I always thought Mark Twain’s comment, “The rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated” was a funny word play. Until, that is, it happened to me. The day started out ordinarily enough. Then there I was, a dead, gay prostitute. I was suddenly lost somewhere in the lavender twilight zone.

I got a call from a reporter friend at the local newspaper. He’d been doing research for a story about Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil — how had it affected Savannah, Georgia, years after the film? That was when he came across my death. There is a web site called findagrave.com, which consists of pages devoted to the graves, lives and deaths of famous — and infamous — people. There are photos of the graves and of the persons who occupied them. Midnight was the story of the murder of gay hustler Danny Hansford by his lover, a Savannah antiques dealer.

My reporter friend had looked at this page. “You’re not going to believe this,” he told me, “but the photo on Danny Hansford’s grave site — is you.” I quickly pulled up the web page. The image was slightly grainy, as if it were a scanned copy of a photo, but it was definitely the author photo I’d used for several prior years and two books. I was identified as a dead, gay hooker.

It got worse. The obituary on the page noted that Danny was popular with both men and women for his muscular physique. Here, it continued, Danny is pictured in his trademark white tee shirt and jeans. I wasn’t sure, but I think I was flattered. And beginning to wonder whether my haircut was a little too ’70s.

It got worse still. The postings are done by amateur history buffs. My friend had contacted this one, telling him, “Um, I think you might want to know you have a photo of an author who is very much alive.” To which the poster responded that he had verified the authenticity of the photo. He said the photo had been sent to him by a fan of the movie two years prior. Imagine. I’d been dead for two years and hadn’t even known it.

It got worse. I contacted the poster and insisted that, really, it was me and not Danny Hansford, and that he could see the photo on my web site on one of my books. The poster checked out my web site and replied that it was clear to him the photos were of two different people. How? He’d taken the photo to professors in Savannah who had known Danny, and they verified the photo was of him. I imagined the exchange: “Yup, Virgil, that’s him all right!” I was dumbfounded. People who had known the man thought I was him. Would I ever become undead?

Then it got creepier. I noticed that the web site allowed visitors to leave comments. Several people had left notes saying things like, “It’s so good to see you again, Danny! You are beloved! We miss you! Rest in Peace!” How beloved could he have really been to people who didn’t even recognize the photo was a phony?

Ultimately, I contacted the owner of the web site, who promptly removed the photo. Never a peep did I hear from the poster. No “sorry, I didn’t mean to identify you as a dead hustler.” For two years people had been reading that web site and thinking I was Danny. I hoped I was as handsome as him — I’d hate to have insulted him accidentally. With apologies to Shakespeare, I suspect that hell hath no fury like the ghost of a gay hooker scorned. I wondered — what if I had died and somebody put Danny’s photo on my obituary page? Would people have said, “It’s so good to see Kevin again. But what’s with that ’70s haircut?”

I also wondered why I found myself so disturbed by the mistake. It’s not as if anyone was running up to me and saying, “Hey! Aren’t you supposed to be a dead prostitute?” Maybe it’s a case of there but for the grace of God go I. Or maybe it’s a fear that in some way, his life was more interesting than mine. Or just the fact that it was downright creepy.

My photo is gone now, replaced by one of Danny (I assume) in a military uniform. It felt odd seeing the new photo. As if our lives — or deaths — were no longer crossed. And I never did find out who sent in the original photo. Whoever did it (if it was intentional) had a wicked sense of humor. It ranked right up there with my requesting complimentary Depends undergarments for my friends over 30. Or for paging Helga the Dominatrix to Vice President Dick Cheney’s house. It’s one of the disadvantages to being out there in the public eye. Important people get stalkers, and I get sent to the obituary pages.

Some people say they would like to see their obituaries after they die. Having had the experience — sort of — it’s not one I would care to repeat. But now I can write home to Mom that I’ve added another accomplishment to my tongue-in-cheek life. I’ve been a dead, gay hooker.