Okay, I admit it, I like Madonna—hell, | even saw Who's That Girl in a movie theater (granted, it was sharing the bill with The Lost Boys and it was Dollar Night). So when I heard she was auditioning male dancers for her world tour, I decided—even if my hoofing on Princess Cruise ships wasn't the likeliest path to becoming her Boy Toy—that I'd go and give it my best (long) shot.

As the big day approached, I harbored fantasies of becoming Madonna's soul mate, an achievement possible only because she has enough soul for both of us. I imagined thinking, “I wonder what she wants this time,” as I'd play back the answering machine to hear her voice, “Hi. It's me. Just wanted to talk. I can’t sleep. Call me. Doesn't matter how late.” We would car pool to rehearsal one day in one of her cars, the next in my 1984 Pontiac. She'd love riding with me and she'd say things like, “It's so nice not to have to deal with a car phone,” and, “Watch out for that truck!” The tabloids would follow us and print untrue stories, even going so far as to put Kirk Cameron’s head on my body. I'd become very adept at saying, "Madonna has no comment,” and Madonna would murmur, “Why couldn't Sean have thought of that?” When our Blonde Ambition Tour stopped in Arizona, I'd make a simple introduction backstage ("Mom, this is Madonna. Madonna, this is my mother’) and soon Madonna would be copying down my mother's recipe for Chocolate Rice Krispie Treats.

“Right or left on Sunset?"

I was brought back to earth by my fellow dancer-for-hire Scott, as we searched Hollywood for the audition site. After countless wrong turns, I elected to hang my head out the window and sniff for leather. Bingo.

I'd been told not to wear regular dance clothes but instead to dress “street’—whatever that means in audition apparel lingo—so I tried to remember what the street people were wearing in that TV movie where Lucille Ball was a bag lady. Finally, I chose my faded 501's with the ripped-out knees. I worried that Madonna wouldn't approve and would say something like, “If I had wanted to see your naked knees I would have asked,” to which I'd reply, “What a coincidence, I feel the same way about your armpits.”

The words “She's here” echoed throughout the crowd waiting to audition. I rationalized that whatever type of horse's ass I made of myself, it would still be worth it to caress that navel with my own eves, to see for myself if she smells like her perfume-scented Like A Prayer CD, and—above all—to try to worm my way into her will.

Sizing up my competition, I concluded that the only way I stood a chance was if a round of “Madonna Jeopardy’ was a big part of the audition.

“Madonna had a sweet tooth for this—?"

BZZZ.

“Who is Jellybean?”

“Correct, Dennis. Pick a category.”

"Madonna on celluloid for fifty.”

"This exploitation flick went straight to video—”

BZZZ.

“What is A Certain Sacrifice?”

I was snapped out of my reverie by the announcement that my time was ten guys away. To ease the mounting tension, I ran through my monologue in my head. Not knowing what to expect, I went with my acting teacher's advice that it was best at an audition to do something that no one had ever seen before—so I prepared a reading from Shanghai Surprise.

“Numbers 50 through 60."

Our time had come. There were only a handful of people in the room: the choreographer, two assistants, and on the floor, a demure figure dressed in black, wearing a bowler hat. Madonna looked us over as if to say, “Don’t make a scene, okay?” The choreographer taught us the series of dance steps: four big “Roger Rabbits,” four sexy “Roger Rabbits,” eight “Running Men," and a “Robocop.” (I was disappointed that the combination didn’t finish with one of her signature crotch grabs, something I've been practicing since puberty.) Having only limited experience with steps named after movie titles, I did my best to execute them. In the best Laura Petrie tradition, | even sold it with a look. Madonna watched us dance, then pointed through the group saying, “You, you, and you, do it again.” When the “you's” finished, she asked them to wait and learn another combination. (What could that include, “She-Devil” into “Rain Man" into “Agnes of God"?| Then she said to the rest of us, but mostly to me, “Thank you very much."

As I walked back to where I hoped the car would be, Scott and I agreed that Madonna's primary personality trait seemed to be her, well, expediency. If she ever tires of being Queen of the Planet, she'd make a good driver for Domino's Pizza. Of course, she'd have to get used to carrying less than $20 in cash.