It's the hottest day so far this year, stick-to-your-shirt humid, and Norman Reedus is about to walk into Manhattan's Museum of Sex wearing a Wookiee on his head. Eyeing the building from the sidewalk, Reedus looks up from under his Chewbacca-emblazoned baseball cap, trying to jog his memory. "Pretty sure I shot a dirty love scene with Emmanuelle Béart here in an upstairs apartment," he muses, "a long time ago." He's just popped over from Chinatown, where he's lived for the past 16 years. To Reedus, one of those downtown denizens who rarely venture above Houston Street, MoSex's 27th Street location must seem like the Yukon. This weekend he's on a brief break from shooting The Walking Dead outside Atlanta, where he's spent five seasons as the squinty and stoic crossbow-toting, chopper-riding country boy Daryl Dixon. He's about a third of the way through Season 6 (which premieres October 11), and he's itching to head back south.

Reedus is a true outsider's insider, a peripatetic artistic polymath—sculptor, painter, photographer, actor, filmmaker, and reluctant fashion model—who's parlayed a CV filled with dozens of grim little (and little-watched) movies into a major role on a TV show with 14 million viewers a week. If Reedus' decidedly bent oeuvre resembles any from the past, it may be Dennis Hopper's, which included conventional projects, experimental films, Warhol collaborations, even a photo shoot he art-directed for Hustler. A quarter-century into an accidental acting career, Reedus has ambled into the mainstream on his own terms. He is a leading man, a sex symbol even, and the biggest draw on TV's most popular drama, but hardly a movie star. And for now, that just might be enough.

As we enter through the gift shop, a young male MoSex worker approaches to ask if Reedus is from "that show, The Dead Walking." From then on, it's as if a swarm of undead has descended upon poor Daryl.

"Ooh, can I get a picture?"

"Oh my God, I love Boondock Saints!"

"Umm . . . can we take another one?"

A dozen looky-loo selfies later, we escape up the stairs to begin our tour. As we survey the tasteful displays of sepia-toned copulation, Reedus tells me he doesn't consider himself a connoisseur of erotica—despite the overt sexuality of much of his art—but he does own a copy of what he believes to be the first pornographic movie ever made. "It's all black-and-white, choppy footage," he says, adding, with a sly smile, "lots of bush." The environs inspire a conversation about the transgressive filmmakers Jack Smith, Kenneth Anger, Gaspar Noé, and Asia Argento (Reedus mentions that he dated the actress-director years ago), as well as a revelation from Reedus: He'd rather film a full-monty sex scene than have to cry on camera.

On the next floor, five tents make up an interactive campground that purports to reveal the complexities of human sexuality. One boothlike shelter allows visitors to explore themselves in front of a kaleidoscopic array of 65 mirrors. "Explore myself? That usually takes about six minutes," Reedus cracks, before stepping into this narcissist's Tardis. Two minutes later, he exits, calling the experience "Kim Kardashian's wet dream."

A flight up, he's captivated by a couple of fully nude RealDolls and hands me his iPhone so I can shoot him giving two thumbs up, Terry Richardson–style. When I tell him we're right near MoSex's main attraction, a bouncy castle filled with giant inflatable breasts, he proposes, not at all sheepishly, "We have to do that. I mean, come on!" His enthusiasm turns to exasperation when, after queuing up for 10 minutes, he spots some guy shooting video in our direction. Reedus has great radar; he's happy to accommodate fans, but he can sense those who are taking advantage. We bounce—but not on blow-up boobs—seeking refuge downstairs in the museum's café.