I’ve spent most of my career doing one-man shows.I stand centre stage with a microphone, possibly wearing feathers or rubber, and talk about whatever comes into my head. Gay nonsense, mostly. It’s not been a very disciplined life. That’s why it suited me. If I lost my way or made a mess of a routine, I could squeeze a comedy moment out of the situation. I might attempt a song but forget the words. So what? I’d just blame my pianist. I was in charge: it didn’t matter.

Working in a proper West End show, as I am now, is rather different. I am a mere cog in a wheel, a factory worker dedicated to the collective product - and a responsible, socially aware one at that. My fellow actors and I are all striving towards a common goal: to give the punters a memorable experience, to bring the show to life, to send the audience home moved and enlightened. Someone might have warned me.

Apparently I must say the words from the script in the right order and refrain from improvising at all costs. The story depends on it, not to mention sound and lighting cues. It's a strange new world, I can tell you. For the first time it's not all about me. Fancy.

I don’t find any of it easy, but luckily help is at hand. My dresser. She does so much more than her job description might require. For the first week of Cabaret she was responsible for pushing me on stage at the right moment, meeting me as I wafted off in the wrong place after a scene, and telling me what was expected of me next. I’m not exaggerating when I say if she hadn’t been there, more than a few uncomfortable silences would have occurred.

But our relationship has entered a whole new phase. Picture the scene. I’m in the quick-change area, preparing for my final scene. Everything must come off: French knickers (I jest not), stockings, boots, corset – the lot, in about 30 seconds. Even my trusty support must be shed. I’m allowed a brief second to give my genitalia an encouraging shuffle, but time is of the essence.

I am about to appear au naturel in front of the public, and I stand, naked, with my back to my dresser. She averts her eyes as she holds up a tattered dressing gown that I slip on, arms first. I fold it across my chest and turn to face her, and she fastens the two poppers at the front. That's the usual routine, anyway.

Last Tuesday, as she reached for the lower fastening, the rotating fan above us happened to swing in our direction and my flimsy silk gown flapped open in the breeze, just as my poor dresser's hand lunged enthusiastically downwards.

Suddenly my manhood was being nipped between her thumb and forefinger. She immediately withdrew and apologised profusely, smacking the intrusive hand with its innocent twin.

"I'm so sorry I . . . touched you, earlier," she said, clearly mortified, as she signed off for the night.

"Oh, don't worry about that!" I reassured her. "You're the envy of thousands. But maybe we'd both better go for a tetanus jab in the morning, just in case."

As I lay in bed that night, the implications of what had happened began to dawn on me. Where did this incident of accidental heterosexual molestation leave my standing in the gay community? I am a professional homo, after all.

My career depends on my queer lifestyle being scrupulously maintained. If CCTV footage were to surface of my pretty young dresser handling me in such a way, all could be lost. I fell into a restless sleep. I had a dream where people shouted "Straight!" at me in the street and Paris Hilton tied me to a bed and demanded a night of hot, hard satisfaction, or she'd make me listen to her album.

I did what any man would do in the circumstances. I passed out.