom. Then I saw my friend Kevin handing a coke bottle to one of the actors, indicating to him to shove it up the ass of another. I thought, Look who ran out and got their directorial degree between cum shots.

Several guys were laughing, and then I heard one actor yell out, “Can we stop using condoms now please?” Safe sex makes a good impression, but once the close-ups are over, these boys like to lighten up. After all, condoms are for queers. And westerners. And anyone with a future.

Scott Capurro
Gay Times
July 2007

Before a show in Covent Garden, a note came hand delivered. The young man smiled, said some kind words, and then shyly, slowly walked back to his seat.
The paper was embossed with a Buddha head. I do yoga. I considered this a good sign. Once opened, in black pen it read: “I don’t do this very often, but I think you’re very funny and I’d like to meet up with you…” There was a phone number, and an encouraging “I really hope we meet!” scribbled in the lower left side of the missive.
After my set, Tom (let’s just call him that) reappeared, with another young guy I assumed was his boyfriend. My heart, what’s left of it, sank, but when we went for drinks, tiny Tom made it clear he was single. That weekend, from his Jewish father’s house in Wales he sent me a text that ended with an on-screen bear emitting red hearts from its chest. I was aroused.
All went downhill from there. At lunch he showed me phone photos of he and James, then he and Jasper. Men he’d befriended. Older men, who’d assumed things. He’d disappointed them both by remaining platonic. I accused him of being a prick tease, and he just smiled. I found his coyness exhilarating.
I brushed my hand on his belly button whilst kissing him lightly on the lips. Later, he texted me, punishing me with the ol’ “I hope friendship is enough.” Of course it’s not. It never is. That’s why it’s always offered as a compromise, like the Gaza Strip.
I felt feeble and ugly. Not as pathetic as Tom’s previous conquests, although to be fair James and Jasper are much richer and much more famous than little graying me. But then my teeth aren’t fake. Sorry Jasper.
I deleted Tom’s number from my phonebook; then a young French clerk from Tate Modern asked if we could go out. And I never heard from him again. I texted, I called, and now I suppose he thinks I’m needy.
Youths have always been my muse. I like their confidence, and I find the ease with which young gays deal with their sexuality inspiring. I’d twice misinterpreted their flirtations, but so what? People flirt all the time.
Yet my ego was so shattered that, just last week, to stop myself from crying in front of Tom’s work, I had to literally freeze and count in my head the things about me that might appeal romantically to another man. But everything I could come up with seemed to counter itself.
I’m honest. Well, actually, I’ve no choice. I’m a bad liar.
I’m a walker. And I’m fast, even when wearing a costume, like today. I’m camouflaged, and moving faster than any real postal worker would ever move. I wonder what I’m running away from?
I’m, uh…a non-smoker. Yet I’m still asthmatic, and my wheezing increases when I’m anxious.
So it’s come to this: I’m so grizzled that my only positive characteristics are those that might appeal to my parole officer.
I stifle a cough as I adjust my sunglasses, watching my reflection in Tom’s office window. He’s a temp, with good hair and grand plans, and I still have rain gutters, those little hipbones so alluring on someone under 30, but rather alarming on a 44 year old. No one my age should be so thin. Svelte maybe, but skinny is sinister, like knowing the lyrics to a Sinatra song at the tender age of 10. My father thought there was something wrong with any kid who spent so much time alone, just the way he wonders why I’m alone now.
I heard pity in his voice when we spoke on the weekend. We’re not close, but he worries about me. So do I. I thought I’d spend my forties walking my boyfriend’s dogs. I’d cook and have time to myself, while someone I loved was off earning money.
“I don’t want much,” I find myself saying out loud, as I sort through fake mail, “just financial security and a good fuck now and then.”
A parked cabi watches me. Or does he? I’ve become so self-conscious, so defensive and so road weary of young men that I’m suspicious of everyone, even of myself.
I’m a weird looking fucker, but I’m attentive and insightful. At least, in person. I stroll into Tom’s work, ready to state my case. And deliver his post. But he’s at lunch, so I leave a note.
“It’s me, Scott, the funny guy. Call me. Maybe friendship is enough.”
Terrible liar, remember?

So a couple of weeks ago I’m doing my schtick, and some dickhead stands up and demands I stop, etc. In Bath of all places. Usually they’re very well-behaved there, it’s posh, and they’re white and worried. But I think I was rattling on and on about the Muslims, as one does. Isn’t that what they want, the radicals, with all their attention-seeking missles? Anyway, this big dumb fuck gets nervous I suppose, and very concerned about a lot of people he’ll never ever meet or even piss on really, and he yelps that he finds me offensive, blah blah blah and eventually his girlfriend yanks him out of the club. I don’t know what he thought I’d do. Stop? Yeah, right. I just let him dig his own hole. He went home to beat his fists into a wall, and I stayed on stage and told more nasty gags. I love it when I win.
When I heard from the booker that the show had been reviewed, I choked on my fancy metaphors, but when I read the article by Melissa Blease, I found it sharp and brave and I think it represents a large element of my work quite well.
I’m posting this so when you come to see me this Saturday at the Machester Comedy Festival, you’ll know what to expect. This way, your dumb ass boyfriend might not embarrass you. Or maybe he will, which, frankly, makes for better comedy.

…But the evening belonged to Scott Capurro – a whippet thin, razor tongued acid queen with an on-stage persona as venomous as a viper, specialising in brutally honest, fully frank observations on chattering class taboos. No subject – from Maddie to Muslims, Catholics to the clitoris, paedophilia, racism and bombing Iran – is sacred. The unease in the room is often palpable; the punchlines hit so hard you can almost taste the blood that oozes from Capurro’s victims, many of whom are unsuspecting audience members who dare to sit within easy reach of the predator. One such punter vocalises his appalled protest; more fool the man who takes on the Wicked Witch of the West Coast and expects to leave with his red shoes intact. “It’s always the middle class white liberals, isn’t it?” Capurro sneers, in his wake. “He’s gone home to beat his wife up”. Meanwhile, those of us strong enough to stay the course were richly rewarded, our illicit guilty pleasure buttons pushed to the limits. We climaxed when a finger puppet show explored the dynamics of a new gay relationship, from giggling along with “I wuv you, kissy kissy” to wriggling apprehensively as the desolate sobs that emanate from “I’m going to fuck you ‘til you bleed” filled the room. Distasteful? Come on, bitch – you know you want it.
FIVE STARS

Earlier, I did a set at the Komedia in Brighton, a venue I’ve played successfully for many years. However tonite, I was performing as part of a gay and lesbian themed evening and they asked me to go on first. Not a great idea, my act is slightly confrontational, but i agreed because I liked the idea of getting back to London early ish.
Zoe L hosted and she was great, as always. But I felt tension the moment i set foot on stage. Then I realized it was a room full of women, with the occasional cocksucker for good measure. It was a gay and lesbian show, with a gay shortage in the audience, and, I was to find out, a shortage of irony and any sense of humor or, even, an awareness that these cunts were in a comedy room.
My act tripped along, getting laughs here and there but as I made fodder of racist remarks and small minded pc behavior, I realized I was making fun of the kind of middle class white fucks who were sitting watching me. The types that think they’re ‘cool’ and hip and have no ethnic friends and wonder why blacks are so angry. Self concsious and vicimized, these dykes think they have to defend everyone they’ve never met. Who knows, they’re women so anything could’ve happened: They might’ve been touched by an uncle, or maybe they’re all having their periods simultaneously, but by the time I was making fun of that missing English girl Maddy the room had a reason to turn on me, and they did.
The booing became uncontrollable. Then it calmed, because I wasn’t leaving the stage. I’ve never been booed off a stage, and I wasn’t going to let a room full of scary power dykes do the job. I mean, some of these women were frightening, even one of the employees complained that she’d seen them going in, and wondered why they were so large and intimidating.
“The last thing I’d wanna see going down on me” she told me, right before I went on, “is one of those huge heads.”
I guess I could’ve played it nicey nice on stage, I know Brighton lezzies have a reputation for being dull witted and humorless, but I gave them my respect by doing the act in the same way I’d play the straight room 2 floors below. I’m not there to babysit, and if they want juggling they should hire a fucking clown.
Then two skanky gays with dyed hair said to me, from the front row, “We paid!” I thought they were on my side, and they were saying ‘we wanna see your show’. Then one said, “We find you offensive, aggressive, arrogant…”
I thought, keep going, I sound hot.
I just didn’t know what to do, really. I wasn’t nervous, necessarily, but I did feel like my control of the room had been lost, especially when the lezzies in the back started singing like football hooligans. Seriously, I have NEVER had any abuse near the amount I suffered from those muffers, and though some gay men were trying their best to encourage me to stay on stage, I finished my set, as it was, and walked off stage to lots of booing and some cheers.
I suppose I could’ve attacked the crowd, but the room is so large i couldn’t really see past the first row, and anyway, I don’t attack people by screaming or throwing things or verbally harrassing anyone. That’s not my style. It would never occur to me to heckle. Were I ever in the audience, I’d simply leave the room if I was offended. I’d go to the bar and order a drink. But these pussy lickers see me as the enemy – male, attractive (comparatively), self assured and worst of all, American. Suddenly I was a terrorist, a rapist and their father, all rolled into one.
Zoe chastised them, and she was both embarrassed and annoyed by their behavior. But it did remind me that I’m so, so glat that I never set my sights on playing gay rooms, or doing some queer circuit as a comic that probably barely exists anyway. Dykes are a nightmare of course, as audience members, but really catagorizing myself in any way would’ve been limiting and, ultimately, disappointing. I might have turned into a bitter, one legged drunk with one joke and no friends, like another gay comic I started out with in San Francisco.
I just wonder why some people even leave the house. Or why I do, if this is the sort of shit I have to tolerate from retard homos. Really, these kind of Brighton cunts would push me way back in the closet, if I were freshly out. Why is it the only really bad response i get is from gays and muffie muffs? The San Jose Gay and Muffer Centre in Califronia tried to have me banned. I just did a corporate for some gay swimmers last week, and they stared at me like I was a martian. And now this. Maybe we gays are our own worst enemies. Maybe I should fuck women. Would that make me more marketable? I guess I could ask George Clooney.
Anyway, come to my show in Manchester. October 20th, at the Dancehouse Theatre. It’s part of the comedy festival there, and I’m doing an hour, and it will be great because northerners like a good laugh. I hope.
xxx