A few nights ago at dinner, a married theater friend and I agreed that our profession is more accepting than most of non-marital sex, the unwritten rule being that a performer who does his work well may bed whomever he pleases without fear of professional repercussion. For the most part.
This isn’t to say that theater people are having more sex or better sex than are investment bankers. Nor is it to say that summerstock actors value hearth and home less than do members of the clergy.
It is to say only that, in theatrical circles, you get no points for being married. You lose no points for being divorced. Gay, lesbian, transgender … God’s children, one and all. And if you’re sleeping with your cousin, well, that’s less interesting to dish about than you diddling your goat, but to each his own. Unless you’re diddling the director’s goat, in which case you should send flowers.