Miss Gay Knoxville at the Hyatt Regency (1974)
Many young girls dream of growing up to be Miss America
.
Not many young boys dream of growing up to be Miss Gay Knoxville.
I never dreamed of growing up to emcee the Miss Gay Knoxville Pageant.
But I did.
Don’t let the “Miss” mislead you. Any pageant with “Miss Gay” in the title is a beauty pageant composed of drag queens. And don’t let the official sounding title mislead you either. Drag pageant names are generally as phony as “world championship” titles in professional wrestling or “very special episodes” of prime-time television series. Sometimes the winner of a local drag pageant will indeed go on to a more select regional or national competition but not always.
By the mid 1970s gay life in Knoxville had grown to the point where the community supported at least a half-dozen bars of decent quality and size. Tennessee’s drinking age was eighteen and Knoxville’s liquor-by-the-drink law set closing time at 3 a.m., drawing patrons – especially on the weekends – from as far away as Lexington, Kentucky and Atlanta, Georgia, where the drinking age was higher and the closing time earlier.
So when some people decided it was time for a Miss Gay Knoxville Pageant to be held, they didn’t think small. The very first such event would be held not in a large gay club. No, it would held in the enormous grand ballroom at the Knoxville Hyatt Regency. Among the celebrity judges would be Knoxville’s mayor, a very straight man who seemed to have no problem being associated with such an event.
What was needed was a celebrity emcee. For reasons of which I’ve never been entirely certain, that turned out to be me.
I wasn’t really a celebrity but a somewhat well-known local radio personality. I considered myself actually less than somewhat well-known but the organizers didn’t think so. Or maybe everyone they had asked had turned them down.
I did have some concerns when they made the offer. Would I have to be in drag? No, they said, I would be in a tuxedo. Given my life-long aversion to formal wear, I didn’t really consider that a yes or no answer. I’d never dressed in drag but suspected a dress would be more comfortable than a tux. But a tux it was to be, they said. They would even pay for it. Fine. And they would pay me. Also fine. Then I decided to push my luck. Would they pay for my drinks at the after party at the Back Office Lounge? Yes they would. Again fine. Then I really pushed my luck. Would they provide me with, um, “companionship” for the evening? I don’t think I was really serious about that request but they said, yes, they would. I wasn’t sure how fine that was.
The big night arrived. I’d been fitted for the tux a week earlier and, yes, they had paid for it. The mayor was indeed there along with such “celebrity” judges as a local hairdresser and a female TV news personality and an audience of several hundred.
The lobby outside the Hyatt’s three main meeting room/ballrooms was, well, interesting. Apparently no knew that the adjacent ballroom was to be occupied by the Rev. Bob Bevington, “the chaplain of Bourbon Street,” who was in the second night of revival services. He was apparently unaware that he was to be preaching that night next door to a drag queen pageant.
But I had other concerns. First of all, I had never emceed a beauty pageant of any kind, much less a gay beauty pageant. My only familiarity with such was years of watching Bert Parks host the Miss America Pageant. Somehow I didn’t consider Bert Parks a model for the role I was about to play.
A few years earlier, I had emceed a number of drag shows at the Europa, but I had worked backstage with a microphone and a list of performers and cues as to their preferred introductions. I could dress as I liked, usually in my club clothes. Backstage was also the changing area for the performers so I was generally the only guy back there who remained fully clothed. The owner paid me in cash at the end of each evening and I also got free drinks during the shows. Although I introduced all the acts I never introduced myself. I was just a voice over the PA system.
But now I would be introduced. And now I would be seen. In a tuxedo.
I would have note cards for the introductions but I couldn’t just hold them and read them word for word as I had done at the Europa. I had been chosen emcee in part because I was a radio personality. You don’t see radio personalities. You hear them. It doesn’t matter how they are dressed. It doesn’t matter if they are reading everything they say. I had done theater and I had public speaking experience, but my everyday work in radio depended only upon my voice.
Now, I realized, I would be one of the performers. I wouldn’t be in drag, I wouldn’t be lip-synching, but I would be performing. And I wouldn’t just do introductions for each act; I would have to introduce the whole event. I would have to welcome the audience, introduce the judges, explain the judging procedure, thank the sponsors and keep the whole event running smoothly.
Ouch.
Should I prepare a monologue of some sort? No. Should I just keep it simple? Yes. Either way I had to have an opening line. In my years of theater I had learned that if I could get past my very first line the rest would fall into place.
When the big night arrived, once again I found myself backstage and once again it was the changing area for the performers. The scene was rather Felliniesque, I in my tux and a group of young males in various stages of female attire. Well, mostly female attire. While all the performers’ outfits included wigs, heels, gowns and usually bras to maintain a feminine illusion, what they wore underneath varied considerably. Some wore girdles for shape and concealment while others wore basic women’s panties. Still others wore jockey shorts under their pantyhose. While each performer was onstage, I would be checking with those still to perform to see if there were any changes needed for their introductions. It is more than a bit surreal to be dressed formally and be having a conversation with another guy dressed in a wig, full makeup, bra, pantyhose and jockey shorts.
Finally, my note cards in order, the audience was seated, I walked on stage, adjusted the microphone stand and said, “Good evening and welcome to the first annual Miss Gay Knoxville Pageant!” Then it was time for the line that had just come to me backstage.
“Tonight,” I continued, “represents the bringing together of two great American traditions: The Miss America Pageant and ‘I’ve Got a Secret,” referring to a once-popular television quiz show that had left the air a few years earlier. The audience’s abundant laughter meant they got the joke.
The ice broken, I quickly moved on to introduce the judges and give an overview of the evening, introduced the first performer and exited stage right. Stage right, in theater terms, is to the audience’s left and it was in that offstage area that the performers changed, the show’s directors ran about in a perpetual state of queenly panic and I, ever the actor, pondered my lines for my next appearance on stage. I kept each introduction brief and appropriate. “Celebrity” though I might allegedly be, the audience was not there to see me. And I didn’t consider tonight’s work to be a career move. This might indeed be the first Miss Gay Knoxville Pageant but I doubted I would ever host a second one, if indeed there were a second one. (As it turned out I wasn’t living in Knoxville the next year and have no idea if there ever was a second one.)
I don’t recall much of the rest of the pageant, at least the on-stage portion. I don’t recall who won or how the individual judges’ voting went. I have a vague memory of meeting backstage (stage left this time, away from the boys in lingerie) to tally the results.
What I do recall is the after-party and the night (all night) that followed. The party began at the Back Office Lounge around ten and ended, for me at least, around six the next morning in the bedroom of my mobile home some fifty miles away.
The Back Office Lounge was part of the gay bar renaissance of the early 1970s in Knoxville. The legalizing of liquor-by-the-drink in Knoxville and the lowering of the drinking age to 18 and a closing time of 3 a.m. for clubs that served liquor led to a real expansion of Knoxville nightlife, gay life included. The Carousel drew a mixed gay-straight crowd during the height of the disco era because of its large dance floor (lighted from underneath) and DJ booth, a first for the city. It also had a show bar upstairs for drag performances. Entré Nous was an intimate art deco club with a small dance floor. The Carousel was tucked away in the Fort Sanders neighborhood near the University of Tennessee. Entré Nous was a few blocks east of Gay Street, the main shopping street. (That’s right, Gay Street.) The two remaining “old school” gay bars – beer only, midnight closing time – were likewise off the beaten path.
The Back Office Lounge, however, was a former restaurant right across from the main post office and just a few steps from the county court house. Actually, it still served as a restaurant during the day for the downtown lunch crowd. By nine or ten p.m., however, it became a gay bar. It lacked a dance floor and therefore was primarily a “cruise” bar, a place to meet both old friends and, if things worked out, new friends.
It was the perfect place for an after-party with lots of room at the bar and lots of tables throughout the room, suitable for the crowd – well-dressed and, um, sexually diverse – that would be arriving from the pageant.
So far, all had gone as planned. The promoters had paid for my tux and paid me a small fee for hosting the pageant. Throughout the after-party I’d be told what a good job I had done hosting. And throughout the after party, the promoters had kept another promise: they paid for my drinks. But what about my (perhaps) facetious request for, um, companionship for the night?
They came through on that score also.
With a contestant from the pageant.
Fortunately, it was someone I already knew, someone whose house I’d been to for an after-bar party the previous year when bars still closed early. Unfortunately, although they had honored my assumedly facetious request, I was now committed – at least out of good manners – to spend significant time with this guy, missing out (or so I imagined) on other opportunities with guys just waiting to trick with a pageant MC. Yeah, right. On the other hand, he was a friend, a fun guy and not a regular at drag, although he had performed once at the Carousel. And because I had been at his house for a party after that performance I knew he was one of those who did drag while wearing jockey shorts (underneath his pantyhose.)
(A bit of history here: In the days before – and for some time after – Stonewall, many municipalities included among their anti-gay laws a requirement that any person in drag must be wearing at least three items of clothing “appropriate to gender.” Thus many drag performers wore male underwear – and perhaps an item of outerwear such as shirt – under their gowns. Police conducting all-too-frequent raids on gay bars would check for such things. Even though the laws fell into disuse by the mid-1970s many performers followed the tradition. Others felt keeping their male underwear drew some sort of gender line between being a drag performer and a transvestite or “tranny.” End of history lesson.)
Somehow the successful experience of hosting the pageant – and the free drinks – helped me accept his companionship. Mostly it was the free drinks. At first.
The after-party was fun, although I felt a bit strange being the only guy there in a tux. Most of the contestants had shed their costumes and assumed their male identities, all except two: the winner whose name (both drag name and real name) I cannot remember and my “companion” for the evening, whose name I also cannot remember.
The club having no dance floor, everyone did a lot of table hopping. Most of the crowd had been at the pageant, and most of them stopped by our table, many offering assumedly sincere compliments to either me or my companion.
As the evening – and it was rather late evening, after midnight for sure, by now – wore on, the drinks wore us down. The crowd thinned and it was time to go. But go where?
Apparently it was decided – by me or by him or by both of us, I’m not sure – that “where” would be back to my mobile home in Roane County.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Story 13: Tom, the Discount Drug Dealer and Closet Case
Tom, the Discount Drug Dealer and Closet Case (1973)
I met Tom through Joe.
Joe was my afternoon DJ, an affable, heavy-set, baby-faced guy who had an affinity for smoking illicit substances.
In other words, Joe was a stoner.
Tom was his dealer.
And a more unlikely drug dealer I had never known. Tom was twenty, but looked about sixteen. His late parents (I never knew the circumstances of their death) had left him a trust fund but he didn’t have full control of it yet. It paid for his classes at the community college, but not much else. So he sold marijuana. The Roane County airport was lighted but unstaffed at night and, being located up on Roosevelt Mountain, was rather isolated. It was, therefore, a major drop-off point for marijuana shipments. At the time, apparently, most marijuana sold in the greater Knoxville area arrived at the Roane County Airport. Somehow Tom was part of the distribution network. As far as I know, Tom never dealt in any “heavier” drugs and he only did enough
dealing to pay his rent and basic expenses.
It was known to many that Tom was a dealer.
It was known to very few was that Tom was a closet case.
I didn’t know it at first. My gaydar barely went off when I first met him. I did find him very cute, however, in a “why can’t he be gay” sort of way.
It also took me a while to figure out just why Tom was hanging around the radio station so much. In a small-town radio station, things can get a bit informal. Friends do drop by and most of them know the protocol if we let them in the control room. When the red light goes on, shut up! At first I didn’t know just whose friend Tom was. Then I realized he was usually around during Joe’s afternoon shift, which ran from two to six. Since I did the six to ten a.m. shift, I was usually busy with production work when Tom would come around. Or I’d be ready to leave for the day.
But then Tom began showing up when Joe wasn’t there. I really doubted he was dealing to any other staff members. The owner and his wife preferred margaritas as their drug of choice. The news director was a family man into church activities and martial arts. The station secretary’s idea of living on the edge was extra sugar in her morning coffee.
That left just me. And my drug of choice was, well, tricking.
Perhaps Tom wanted to be my “dealer” too. Or maybe he just liked hanging out at the station between classes.
But then he started dropping by during my Saturday morning shift – when I was the only one at the station.
Mostly we talked about music, not unusual considering we were in a radio station control room, listening to music I was playing.
And then, one day, he invited me to his apartment.
To listen to music.
Tom’s apartment was in the back of a large old house. It was really a studio with one L-shaped room serving as dining area, kitchen, living room and bedroom. The living room furniture consisted of two chairs and his bed.
I quickly realized that Tom knew I was gay. Perhaps he’d heard about the hickey incident with Joey. Perhaps he had gaydar. Perhaps he was gay. I wasn’t yet sure.
In fact while we talked about me being gay, Tom seems at pains to indicate that he was not gay. At first he played the, “Oh I’m straight, but I’m very cool with gay guys.” I’d heard that from a lot of guys. Some I’d ended up having sex with. Others just became friends.
Tom was fun to be with, fun to discuss music with, so I pretty much played along with his claim of heterosexuality.
Until the back rubs started.
Tom was only a few inches taller than me, but very slender, basically a healthy version of skin and bones. From his energy and his healthy appearance, I suspected he did little or none of the drugs he sold. In fact we never smoked weed together. Maybe he knew I wasn’t a stoner; maybe he wasn’t a stoner, just a businessman.
One night I arrived just as Tom had finished a shower and he was wearing only his jockeys when he let me in, although he was holding his jeans as if in the process of getting dressed.
“Do you know any massage techniques?” he asked. It was an interesting conversation starter, not the usual, “Hi, come on in. Can I get you a drink?”
“Not in a professional way,” I replied, “but I was in sports and I know some things about sore muscles.” Who knows, I thought, maybe he strained a shoulder lifting a bag of Colombian.
“I really need a back rub, man. I’m really tight and tense.”
He apparently took my silence for assent and, dropping his jeans on a chair, lay face down on his bed. I was still standing by the door and hadn’t yet taken off my jacket. Just over a minute had passed since I’d knocked on Tom’s door and now I was removing my jacket and Tom was lying face down on his bed in his jockey shorts.
The boy is fast, I thought. And I’d always prided myself on cutting to the chase with a trick. But I’d never gotten them undressed and on a bed this quickly.
I got up on the end of his bed on my knees and leaned forward to begin working on Tom’s shoulders. I was no professional masseuse, but I’d seen enough – and experienced enough – muscle massages during my years as a college athlete to know the basics. I worked down from his shoulders to his upper back. He was indeed quite tense and tight and he told me it felt good, so I continued. I moved down the middle of his back and then his lower back toward the waist band of his briefs. Up to now, although I was enjoying the experience, I treated it as one guy giving another a back rub. I’d done this for teammates in college and been the recipient a few times as well. No big deal up to this point.
But then I got a bit silly – or maybe just horny – and snapped the waist band of his briefs as if I were planning to go lower. I wasn’t sure if straight-proclaiming Tom would tell me stop right then and there.
Instead he reached back with both arms and slid his briefs down below his butt cheeks.
That had never happened to me in college.
Straight-proclaiming or not, Tom was about to get his butt cheeks massaged. He had a small, smooth, not-quite-bubble butt. I began where the waistband had been snapped, then smoothly over each cheek, then ran my fingers across the bottom where the leg openings had been. Then, sensing no objection, I pulled his briefs down further and went to work on his legs, then slipped his jockeys all the way off, even giving his freshly-showered feet a bit of a rub.
It was like a fantasy, the inspiration for a wet dream. Me, kneeling at the end of a boy’s bed while said boy lay face down and naked and asking for a back rub.
Tom lay still for a moment. I remained still too, wondering what would happen next. What would he say? What would he do? Where would we go from here?
Sorry to disappoint, but what follows isn’t an erotically arousing tale of passionate, unbridled sex that lasts late into the night.
Didn’t happen. Not that night.
Tom slid off his bed, retrieved his underpants, put them on, finished dressing in jeans and a flannel shirt and asked if I wanted a Coke.
“You’re good,” he told me.
I thanked him and then we spent the rest of the evening talking about and listening to music.
But the next time I visited Tom he wanted another “back rub.” And the time after that. And the time after that.
Eventually no visit to Tom’s was complete without him stripping to his briefs and lying face down on his bed.
And, eventually, it led to something more.
Never was a word said about Tom’s sexuality, the conversation of the evening remaininged about music or about the radio station or about school. Tom never spoke about his drug-dealing sideline and we never consumed any of his product. (I didn’t know - or want to know - where he kept his “stash.”)
Then one night when Tom had stripped down to his briefs I stripped down to mine too and went to work giving Tom a “back rub.”
When I finished I asked if he would return the favor, the favor I had offered so many times now.
He seemed to be confused by the request. Maybe he hadn’t heard me, I thought. Maybe I’d sent him into such a state of bliss with the back rub that he was having trouble receiving communication from here on Earth and, for a moment, he remained motionless, lying still face-down on his bed.
Suddenly he got up, keeping his back to me, reached down for his briefs and put them on, then turned around and gestured for me to lie face down on the bed. As I did, I couldn’t help but notice that either Tom’s briefs were rather loose or he was somewhat aroused. Not wanting to ruin the moment, I said nothing and just lay down awaiting Tom’s touch.
I was curious as to how this role reversal would work. Until now I had given the “massages” and Tom had received them. And I had been making it all up as I went along, trying to recall post-practice massages from the college athletic trainer. As far as I knew, Tom lacked any such memories.
But it didn’t seem to matter. Tom was either a natural or he was channeling my college trainer. Of course, my trainer’s hands never went some of the places that Tom’s hands were going.
For the most part Tom followed my pattern. He began with the shoulders and the upper back, then the lower back, all very legitimate moves my college trainer would have approved.
He also followed my moves around the waist and below. Down came my briefs – followed by Tom’s caressing hands – all the way down to my ankles.
As he finished and I lay there face down, I found the answer to my earlier question about Tom’s briefs. No, they weren’t loose.
I was about to discreetly get up and retrieve my underwear when Tom’s hands grabbed my waist and turned me over on my back. And "massaged" away any of my remaining stiffness.
I met Tom through Joe.
Joe was my afternoon DJ, an affable, heavy-set, baby-faced guy who had an affinity for smoking illicit substances.
In other words, Joe was a stoner.
Tom was his dealer.
And a more unlikely drug dealer I had never known. Tom was twenty, but looked about sixteen. His late parents (I never knew the circumstances of their death) had left him a trust fund but he didn’t have full control of it yet. It paid for his classes at the community college, but not much else. So he sold marijuana. The Roane County airport was lighted but unstaffed at night and, being located up on Roosevelt Mountain, was rather isolated. It was, therefore, a major drop-off point for marijuana shipments. At the time, apparently, most marijuana sold in the greater Knoxville area arrived at the Roane County Airport. Somehow Tom was part of the distribution network. As far as I know, Tom never dealt in any “heavier” drugs and he only did enough
dealing to pay his rent and basic expenses.
It was known to many that Tom was a dealer.
It was known to very few was that Tom was a closet case.
I didn’t know it at first. My gaydar barely went off when I first met him. I did find him very cute, however, in a “why can’t he be gay” sort of way.
It also took me a while to figure out just why Tom was hanging around the radio station so much. In a small-town radio station, things can get a bit informal. Friends do drop by and most of them know the protocol if we let them in the control room. When the red light goes on, shut up! At first I didn’t know just whose friend Tom was. Then I realized he was usually around during Joe’s afternoon shift, which ran from two to six. Since I did the six to ten a.m. shift, I was usually busy with production work when Tom would come around. Or I’d be ready to leave for the day.
But then Tom began showing up when Joe wasn’t there. I really doubted he was dealing to any other staff members. The owner and his wife preferred margaritas as their drug of choice. The news director was a family man into church activities and martial arts. The station secretary’s idea of living on the edge was extra sugar in her morning coffee.
That left just me. And my drug of choice was, well, tricking.
Perhaps Tom wanted to be my “dealer” too. Or maybe he just liked hanging out at the station between classes.
But then he started dropping by during my Saturday morning shift – when I was the only one at the station.
Mostly we talked about music, not unusual considering we were in a radio station control room, listening to music I was playing.
And then, one day, he invited me to his apartment.
To listen to music.
Tom’s apartment was in the back of a large old house. It was really a studio with one L-shaped room serving as dining area, kitchen, living room and bedroom. The living room furniture consisted of two chairs and his bed.
I quickly realized that Tom knew I was gay. Perhaps he’d heard about the hickey incident with Joey. Perhaps he had gaydar. Perhaps he was gay. I wasn’t yet sure.
In fact while we talked about me being gay, Tom seems at pains to indicate that he was not gay. At first he played the, “Oh I’m straight, but I’m very cool with gay guys.” I’d heard that from a lot of guys. Some I’d ended up having sex with. Others just became friends.
Tom was fun to be with, fun to discuss music with, so I pretty much played along with his claim of heterosexuality.
Until the back rubs started.
Tom was only a few inches taller than me, but very slender, basically a healthy version of skin and bones. From his energy and his healthy appearance, I suspected he did little or none of the drugs he sold. In fact we never smoked weed together. Maybe he knew I wasn’t a stoner; maybe he wasn’t a stoner, just a businessman.
One night I arrived just as Tom had finished a shower and he was wearing only his jockeys when he let me in, although he was holding his jeans as if in the process of getting dressed.
“Do you know any massage techniques?” he asked. It was an interesting conversation starter, not the usual, “Hi, come on in. Can I get you a drink?”
“Not in a professional way,” I replied, “but I was in sports and I know some things about sore muscles.” Who knows, I thought, maybe he strained a shoulder lifting a bag of Colombian.
“I really need a back rub, man. I’m really tight and tense.”
He apparently took my silence for assent and, dropping his jeans on a chair, lay face down on his bed. I was still standing by the door and hadn’t yet taken off my jacket. Just over a minute had passed since I’d knocked on Tom’s door and now I was removing my jacket and Tom was lying face down on his bed in his jockey shorts.
The boy is fast, I thought. And I’d always prided myself on cutting to the chase with a trick. But I’d never gotten them undressed and on a bed this quickly.
I got up on the end of his bed on my knees and leaned forward to begin working on Tom’s shoulders. I was no professional masseuse, but I’d seen enough – and experienced enough – muscle massages during my years as a college athlete to know the basics. I worked down from his shoulders to his upper back. He was indeed quite tense and tight and he told me it felt good, so I continued. I moved down the middle of his back and then his lower back toward the waist band of his briefs. Up to now, although I was enjoying the experience, I treated it as one guy giving another a back rub. I’d done this for teammates in college and been the recipient a few times as well. No big deal up to this point.
But then I got a bit silly – or maybe just horny – and snapped the waist band of his briefs as if I were planning to go lower. I wasn’t sure if straight-proclaiming Tom would tell me stop right then and there.
Instead he reached back with both arms and slid his briefs down below his butt cheeks.
That had never happened to me in college.
Straight-proclaiming or not, Tom was about to get his butt cheeks massaged. He had a small, smooth, not-quite-bubble butt. I began where the waistband had been snapped, then smoothly over each cheek, then ran my fingers across the bottom where the leg openings had been. Then, sensing no objection, I pulled his briefs down further and went to work on his legs, then slipped his jockeys all the way off, even giving his freshly-showered feet a bit of a rub.
It was like a fantasy, the inspiration for a wet dream. Me, kneeling at the end of a boy’s bed while said boy lay face down and naked and asking for a back rub.
Tom lay still for a moment. I remained still too, wondering what would happen next. What would he say? What would he do? Where would we go from here?
Sorry to disappoint, but what follows isn’t an erotically arousing tale of passionate, unbridled sex that lasts late into the night.
Didn’t happen. Not that night.
Tom slid off his bed, retrieved his underpants, put them on, finished dressing in jeans and a flannel shirt and asked if I wanted a Coke.
“You’re good,” he told me.
I thanked him and then we spent the rest of the evening talking about and listening to music.
But the next time I visited Tom he wanted another “back rub.” And the time after that. And the time after that.
Eventually no visit to Tom’s was complete without him stripping to his briefs and lying face down on his bed.
And, eventually, it led to something more.
Never was a word said about Tom’s sexuality, the conversation of the evening remaininged about music or about the radio station or about school. Tom never spoke about his drug-dealing sideline and we never consumed any of his product. (I didn’t know - or want to know - where he kept his “stash.”)
Then one night when Tom had stripped down to his briefs I stripped down to mine too and went to work giving Tom a “back rub.”
When I finished I asked if he would return the favor, the favor I had offered so many times now.
He seemed to be confused by the request. Maybe he hadn’t heard me, I thought. Maybe I’d sent him into such a state of bliss with the back rub that he was having trouble receiving communication from here on Earth and, for a moment, he remained motionless, lying still face-down on his bed.
Suddenly he got up, keeping his back to me, reached down for his briefs and put them on, then turned around and gestured for me to lie face down on the bed. As I did, I couldn’t help but notice that either Tom’s briefs were rather loose or he was somewhat aroused. Not wanting to ruin the moment, I said nothing and just lay down awaiting Tom’s touch.
I was curious as to how this role reversal would work. Until now I had given the “massages” and Tom had received them. And I had been making it all up as I went along, trying to recall post-practice massages from the college athletic trainer. As far as I knew, Tom lacked any such memories.
But it didn’t seem to matter. Tom was either a natural or he was channeling my college trainer. Of course, my trainer’s hands never went some of the places that Tom’s hands were going.
For the most part Tom followed my pattern. He began with the shoulders and the upper back, then the lower back, all very legitimate moves my college trainer would have approved.
He also followed my moves around the waist and below. Down came my briefs – followed by Tom’s caressing hands – all the way down to my ankles.
As he finished and I lay there face down, I found the answer to my earlier question about Tom’s briefs. No, they weren’t loose.
I was about to discreetly get up and retrieve my underwear when Tom’s hands grabbed my waist and turned me over on my back. And "massaged" away any of my remaining stiffness.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Story 12 - Snowbound - with Hickeys
Snowbound – with Hickeys (1973)
Someone has written that, “February is the cruelest month.” That someone never experienced January while working at a radio station. The Christmas rush is over, the advertisers aren’t advertising so the sales staff is in a bad mood. That puts the manager in a bad mood and the staff follows suit.
There’s no more Christmas music to play, but the labels don’t put out much new music until early spring, so even the regular playlist sounds stale.
So when Joey called and invited himself over for a few days, I was delighted. He wouldn’t start spring term at junior college for another week. Since I’d moved to the end of the world – otherwise known as Rockwood, Tennessee – a few months earlier, I hadn’t seen Joey much. (I was later to visit him and spend the night – against school rules – in his dorm room, but that’s another story.)
Joey didn’t have a car, so I drove over in my trusty ’67 Camaro to pick him up and bring him back to my rented trailer. OK, mobile home. No, trailer. In another year I would own an actual mobile home, but this place was too old, too metallic, too, um, rustic to be called anything but a trailer. Plus it was in a trailer park, basically a large front yard of a home in which the owner had placed – at various angles – a variety of trailers. The trailer had a living room/kitchen, a bathroom with shower, and a second bedroom that was more of a large closet into which could be squeezed a twin-sized bed. It was cozy, it was adequate, and it was cheap.
One of the other DJ’s from the radio station lived in another trailer in the “park.” He was an overweight and jolly stoner named Joe. His on-air greeting was “Hi on you,” which of course could be heard as “High on you.” When his mother visited and found his stash of weed, he promised to dispose of it. He did. He placed it in the trash barrel next to his trailer, lit it and stood over it inhaling, turning on most of the trailer park in the process.
Joey didn’t smoke weed or even drink much. I only drank at clubs and hadn’t yet met Tom, the local boy who was one of Joe-the-stoner-DJ’s suppliers and who would become a regular visitor to the radio station. He was selling weed to pay his way through community college until his trust fund kicked in. Roane County had an airport up on Roosevelt Mountain with a lighted runway and it was a drop-off point for most of the marijuana coming into that part of East Tennessee. Sometimes so much arrived that Tom couldn’t get rid of it quickly enough. One time he arrived at that mobile home I eventually bought offering “discount” Colombian saying he was having an “overstock” sale!
I wasn’t “out” at work, but that wasn’t an issue. I was young (and poor) enough not to be yet married and none of the other jocks were married either. We all conducted our social life either forty miles east in Knoxville or occasionally a hundred miles or so west in Nashville. None of us were local boys anyhow. I apparently didn’t give off any “gay vibes” in any case. Once, a sales rep who visited the station occasionally offered to lend me his Playboy Club key when I told him I was going to Atlanta for the weekend. He apparently assumed I’d be interested in using it.
As a result, having Joey stay a few days and hang out at the radio station during the day wouldn’t by itself raise any suspicions. Joey was as country in his ways as the owner and the other local staff. He’d fit right in.
And no one would have suspected a thing. Ever. If it hadn’t been for just one thing. Hickeys. Let me explain.
The first night of Joey’s stay was uneventful. We talked, watched TV, listened to music and fell asleep because I had to be up very early to sign the station on at 6 a.m. The plan was for him to stay two nights and then I would drive him back to school. He hung out at the station during my morning shift and my office work during the day and we headed back to the trailer.
That night snow fell. And fell. And fell. The roads were barely drivable the next morning, but we made it to the station. Being Saturday meant I had only my morning air shift to do. We stopped at a local grocery on the way home to get some food. The night was again uneventful although we did do a bit of cuddling on the sectional couch we had re-assembled into a makeshift double bed. The snow had let up but temperatures remained well below freezing so the area roads were basically impassible. We could get around town with difficulty, but getting in or out of town was virtually impossible. Joey called and learned that school wouldn’t open Monday because most students couldn’t make it back over the weekend. So he would be staying at least until Monday. And I didn’t have to work at the station on Sunday. The weather was not too bad to go anywhere and there was really no place to go in Rockwood even in good weather.
So we did what came, uh, naturally.
All. Night. Long.
As I explained in the previous story, Joey and I were never lovers and the term “boyfriend” wasn’t really in use at the time. A male sex partner was either a “trick” or a “lover.” The distinction could be vague. Someone might trick more than one night with the same person and they wouldn’t be “lovers.” “Lover” implied exclusivity, if only briefly. If one had a lover, one didn’t trick. Although Joey and I had “messed around” frequently during those first few months after meeting at the campus gay group, we hadn’t had many encounters since then. And although I’d spent some nights at his home in the mountains, his family was usually there and we had never “slept” together.
And although I know we meant a great deal to each other, even loved each other, we were not in love with each other. Two people in love and in bed whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears, touch each other softly, share a physical expression of their innermost feelings. Two people who are tricking don’t whisper anything except perhaps, “Do you like this?”, touch each other rather briskly, and share a physical expression of their innermost hormonal desires. Two people in love will awake in the morning in each other’s arms. Two people who are tricking aren’t usually together when the morning comes.
So that night we weren’t “making love.”
We were tricking. With each other.
Since we were snowbound and would be through the coming day, we never went to sleep that night. We had sex, we talked, we had sex, we played some music, we had sex, and we talked some more.
And we gave each other hickeys.
It started innocently enough. About halfway through the night we hit a silly spot, a time of spontaneous unmotivated silliness and giggling. Perhaps it was the snow. Perhaps it was lack of sleep. But I grabbed him and, vampire-like, went for his neck and gave him a hickey. I wasn’t even sure it would work, but it did.
“Did it leave a mark,” he asked. I looked. “It sure did,” I replied.
So he retaliated.
Giving a hickey wasn’t that uncommon, but it usually stopped at one. Turtlenecks weren’t a fashion rage at the time (and really should never be) and even the horniest of gay guys usually had to go to work or school the next day and didn’t really want a visible mark of his nocturnal activity. There were no metrosexuals at the time, so only women and drag queens used makeup, so there was no way to conceal most hickeys.
Tricks seldom inflicted hickeys. That was almost taboo. Hickeys were generally considered as evidence of passionate love making, not tricking.
But silliness overcame gay social and sexual convention that night, so we kept at it. Vampires don’t attack necks as often as we did that night. It’s amazing we didn’t draw any blood.
The Sunday morning sun began to warm the air and by late that day the road ice was melting. We slept most of the day, watched some TV, listened to some music, ate, and then rested some more. Tomorrow we’d go to the station for my air shift and then we’d take Joey back to school.
It wasn’t until Monday morning that I realized we had a problem. We arose around 4:30 a.m., my usual time since I had to be at the station by 5:45. The problem hit me while I was shaving. The problem was what I saw in the mirror. On my neck. All around my neck.
Until about 8 a.m. it wouldn’t matter. Only Joey and I would be at the station. But what would everything think as they arrived? Even if Joey stayed at the trailer and I picked him up after my shift, that wouldn’t matter. Everyone had met Joey, everyone knew he had stayed the weekend, and everyone knew there was no one else who could have inflicted these marks on my neck. We had all been snowbound. So it didn’t really matter if Joey went to work with me or not.
The damage had been done.
I found a shirt with a high collar to wear under my sweater but it wouldn’t be enough. We would just have to tough it out.
We did. Everyone noticed. I know they noticed. But no one said anything, at least not openly. Had they already assumed we were gay? All I know is that were very happy to depart the station immediately after my air shift.
Problem solved, right?
Well, no.
We left the station and headed for Interstate 40. As we were halfway up the ramp the Camaro started to overheat. I pulled to the side of the ramp, stopped before the engine got too hot, waited a moment and started again. The problem was still there. So I turned around and drove the wrong way down the ramp back to the highway, stopped two or three more times to cool the engine a bit and finally made it to Rockwood’s lone service station.
We both were wearing jackets and scarves, but anyway I wasn’t thinking about my neck but about my beloved Camaro (not so beloved that it wouldn’t soon be replaced, however.)
There was no major problem with the car. It just needed a new thermostat and they had the right one in stock.
The problem was that it was cold outside so we waited indoors where it was nice and warm.
It was so warm that, without thinking, we took off our scarves.
Oh yes, we got away in good shape. No one said anything, at least while we were there. And we had an uneventful trip back to Joey’s school.
But I developed a sudden affinity for turtlenecks.
Someone has written that, “February is the cruelest month.” That someone never experienced January while working at a radio station. The Christmas rush is over, the advertisers aren’t advertising so the sales staff is in a bad mood. That puts the manager in a bad mood and the staff follows suit.
There’s no more Christmas music to play, but the labels don’t put out much new music until early spring, so even the regular playlist sounds stale.
So when Joey called and invited himself over for a few days, I was delighted. He wouldn’t start spring term at junior college for another week. Since I’d moved to the end of the world – otherwise known as Rockwood, Tennessee – a few months earlier, I hadn’t seen Joey much. (I was later to visit him and spend the night – against school rules – in his dorm room, but that’s another story.)
Joey didn’t have a car, so I drove over in my trusty ’67 Camaro to pick him up and bring him back to my rented trailer. OK, mobile home. No, trailer. In another year I would own an actual mobile home, but this place was too old, too metallic, too, um, rustic to be called anything but a trailer. Plus it was in a trailer park, basically a large front yard of a home in which the owner had placed – at various angles – a variety of trailers. The trailer had a living room/kitchen, a bathroom with shower, and a second bedroom that was more of a large closet into which could be squeezed a twin-sized bed. It was cozy, it was adequate, and it was cheap.
One of the other DJ’s from the radio station lived in another trailer in the “park.” He was an overweight and jolly stoner named Joe. His on-air greeting was “Hi on you,” which of course could be heard as “High on you.” When his mother visited and found his stash of weed, he promised to dispose of it. He did. He placed it in the trash barrel next to his trailer, lit it and stood over it inhaling, turning on most of the trailer park in the process.
Joey didn’t smoke weed or even drink much. I only drank at clubs and hadn’t yet met Tom, the local boy who was one of Joe-the-stoner-DJ’s suppliers and who would become a regular visitor to the radio station. He was selling weed to pay his way through community college until his trust fund kicked in. Roane County had an airport up on Roosevelt Mountain with a lighted runway and it was a drop-off point for most of the marijuana coming into that part of East Tennessee. Sometimes so much arrived that Tom couldn’t get rid of it quickly enough. One time he arrived at that mobile home I eventually bought offering “discount” Colombian saying he was having an “overstock” sale!
I wasn’t “out” at work, but that wasn’t an issue. I was young (and poor) enough not to be yet married and none of the other jocks were married either. We all conducted our social life either forty miles east in Knoxville or occasionally a hundred miles or so west in Nashville. None of us were local boys anyhow. I apparently didn’t give off any “gay vibes” in any case. Once, a sales rep who visited the station occasionally offered to lend me his Playboy Club key when I told him I was going to Atlanta for the weekend. He apparently assumed I’d be interested in using it.
As a result, having Joey stay a few days and hang out at the radio station during the day wouldn’t by itself raise any suspicions. Joey was as country in his ways as the owner and the other local staff. He’d fit right in.
And no one would have suspected a thing. Ever. If it hadn’t been for just one thing. Hickeys. Let me explain.
The first night of Joey’s stay was uneventful. We talked, watched TV, listened to music and fell asleep because I had to be up very early to sign the station on at 6 a.m. The plan was for him to stay two nights and then I would drive him back to school. He hung out at the station during my morning shift and my office work during the day and we headed back to the trailer.
That night snow fell. And fell. And fell. The roads were barely drivable the next morning, but we made it to the station. Being Saturday meant I had only my morning air shift to do. We stopped at a local grocery on the way home to get some food. The night was again uneventful although we did do a bit of cuddling on the sectional couch we had re-assembled into a makeshift double bed. The snow had let up but temperatures remained well below freezing so the area roads were basically impassible. We could get around town with difficulty, but getting in or out of town was virtually impossible. Joey called and learned that school wouldn’t open Monday because most students couldn’t make it back over the weekend. So he would be staying at least until Monday. And I didn’t have to work at the station on Sunday. The weather was not too bad to go anywhere and there was really no place to go in Rockwood even in good weather.
So we did what came, uh, naturally.
All. Night. Long.
As I explained in the previous story, Joey and I were never lovers and the term “boyfriend” wasn’t really in use at the time. A male sex partner was either a “trick” or a “lover.” The distinction could be vague. Someone might trick more than one night with the same person and they wouldn’t be “lovers.” “Lover” implied exclusivity, if only briefly. If one had a lover, one didn’t trick. Although Joey and I had “messed around” frequently during those first few months after meeting at the campus gay group, we hadn’t had many encounters since then. And although I’d spent some nights at his home in the mountains, his family was usually there and we had never “slept” together.
And although I know we meant a great deal to each other, even loved each other, we were not in love with each other. Two people in love and in bed whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears, touch each other softly, share a physical expression of their innermost feelings. Two people who are tricking don’t whisper anything except perhaps, “Do you like this?”, touch each other rather briskly, and share a physical expression of their innermost hormonal desires. Two people in love will awake in the morning in each other’s arms. Two people who are tricking aren’t usually together when the morning comes.
So that night we weren’t “making love.”
We were tricking. With each other.
Since we were snowbound and would be through the coming day, we never went to sleep that night. We had sex, we talked, we had sex, we played some music, we had sex, and we talked some more.
And we gave each other hickeys.
It started innocently enough. About halfway through the night we hit a silly spot, a time of spontaneous unmotivated silliness and giggling. Perhaps it was the snow. Perhaps it was lack of sleep. But I grabbed him and, vampire-like, went for his neck and gave him a hickey. I wasn’t even sure it would work, but it did.
“Did it leave a mark,” he asked. I looked. “It sure did,” I replied.
So he retaliated.
Giving a hickey wasn’t that uncommon, but it usually stopped at one. Turtlenecks weren’t a fashion rage at the time (and really should never be) and even the horniest of gay guys usually had to go to work or school the next day and didn’t really want a visible mark of his nocturnal activity. There were no metrosexuals at the time, so only women and drag queens used makeup, so there was no way to conceal most hickeys.
Tricks seldom inflicted hickeys. That was almost taboo. Hickeys were generally considered as evidence of passionate love making, not tricking.
But silliness overcame gay social and sexual convention that night, so we kept at it. Vampires don’t attack necks as often as we did that night. It’s amazing we didn’t draw any blood.
The Sunday morning sun began to warm the air and by late that day the road ice was melting. We slept most of the day, watched some TV, listened to some music, ate, and then rested some more. Tomorrow we’d go to the station for my air shift and then we’d take Joey back to school.
It wasn’t until Monday morning that I realized we had a problem. We arose around 4:30 a.m., my usual time since I had to be at the station by 5:45. The problem hit me while I was shaving. The problem was what I saw in the mirror. On my neck. All around my neck.
Until about 8 a.m. it wouldn’t matter. Only Joey and I would be at the station. But what would everything think as they arrived? Even if Joey stayed at the trailer and I picked him up after my shift, that wouldn’t matter. Everyone had met Joey, everyone knew he had stayed the weekend, and everyone knew there was no one else who could have inflicted these marks on my neck. We had all been snowbound. So it didn’t really matter if Joey went to work with me or not.
The damage had been done.
I found a shirt with a high collar to wear under my sweater but it wouldn’t be enough. We would just have to tough it out.
We did. Everyone noticed. I know they noticed. But no one said anything, at least not openly. Had they already assumed we were gay? All I know is that were very happy to depart the station immediately after my air shift.
Problem solved, right?
Well, no.
We left the station and headed for Interstate 40. As we were halfway up the ramp the Camaro started to overheat. I pulled to the side of the ramp, stopped before the engine got too hot, waited a moment and started again. The problem was still there. So I turned around and drove the wrong way down the ramp back to the highway, stopped two or three more times to cool the engine a bit and finally made it to Rockwood’s lone service station.
We both were wearing jackets and scarves, but anyway I wasn’t thinking about my neck but about my beloved Camaro (not so beloved that it wouldn’t soon be replaced, however.)
There was no major problem with the car. It just needed a new thermostat and they had the right one in stock.
The problem was that it was cold outside so we waited indoors where it was nice and warm.
It was so warm that, without thinking, we took off our scarves.
Oh yes, we got away in good shape. No one said anything, at least while we were there. And we had an uneventful trip back to Joey’s school.
But I developed a sudden affinity for turtlenecks.
Story 11: Introducing Joey - "I'm not gay, but . . ."
The following story begins the second part of the collection - The Years of Joey
“I’m not gay, but . . .” (1972)
His name was Joe, but I called him Joey.
His name was Joe, not Joseph. Just Joe. He told me he’d gotten in a terrible row with his third grade teacher who told him, “Your name is Joseph. Joe is a nickname.” His mother was called in and she informed the teacher, “His name is not Joseph. His name is Joe.”
But I called him Joey.
We met at a meeting of the Gay Liberation Front, an organization of University of Tennessee students who had so far failed to get university recognition for the group. We met each week just off campus and the location was publicized through posters on university bulletin boards, utility poles and such, so it wasn’t unusual to have visitors at a meeting.
We began, twelve-step style, with introductions. When it came Joey’s turn, he began, “I’m not gay, but I’m doing a paper for a class.”
“I’m not gay, but . . .” Sometimes that was true. This time my gaydar told me it wasn’t, but neither I nor any of the others pressed the issue. Joey was personable, articulate, and likable. And cute. Well, everyone thought he was personable, articulate and likable. I thought he was cute.
Joey was a somewhat tall, slender, blond boy from rural Sevier County, finishing his first year at UT. His personality was southern country boy, but he clearly had an intellectual bent that he revealed in his conversation.
Part of what Joey said was true: he was writing a paper for a class. He asked some good questions and we answered.
When the meeting broke up, a few of us stayed to answer more of his questions. Joey received a fairly heavy dose of Gay 101, probably more than he needed for a class paper. As we all left, I asked Joey if he’d like to get something to eat. He did and we did. Eat, that is. I don’t remember where we ate, but I did learn his address and he got my phone number. I couldn’t ask for more than that. After all, he wasn’t gay. He’d said so.
At the time, I was only enrolled for three credits of thesis hours, which meant I wasn’t attending classes, but supposedly completing a great research work in philosophy. What I was doing was working on a government project for UT, working part-time at a country radio station, and living the club kid life. The university job was my third since returning to Knoxville from Atlanta, although the first job, at a fourth-rate AM station, had lasted only a few weeks. I left after the production room caught fire. I’d then spent most of a year as a copywriter and weekend DJ for a first-rate Top 40 station. The university job had flexible hours and I made them real flexible. Oh, I got my work done, but I had maybe twenty hours of work to stretch over forty salaried hours. This was government work, after all.
Joey lived in a rooming house just off campus and I visited that room often in the next few weeks. My first impressions about his intellectual depth were confirmed each time. My suspicions about his sexuality were more and more confirmed each time.
He hadn’t actually been lying when he said, “I’m not gay, but,” he just hadn’t come out to himself as yet. When a guy says, “I’m not gay, but,” it’s not the same as a bigot saying, “I’m not prejudiced, but.” The bigot knows he’s prejudiced; he just doesn’t want to admit it. The soon-to-be-out (or sooner-or-later-to-be-out) guy may not really know he’s gay. He may think being gay means very stereotypical things. Since he likes being a guy, since he doesn’t want to dress in drag (not yet, anyway), since he thinks all gay guys are easy to recognize by their speech and mannerisms, well, he thinks he’s not really gay.
I’d gone through that stage. How could a former college hockey player be gay? How could a sports-loving guy who screamed his head off when Tennessee played Alabama be gay? How could a philosophy major be gay? OK, maybe that last one was a clue. It’s not really being in denial, but being in the dark, the dark of the deepest part of the closet. It’s so dark you can’t even see that you’re gay.
Joey was going through that stage. He really was writing a class paper and I suspected he’d chosen the topic not just to fulfill an assignment, but also to better understand what he was going through.
Knowing this, I had to be sensitive in our relationship. I’d been out a whole two years at this point. I was a seasoned veteran. I was definitely attracted to him, and I could sense some attraction to me on his part. OK, OK, I was more than definitely attracted to him; I wanted him. Badly. For a gay boy like me who could find a trick for the night even when I arrived a half-hour before the bar closed, patience was difficult. Yet I sensed this would be too important a relationship to put in jeopardy by coming on too strong – or too soon.
Ultimately, we would not become lovers, although we would have sex. It took about three weeks for that to occur. The gay male world has elusive terminology for relationships. I’d say that we became boyfriends, except that so many equate that term with lovers. Oh, we did come to love each other, but we never became lovers.
My patience paid off. Even when we first became intimate, it was different that tricking. We were exploring our relationship, our bodies, and our identities. At times it was as if we were two straight boys in their early teens, best pals, just “messing around” until we could start dating girls. For a guy like me, who often imagined that the next trick might turn into a boyfriend or lover (as sometimes happened), intimacy with Joey was fun, refreshing, exhilarating even. Maybe even a bit innocent. And even a bit of innocence felt good.
The relationship wasn’t about sex, ultimately; it was about friendship, a friendship that would become even more meaningful over the years ahead. It wouldn’t always go smoothly, and there was a time when we stopped speaking (or, rather he stopped to speaking to me or just about anyone), but our relationship carried each of us through some strange times. We were so different and yet so alike. That probably made all the difference. We could be open with each other, share each other’s secrets, things we’d be afraid to tell someone else. I don’t mean scandalous things, but just those personal things you tend to withhold from friends and acquaintances for fear it will jeopardize the relationship. Gay guys have as many hang-ups about their masculinity as straight guys, maybe more. Like the drag queen who always wore Jockey shorts under his dress because, “wearing panties would make me a transvestite,” many of us felt the slightest hint of sensitivity or vulnerability would make others doubt our inherent maleness. We didn’t use the terms “top” and “bottom” then, but “butch” and “fem.” And if anything you did betrayed your “butch-ness,” you were subtly, or not so subtly, cast as “fem.” And that limited your social – or at least, your tricking – opportunities greatly.
Since Joey had yet to visit his first gay bar, he hadn’t been exposed to such oppressive attitudes. He was who he was and he wasn’t about to be labeled. Nor did he desire to label me. Since his first gay social exposure was to other members of the campus group, he got to see the diversity among us and receive the kind of acceptance he likely would not have received if his first gay gathering had been at a bar.
With Joey’s class schedule and my, um, flexible work schedule, we saw each other a lot. His rented room was a short five-block walk from my apartment.
Joey was from Sevierville, in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains. Actually, he was from some distance outside Sevierville. His home place was an old house with indoor plumbing, but outdoor toilet, located along Douglas Lake. When TVA kept the lake level low, his front lawn was spacious bottom land. When TVA raised the levels, the lake covered the access road and you had to park nearby and traverse a hill to get to the house. There were warning signs aplenty that the lake level could rise at any time. Nonetheless, fishermen often ignored the signs, parked their cars, launched their boats, and returned a few hours later to see only their cars’ antennas.
It was about a month after we met that Joey invited me to visit his family. He lived with his mother and sister, his father having died several years earlier. As he was not out to anyone but me (he still maintained, to a degree, the “I’m not gay, but” front when around the others in the campus group), he certainly wasn’t out to his family.
His sister was just a few years older than Joey and was usually away from the house when I visited, creating whatever kind of social life she could in Sevierville or Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge. Joey and I sensed that she suspected something, but wasn’t about to deal with it or mention it to us.
His mother, a solid old-fashioned country woman, took to me right away. Besides my weekday job at the university, I worked weekend air shifts at WIVK, the dominant country station in the area. And Mama was country and a big WIVK fan. Often she’d call in a request when I was on the air. She’d say, “Sing that new one by Merle Haggard.” She knew I didn’t sing the song, but that was her way of asking me to play a favorite of hers.
If Joey’s sister suspected anything about either him or me, Joey’s mama was without a clue. Gay people were something utterly foreign to her upbringing and environment. She’d been born and raised in the community that was now mostly under Douglas Lake. Folks around there were born there, married there, raised a family there, and died there. They’d go into Sevierville for shopping or maybe church, if there wasn’t one closer, and they’d occasionally journey to the big, big city of Knoxville.
Mama thus welcomed me with open arms, always glad to have me visit. And I welcomed those visits too. There was something calming, quieting, about escaping the academic world and the concrete of Knoxville and stepping back in time to an old house in the country by a lake. Joey and I would go walking paths he’d learned every inch of since childhood. When Douglas Lake was especially low, we’d even get to walk the “streets” of his mother’s old community, noting the cornerstone of what was once a store or the outline of a house foundation. We’d imagine what life was like before TVA came calling in the 1930s, life before the lake and life before electricity, for that is what TVA had brought the Tennessee Valley, along with flood control.
My own mother had grown up on a farm in upstate New York and they hadn’t gotten electricity until just before World War II. My father, the youngest of seven, just missed being born on his family’s farm, the family having migrated to Rochester a few years before his birth. Until fourth grade I’d lived in the city, where houses were set close to each other and to the sidewalk and where most shopping trips were to the corner grocery or bakery or cleaners. Then we moved to the wide expanses of suburbia, with spacious lawns and cars that we needed to get to the shopping centers that preceded the malls. Yet I somehow felt a kinship to the country; I somehow felt at home there. I doubt I’d have made much of a farmer, but I’d probably made a pretty good country boy. For a while at least, until, like Joey, I was ready to come out.
And Joey was ready, no matter what he said that first night.
“I’m not gay, but . . .” (1972)
His name was Joe, but I called him Joey.
His name was Joe, not Joseph. Just Joe. He told me he’d gotten in a terrible row with his third grade teacher who told him, “Your name is Joseph. Joe is a nickname.” His mother was called in and she informed the teacher, “His name is not Joseph. His name is Joe.”
But I called him Joey.
We met at a meeting of the Gay Liberation Front, an organization of University of Tennessee students who had so far failed to get university recognition for the group. We met each week just off campus and the location was publicized through posters on university bulletin boards, utility poles and such, so it wasn’t unusual to have visitors at a meeting.
We began, twelve-step style, with introductions. When it came Joey’s turn, he began, “I’m not gay, but I’m doing a paper for a class.”
“I’m not gay, but . . .” Sometimes that was true. This time my gaydar told me it wasn’t, but neither I nor any of the others pressed the issue. Joey was personable, articulate, and likable. And cute. Well, everyone thought he was personable, articulate and likable. I thought he was cute.
Joey was a somewhat tall, slender, blond boy from rural Sevier County, finishing his first year at UT. His personality was southern country boy, but he clearly had an intellectual bent that he revealed in his conversation.
Part of what Joey said was true: he was writing a paper for a class. He asked some good questions and we answered.
When the meeting broke up, a few of us stayed to answer more of his questions. Joey received a fairly heavy dose of Gay 101, probably more than he needed for a class paper. As we all left, I asked Joey if he’d like to get something to eat. He did and we did. Eat, that is. I don’t remember where we ate, but I did learn his address and he got my phone number. I couldn’t ask for more than that. After all, he wasn’t gay. He’d said so.
At the time, I was only enrolled for three credits of thesis hours, which meant I wasn’t attending classes, but supposedly completing a great research work in philosophy. What I was doing was working on a government project for UT, working part-time at a country radio station, and living the club kid life. The university job was my third since returning to Knoxville from Atlanta, although the first job, at a fourth-rate AM station, had lasted only a few weeks. I left after the production room caught fire. I’d then spent most of a year as a copywriter and weekend DJ for a first-rate Top 40 station. The university job had flexible hours and I made them real flexible. Oh, I got my work done, but I had maybe twenty hours of work to stretch over forty salaried hours. This was government work, after all.
Joey lived in a rooming house just off campus and I visited that room often in the next few weeks. My first impressions about his intellectual depth were confirmed each time. My suspicions about his sexuality were more and more confirmed each time.
He hadn’t actually been lying when he said, “I’m not gay, but,” he just hadn’t come out to himself as yet. When a guy says, “I’m not gay, but,” it’s not the same as a bigot saying, “I’m not prejudiced, but.” The bigot knows he’s prejudiced; he just doesn’t want to admit it. The soon-to-be-out (or sooner-or-later-to-be-out) guy may not really know he’s gay. He may think being gay means very stereotypical things. Since he likes being a guy, since he doesn’t want to dress in drag (not yet, anyway), since he thinks all gay guys are easy to recognize by their speech and mannerisms, well, he thinks he’s not really gay.
I’d gone through that stage. How could a former college hockey player be gay? How could a sports-loving guy who screamed his head off when Tennessee played Alabama be gay? How could a philosophy major be gay? OK, maybe that last one was a clue. It’s not really being in denial, but being in the dark, the dark of the deepest part of the closet. It’s so dark you can’t even see that you’re gay.
Joey was going through that stage. He really was writing a class paper and I suspected he’d chosen the topic not just to fulfill an assignment, but also to better understand what he was going through.
Knowing this, I had to be sensitive in our relationship. I’d been out a whole two years at this point. I was a seasoned veteran. I was definitely attracted to him, and I could sense some attraction to me on his part. OK, OK, I was more than definitely attracted to him; I wanted him. Badly. For a gay boy like me who could find a trick for the night even when I arrived a half-hour before the bar closed, patience was difficult. Yet I sensed this would be too important a relationship to put in jeopardy by coming on too strong – or too soon.
Ultimately, we would not become lovers, although we would have sex. It took about three weeks for that to occur. The gay male world has elusive terminology for relationships. I’d say that we became boyfriends, except that so many equate that term with lovers. Oh, we did come to love each other, but we never became lovers.
My patience paid off. Even when we first became intimate, it was different that tricking. We were exploring our relationship, our bodies, and our identities. At times it was as if we were two straight boys in their early teens, best pals, just “messing around” until we could start dating girls. For a guy like me, who often imagined that the next trick might turn into a boyfriend or lover (as sometimes happened), intimacy with Joey was fun, refreshing, exhilarating even. Maybe even a bit innocent. And even a bit of innocence felt good.
The relationship wasn’t about sex, ultimately; it was about friendship, a friendship that would become even more meaningful over the years ahead. It wouldn’t always go smoothly, and there was a time when we stopped speaking (or, rather he stopped to speaking to me or just about anyone), but our relationship carried each of us through some strange times. We were so different and yet so alike. That probably made all the difference. We could be open with each other, share each other’s secrets, things we’d be afraid to tell someone else. I don’t mean scandalous things, but just those personal things you tend to withhold from friends and acquaintances for fear it will jeopardize the relationship. Gay guys have as many hang-ups about their masculinity as straight guys, maybe more. Like the drag queen who always wore Jockey shorts under his dress because, “wearing panties would make me a transvestite,” many of us felt the slightest hint of sensitivity or vulnerability would make others doubt our inherent maleness. We didn’t use the terms “top” and “bottom” then, but “butch” and “fem.” And if anything you did betrayed your “butch-ness,” you were subtly, or not so subtly, cast as “fem.” And that limited your social – or at least, your tricking – opportunities greatly.
Since Joey had yet to visit his first gay bar, he hadn’t been exposed to such oppressive attitudes. He was who he was and he wasn’t about to be labeled. Nor did he desire to label me. Since his first gay social exposure was to other members of the campus group, he got to see the diversity among us and receive the kind of acceptance he likely would not have received if his first gay gathering had been at a bar.
With Joey’s class schedule and my, um, flexible work schedule, we saw each other a lot. His rented room was a short five-block walk from my apartment.
Joey was from Sevierville, in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains. Actually, he was from some distance outside Sevierville. His home place was an old house with indoor plumbing, but outdoor toilet, located along Douglas Lake. When TVA kept the lake level low, his front lawn was spacious bottom land. When TVA raised the levels, the lake covered the access road and you had to park nearby and traverse a hill to get to the house. There were warning signs aplenty that the lake level could rise at any time. Nonetheless, fishermen often ignored the signs, parked their cars, launched their boats, and returned a few hours later to see only their cars’ antennas.
It was about a month after we met that Joey invited me to visit his family. He lived with his mother and sister, his father having died several years earlier. As he was not out to anyone but me (he still maintained, to a degree, the “I’m not gay, but” front when around the others in the campus group), he certainly wasn’t out to his family.
His sister was just a few years older than Joey and was usually away from the house when I visited, creating whatever kind of social life she could in Sevierville or Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge. Joey and I sensed that she suspected something, but wasn’t about to deal with it or mention it to us.
His mother, a solid old-fashioned country woman, took to me right away. Besides my weekday job at the university, I worked weekend air shifts at WIVK, the dominant country station in the area. And Mama was country and a big WIVK fan. Often she’d call in a request when I was on the air. She’d say, “Sing that new one by Merle Haggard.” She knew I didn’t sing the song, but that was her way of asking me to play a favorite of hers.
If Joey’s sister suspected anything about either him or me, Joey’s mama was without a clue. Gay people were something utterly foreign to her upbringing and environment. She’d been born and raised in the community that was now mostly under Douglas Lake. Folks around there were born there, married there, raised a family there, and died there. They’d go into Sevierville for shopping or maybe church, if there wasn’t one closer, and they’d occasionally journey to the big, big city of Knoxville.
Mama thus welcomed me with open arms, always glad to have me visit. And I welcomed those visits too. There was something calming, quieting, about escaping the academic world and the concrete of Knoxville and stepping back in time to an old house in the country by a lake. Joey and I would go walking paths he’d learned every inch of since childhood. When Douglas Lake was especially low, we’d even get to walk the “streets” of his mother’s old community, noting the cornerstone of what was once a store or the outline of a house foundation. We’d imagine what life was like before TVA came calling in the 1930s, life before the lake and life before electricity, for that is what TVA had brought the Tennessee Valley, along with flood control.
My own mother had grown up on a farm in upstate New York and they hadn’t gotten electricity until just before World War II. My father, the youngest of seven, just missed being born on his family’s farm, the family having migrated to Rochester a few years before his birth. Until fourth grade I’d lived in the city, where houses were set close to each other and to the sidewalk and where most shopping trips were to the corner grocery or bakery or cleaners. Then we moved to the wide expanses of suburbia, with spacious lawns and cars that we needed to get to the shopping centers that preceded the malls. Yet I somehow felt a kinship to the country; I somehow felt at home there. I doubt I’d have made much of a farmer, but I’d probably made a pretty good country boy. For a while at least, until, like Joey, I was ready to come out.
And Joey was ready, no matter what he said that first night.
Story 10: Without a trick, without a clue . . .
Without a Trick, Without a Clue – After Hours at the Marriott (1970)
Midnight sucked. At least on Saturdays. The year was 1970. The place was Atlanta. (Not “Hot’lanta” yet – not by a long shot.) And on Saturday, Atlanta bars closed at midnight. And that sucked. Especially for a gay boy.
You see, straights will drop into their local club not long after dinner or maybe after an early movie. Not gay boys. Our timetable was much different.
Around nine, we’d start figuring out a wardrobe. By nine-thirty, if we’d figured out what to wear, we’d take a shower. Then the hair. Oh, the hair. When I saw Saturday Night Fever, I knew John Travolta’s character, Tony Manero, was straight. The boy showered, tried on three different outfits and styled his hair to perfection in the time between getting home from work and sitting down to the family dinner table. And he went to the club right after dinner. Definitely straight behavior.
Ten-thirty was the earliest a conscientious gay boy would make the club scene and, even then, the crowd would be sparse, as the “action” didn’t begin until at least eleven. So you can see that a midnight bar closing could really cramp one’s cruising style. Considering that the club lights would come on full about fifteen minutes before closing, that left barely an hour to find a trick, at least to find one in subdued lighting. Trust me, the old country song that says, “the girls all look prettier at closing time,” does not apply to gay bars.
So what did a boy without a trick – and without a clue – do when midnight came around? He could go home. Home alone? On Saturday night?
He could go to an “after hours” club, a very illegal gathering in some very dangerous neighborhood, as long as he had money for drinks — and for bail.
Or he could go to the Marriott.
The Marriott Hotel in downtown Atlanta had a restaurant open late. I don’t know if it was open all night, but it was open after midnight, for several hours after midnight, and that was all that mattered. And what a sight it was after midnight.
By twelve-fifteen, every trick-less gay guy was there, ordering omelets or pancakes or coffee. Tables were put together to accommodate large groups of people, many of whom wouldn’t even speak to each other in the bars. So why were we so sociable there? There were a couple of reasons.
First of all, we were alone. Some of us were there because we’d failed to hear those four romantic words, “Your place or mine?” sometime earlier in the evening. Some tragic cases might have begun the evening with someone, but it had ended badly – so they ended up at the Marriott. Whatever the reason, we were alone. And we didn’t want to be. Not yet, at least.
Second, there were the queens. They were never alone, always ready to perform for any audience, anywhere, any time. They didn’t go to bars to find partners for the night; those they would find in “tea rooms” or street corners. They went to the bars – and to the Marriott – to be fabulous, even though we didn’t use that word yet in 1970. They called each other, “girl.” They called everyone “girl.” Everyone, that is, but the cute male servers and bus boys, although most of them were gay anyhow. (Gay male server is probably about as redundant as gay church organist.) We “butch” boys (not too butch to spend maybe an hour getting our hair to look right, though) never called each other “girl.” But that made no difference to the queens; we were “girls” nonetheless. The only “real men,” according to them, were the straight boys they would trick with in the stalls or in cars. “I’m going to find myself a man,” they would declare, to a room full of males. Males, yes, but not “real men.”
Don’t get me wrong. Some of them were wonderful people, even cherished friends, but they didn’t sleep with other gay guys. And we didn’t sleep with them. Well, to be truthful, sometimes we did. And we discovered just how butch they could be in bed. Which probably isn’t surprising, considering the number of “butch” boys who must have been raised by dog trainers, the ones who responded really well to the words, “roll over.”
After hours at the Marriott was a social time. While we did indeed cruise, we knew that our chances for a trick were slim to none. That also meant we weren’t competing with each other, something males – gay or straight – are really good at. And it was a public place, so we couldn’t be too open with our affections. But we could actually talk. We could “dish.” We could listen to some queen “read” another queen’s “beads.” “If that bitch comes near me again, I will read her beads!” And they often did.
I don’t remember much what we talked about, at least not specifically. I guess at those times in those places you’re not really supposed to say anything you’d remember later. We were just there to be together. We were just there not to be alone. We were there without a trick. We were there without a clue. We were at the Marriott after hours.
And we were together.
Midnight sucked. At least on Saturdays. The year was 1970. The place was Atlanta. (Not “Hot’lanta” yet – not by a long shot.) And on Saturday, Atlanta bars closed at midnight. And that sucked. Especially for a gay boy.
You see, straights will drop into their local club not long after dinner or maybe after an early movie. Not gay boys. Our timetable was much different.
Around nine, we’d start figuring out a wardrobe. By nine-thirty, if we’d figured out what to wear, we’d take a shower. Then the hair. Oh, the hair. When I saw Saturday Night Fever, I knew John Travolta’s character, Tony Manero, was straight. The boy showered, tried on three different outfits and styled his hair to perfection in the time between getting home from work and sitting down to the family dinner table. And he went to the club right after dinner. Definitely straight behavior.
Ten-thirty was the earliest a conscientious gay boy would make the club scene and, even then, the crowd would be sparse, as the “action” didn’t begin until at least eleven. So you can see that a midnight bar closing could really cramp one’s cruising style. Considering that the club lights would come on full about fifteen minutes before closing, that left barely an hour to find a trick, at least to find one in subdued lighting. Trust me, the old country song that says, “the girls all look prettier at closing time,” does not apply to gay bars.
So what did a boy without a trick – and without a clue – do when midnight came around? He could go home. Home alone? On Saturday night?
He could go to an “after hours” club, a very illegal gathering in some very dangerous neighborhood, as long as he had money for drinks — and for bail.
Or he could go to the Marriott.
The Marriott Hotel in downtown Atlanta had a restaurant open late. I don’t know if it was open all night, but it was open after midnight, for several hours after midnight, and that was all that mattered. And what a sight it was after midnight.
By twelve-fifteen, every trick-less gay guy was there, ordering omelets or pancakes or coffee. Tables were put together to accommodate large groups of people, many of whom wouldn’t even speak to each other in the bars. So why were we so sociable there? There were a couple of reasons.
First of all, we were alone. Some of us were there because we’d failed to hear those four romantic words, “Your place or mine?” sometime earlier in the evening. Some tragic cases might have begun the evening with someone, but it had ended badly – so they ended up at the Marriott. Whatever the reason, we were alone. And we didn’t want to be. Not yet, at least.
Second, there were the queens. They were never alone, always ready to perform for any audience, anywhere, any time. They didn’t go to bars to find partners for the night; those they would find in “tea rooms” or street corners. They went to the bars – and to the Marriott – to be fabulous, even though we didn’t use that word yet in 1970. They called each other, “girl.” They called everyone “girl.” Everyone, that is, but the cute male servers and bus boys, although most of them were gay anyhow. (Gay male server is probably about as redundant as gay church organist.) We “butch” boys (not too butch to spend maybe an hour getting our hair to look right, though) never called each other “girl.” But that made no difference to the queens; we were “girls” nonetheless. The only “real men,” according to them, were the straight boys they would trick with in the stalls or in cars. “I’m going to find myself a man,” they would declare, to a room full of males. Males, yes, but not “real men.”
Don’t get me wrong. Some of them were wonderful people, even cherished friends, but they didn’t sleep with other gay guys. And we didn’t sleep with them. Well, to be truthful, sometimes we did. And we discovered just how butch they could be in bed. Which probably isn’t surprising, considering the number of “butch” boys who must have been raised by dog trainers, the ones who responded really well to the words, “roll over.”
After hours at the Marriott was a social time. While we did indeed cruise, we knew that our chances for a trick were slim to none. That also meant we weren’t competing with each other, something males – gay or straight – are really good at. And it was a public place, so we couldn’t be too open with our affections. But we could actually talk. We could “dish.” We could listen to some queen “read” another queen’s “beads.” “If that bitch comes near me again, I will read her beads!” And they often did.
I don’t remember much what we talked about, at least not specifically. I guess at those times in those places you’re not really supposed to say anything you’d remember later. We were just there to be together. We were just there not to be alone. We were there without a trick. We were there without a clue. We were at the Marriott after hours.
And we were together.
Story 9: Shopping with Larry
Shopping at Rich’s with Larry – “Do you have this in a 9?” (1970)
Typical of many gay guys, Larry and I loved to go shopping.
Not so typically, we loved to go shopping for electronics. And Rich’s in downtown Atlanta had a great electronics department, with stereos, radios, records, cassettes and all sorts of gizmos that usually appeal to the straight male.
There was only one problem in shopping the electronics department at Rich’s. To get to its second-floor location, you had to enter from the parking garage somewhere on the first floor. There were many entrances, but every one of them brought you through a women’s clothing section. Rich’s sold men’s and boys’ clothing, but you wouldn’t know it from the entranceways. One entrance opened into the Juniors, another into sportswear, and yet another into, “intimate apparel.” It wasn’t my idea of intimate apparel and Larry didn’t wear underwear anyhow, and neither of us did drag (if you don’t count Larry’s one unfortunate night that he spent in the drunk tank – in a dress.) Yet no matter where we entered the store, we two red-blooded American gay boys had to brave aisle after aisle of women’s wear just to get to the elevator to take us to our second floor destination.
Actually, there was a second problem shopping at Rich’s – an overzealous sales staff. For a store that did so much business, you wouldn’t think that rabid sales clerks would pounce upon each customer entering, but you couldn’t walk more than a few feet before being accosted. A few feet more, and there was another. And another.
“No, thank you, just looking,” didn’t seem appropriate since we weren’t looking, at least not at what was on the racks by the entrances. So we’d usually try to act as if they weren’t there, while trying not to be too rude. We had a destination. We had a mission and nothing could deter us.
But that didn’t stop them. One time I counted four assaults by sales clerks between the entrance and the elevator, a distance of maybe fifty feet. What were these people thinking? We were two young guys in jeans and sweaters or polo shirts and tennis shoes. Did we really look like dress shoppers? Did all the clerks on that floor have gaydar? Did most young men entering Rich’s come to buy women’s clothing?
Thankfully, the aisles leading from the entrances to the hub of elevators were wide and traffic moved along smoothly, so we escaped relatively unscathed. Until one day when Rich’s was having a very big sale.
We parked the car, headed for the nearest entrance, braced ourselves for what was to come and boldly walked in. Sure enough, we were attacked. We moved along. Again, we were attacked. We moved along. The next time we weren’t so lucky. We got caught in an aisle bottleneck, unable to move forward, unable to go back. We were stuck. In the juniors dress department.
Larry appeared calm and lit a cigarette. (This was before the no-smoking days.) He offered me one, although I rarely smoked. He lit his and handed me the pack of matches. I was just about to strike a match when a sales clerk struck.
“May I help you find something?” she cooed to Larry, who was stuck next to a rack of dresses. I pretended to hear nothing and lit a match.
Before lighting the cigarette, I glanced at Larry who, to my horror, was reaching for a one of the dresses.
“Do you have this number in a size nine?” he cooed back to her.
I gasped and the match blew out.
At that moment, thank God, there was an opening in the aisle and I pushed Larry through it. All the way to the elevators. Where we met another crowd. Perhaps they had shopping to do on other floors. Perhaps they were all escaping from overzealous sales clerks. Nonetheless, we were trapped again. And Larry had a captive audience.
“What’s the problem,” he grinned mischievously, “don’t you think I’d look good in that?”
He knew I was ticked, and he was waiting for an angry reaction. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. I wanted to pound him right there, but beating up on a short, hare-lipped hairdresser – albeit a cute one – didn’t seem appropriate, at least not in Rich’s. Besides, I had an audience to play to as well.
“Oh come on,” I chided him, in a voice that could be heard down the aisle, “you know that dress wasn’t your color.”
“And besides,” I added for effect, “a nine would be much too large for you.”
The crowd waiting for the elevators appeared to get rather quiet. But I said nothing more. That’ll teach him, I thought.
I was still holding the unlit cigarette and the match pack. I struck a match, and was just about to light up when the elevator doors opened and we were pushed forward by the crowd. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the cigarette lit.
Then, just before the doors closed behind us, with a crowd still outside, Larry saw my predicament and said, “Just suck on it, honey, just suck on it.” Then the doors closed.
That was the last time I went shopping at Rich’s with Larry.
Typical of many gay guys, Larry and I loved to go shopping.
Not so typically, we loved to go shopping for electronics. And Rich’s in downtown Atlanta had a great electronics department, with stereos, radios, records, cassettes and all sorts of gizmos that usually appeal to the straight male.
There was only one problem in shopping the electronics department at Rich’s. To get to its second-floor location, you had to enter from the parking garage somewhere on the first floor. There were many entrances, but every one of them brought you through a women’s clothing section. Rich’s sold men’s and boys’ clothing, but you wouldn’t know it from the entranceways. One entrance opened into the Juniors, another into sportswear, and yet another into, “intimate apparel.” It wasn’t my idea of intimate apparel and Larry didn’t wear underwear anyhow, and neither of us did drag (if you don’t count Larry’s one unfortunate night that he spent in the drunk tank – in a dress.) Yet no matter where we entered the store, we two red-blooded American gay boys had to brave aisle after aisle of women’s wear just to get to the elevator to take us to our second floor destination.
Actually, there was a second problem shopping at Rich’s – an overzealous sales staff. For a store that did so much business, you wouldn’t think that rabid sales clerks would pounce upon each customer entering, but you couldn’t walk more than a few feet before being accosted. A few feet more, and there was another. And another.
“No, thank you, just looking,” didn’t seem appropriate since we weren’t looking, at least not at what was on the racks by the entrances. So we’d usually try to act as if they weren’t there, while trying not to be too rude. We had a destination. We had a mission and nothing could deter us.
But that didn’t stop them. One time I counted four assaults by sales clerks between the entrance and the elevator, a distance of maybe fifty feet. What were these people thinking? We were two young guys in jeans and sweaters or polo shirts and tennis shoes. Did we really look like dress shoppers? Did all the clerks on that floor have gaydar? Did most young men entering Rich’s come to buy women’s clothing?
Thankfully, the aisles leading from the entrances to the hub of elevators were wide and traffic moved along smoothly, so we escaped relatively unscathed. Until one day when Rich’s was having a very big sale.
We parked the car, headed for the nearest entrance, braced ourselves for what was to come and boldly walked in. Sure enough, we were attacked. We moved along. Again, we were attacked. We moved along. The next time we weren’t so lucky. We got caught in an aisle bottleneck, unable to move forward, unable to go back. We were stuck. In the juniors dress department.
Larry appeared calm and lit a cigarette. (This was before the no-smoking days.) He offered me one, although I rarely smoked. He lit his and handed me the pack of matches. I was just about to strike a match when a sales clerk struck.
“May I help you find something?” she cooed to Larry, who was stuck next to a rack of dresses. I pretended to hear nothing and lit a match.
Before lighting the cigarette, I glanced at Larry who, to my horror, was reaching for a one of the dresses.
“Do you have this number in a size nine?” he cooed back to her.
I gasped and the match blew out.
At that moment, thank God, there was an opening in the aisle and I pushed Larry through it. All the way to the elevators. Where we met another crowd. Perhaps they had shopping to do on other floors. Perhaps they were all escaping from overzealous sales clerks. Nonetheless, we were trapped again. And Larry had a captive audience.
“What’s the problem,” he grinned mischievously, “don’t you think I’d look good in that?”
He knew I was ticked, and he was waiting for an angry reaction. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. I wanted to pound him right there, but beating up on a short, hare-lipped hairdresser – albeit a cute one – didn’t seem appropriate, at least not in Rich’s. Besides, I had an audience to play to as well.
“Oh come on,” I chided him, in a voice that could be heard down the aisle, “you know that dress wasn’t your color.”
“And besides,” I added for effect, “a nine would be much too large for you.”
The crowd waiting for the elevators appeared to get rather quiet. But I said nothing more. That’ll teach him, I thought.
I was still holding the unlit cigarette and the match pack. I struck a match, and was just about to light up when the elevator doors opened and we were pushed forward by the crowd. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the cigarette lit.
Then, just before the doors closed behind us, with a crowd still outside, Larry saw my predicament and said, “Just suck on it, honey, just suck on it.” Then the doors closed.
That was the last time I went shopping at Rich’s with Larry.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Story 8: Larry
Larry was into Drag – Racing, that is (1970, 1976)
Of all the people I met in my first weeks in Atlanta, Larry was my first friend. He was a friend, not a trick, not a bar acquaintance, not a “sister,” as so many gay guys referred to those they hung out with but didn’t sleep with. He was a friend. They say a friend is someone who knows all about you and likes you anyway. That was Larry.
I met Larry my first night out in Atlanta, at the Joy Lounge, the night I used my first pickup line to take Danny home with me. I believe he was the first person who spoke to me that night and I remember that because he spoke to me not as someone seeking “fresh meat,” but as someone wanting to make a new face feel at ease. Besides, Larry didn’t need to find a trick that night; he was with his boyfriend. Over the next several years, until I lost track of him completely, Larry and I would carry our friendship through a variety of relationships. We’d help each other through the times of being single, being in relationship or just being confused.
Larry was unique in several ways. He was a small fellow and maybe we bonded at one level over that characteristic; we little guys seem to have an unspoken level of relationship that way. Larry also had a cleft palate, but it really only made him a bit more cute, a bit more boyish and vulnerable. And sweet.
Larry also fit at least one gay stereotype. He was a hairdresser. Actually, he managed one of a chain of salons owned by some fellow I never knew but heard a great deal about. Larry knew hairstyling and he knew makeup and he loved to critique the performers in drag shows.
But Larry never did drag. Oh, he did once, but not on stage. As for why he did it only once, we’ll get to in a moment.
What Larry – and his straight brother – did do was drag racing, not a stereotypically gay activity. Larry owned a Mustang and he knew every inch of it, inside and out. He lived just a block from my apartment and the first Saturday morning I decided to visit him, I found him under his car. What he was doing I don’t know, but it involved mechanical knowledge of the sort I pay fellows at garages to deal with. Actually, it was his brother who did most of the racing, but Larry shared his love of working on cars.
I rode with Larry often and he was a good driver as well as mechanic. Yet it was one night that he wasn't such a good driver that led him to never do drag again.
One thing I learned about Larry – and I have no idea how the subject arose – was that he seldom if ever wore underwear. No, I don’t know why he did this and I doubt that it matters.
One day at his house, I watched as he sorted and folded his laundry. As he was opening bureau drawers, I spotted a pair of black panties and I just had to ask how they came to be in the bureau of a guy who didn’t wear underwear of any kind.
Larry explained that he wore them one night, the one and only night that he got in drag. It was Halloween and he was talked into doing it, much against his will. Yet, Halloween being sort of a national gay holiday, he acquiesced. He fixed up a wig he borrowed, did his makeup and wore a short dress he got from somewhere. Apparently he looked quite good and headed out for a night of Halloween club life.
All went well until the drive home. Larry wasn’t much of a drinker, but that night he’d had more than his usual. On the way home he got caught in a police sobriety check. He failed and had to spend the night in the drunk tank. In full drag. His first time – and his last time – either in the drunk tank or in drag.
Larry and I remained the closest of friends during my stay in Atlanta and, when I moved back to Tennessee, he was always a willing host when I came to visit. If he was single, I shared his bed (but not him.) If he was living with someone, I had the couch or the spare bedroom if there was one. Many a Friday evening, while I was living in Knoxville, Tennessee, I would arrive home from work to receive a call from Larry that a new club had opened and I should come down and see it. Tonight. So I’d clean up, pick out an outfit and zip two hundred miles down the interstate to Atlanta, arriving just as the Friday night crowd appeared at the new venue.
This went on long after I had left Atlanta and moved on, from Knoxville to Rockwood to Kingston and back to Knoxville.
Then came a weekend in June of 1976. My week of vacation from the radio station I’d spent at home, mainly at (and in) the apartment complex pool. Steve, my former lover, now roommate/best friend whom I still loved, was busy with work now that he had finished his degree in commercial art. (He worked as a manager of an Arby’s Roast Beef Restaurant, but at least he had the degree.) I hadn’t been to Atlanta in almost two years and got it into my head to finish the week with a Saturday night in Atlanta. I’d be tired the next day and have to go to back to work on Monday, but I didn’t care. I didn’t call Larry before leaving, but had his new address with me.
He was glad to see me, although he was disappointed I’d let my bleached surfer-blond hair grow out to its natural dirty blond. He was also disappointed to tell me he and his current boyfriend would be out very late, so I couldn’t spend the night. He’d be glad to see me in the morning though.
For some reason I was unfazed by this. I guess I figured I’d hit the clubs, have some fun and find someone to spend the night with. I’d done that enough before. I wasn’t as fresh a face as I’d been that first night at the Joy Lounge over six years earlier, but I was still fresh enough, especially since I hadn’t been seen in Atlanta for two years.
That evening, though, I discovered that freshness isn’t everything. Maybe I looked too desperate, maybe the crowd wasn’t right, but nothing clicked. Who knows? Maybe, like the young girl, Cher, in the movie, “Clueless,” I was standing in bad light. Whatever the reason, my bar search came to naught. It was almost two a.m., Larry wouldn’t be home for some time and I needed a place to sleep, even sleep alone.
So, for the one and only time in my life, I checked into the baths. The Locker Room was located in a suburban strip mall, giving all outward appearance of a health club. I paid my ten dollars for a locker and a room and off I went. I’ll explore the rest of that night in detail at another time, but suffice to say the sun came up, I checked out, and headed for Larry’s house.
Larry and his boyfriend were home and happy to see me, although Larry feigned shock when I told him where I’d spent the night.
We gathered in the living room and Larry brought in breakfast, a real southern style, Sunday morning breakfast: scrambled eggs, grits, sausage, coffee, orange juice. And a couple of joints.
Well maybe it wasn’t such a typical southern breakfast.
We enjoyed it all, though, while watching “Gold Diggers of 1932,” or some such Busby Berkeley film on TBS. It’s the one that end with the huge production number, “Lullaby of Broadway.” It was fun, campy and a perfect accompaniment to our meal.
I mellowed out for a while, then said my goodbyes to Larry and his boyfriend and headed up I-75 to Knoxville. I arrived home to an anxious Steve. He needed a ride to the airport where a charter flight would take him home to see his dying father.
My vacation over, I returned to work. But I wouldn’t return to Atlanta for another fifteen years. Larry never called again to tell me to come down to see a new club. Anyhow, he couldn’t have found me a year later since I moved to a new job out of town. Then, a year later, I moved out of state to begin a life in academia. There was academic life there, all right, but no gay life and my gay life pretty much became dormant, only to be reawakened years later when I finally returned to Atlanta. I tried to find Larry then, but to no avail. It seems we’d said our last goodbyes that Sunday morning in 1976.
Of all the people I met in my first weeks in Atlanta, Larry was my first friend. He was a friend, not a trick, not a bar acquaintance, not a “sister,” as so many gay guys referred to those they hung out with but didn’t sleep with. He was a friend. They say a friend is someone who knows all about you and likes you anyway. That was Larry.
I met Larry my first night out in Atlanta, at the Joy Lounge, the night I used my first pickup line to take Danny home with me. I believe he was the first person who spoke to me that night and I remember that because he spoke to me not as someone seeking “fresh meat,” but as someone wanting to make a new face feel at ease. Besides, Larry didn’t need to find a trick that night; he was with his boyfriend. Over the next several years, until I lost track of him completely, Larry and I would carry our friendship through a variety of relationships. We’d help each other through the times of being single, being in relationship or just being confused.
Larry was unique in several ways. He was a small fellow and maybe we bonded at one level over that characteristic; we little guys seem to have an unspoken level of relationship that way. Larry also had a cleft palate, but it really only made him a bit more cute, a bit more boyish and vulnerable. And sweet.
Larry also fit at least one gay stereotype. He was a hairdresser. Actually, he managed one of a chain of salons owned by some fellow I never knew but heard a great deal about. Larry knew hairstyling and he knew makeup and he loved to critique the performers in drag shows.
But Larry never did drag. Oh, he did once, but not on stage. As for why he did it only once, we’ll get to in a moment.
What Larry – and his straight brother – did do was drag racing, not a stereotypically gay activity. Larry owned a Mustang and he knew every inch of it, inside and out. He lived just a block from my apartment and the first Saturday morning I decided to visit him, I found him under his car. What he was doing I don’t know, but it involved mechanical knowledge of the sort I pay fellows at garages to deal with. Actually, it was his brother who did most of the racing, but Larry shared his love of working on cars.
I rode with Larry often and he was a good driver as well as mechanic. Yet it was one night that he wasn't such a good driver that led him to never do drag again.
One thing I learned about Larry – and I have no idea how the subject arose – was that he seldom if ever wore underwear. No, I don’t know why he did this and I doubt that it matters.
One day at his house, I watched as he sorted and folded his laundry. As he was opening bureau drawers, I spotted a pair of black panties and I just had to ask how they came to be in the bureau of a guy who didn’t wear underwear of any kind.
Larry explained that he wore them one night, the one and only night that he got in drag. It was Halloween and he was talked into doing it, much against his will. Yet, Halloween being sort of a national gay holiday, he acquiesced. He fixed up a wig he borrowed, did his makeup and wore a short dress he got from somewhere. Apparently he looked quite good and headed out for a night of Halloween club life.
All went well until the drive home. Larry wasn’t much of a drinker, but that night he’d had more than his usual. On the way home he got caught in a police sobriety check. He failed and had to spend the night in the drunk tank. In full drag. His first time – and his last time – either in the drunk tank or in drag.
Larry and I remained the closest of friends during my stay in Atlanta and, when I moved back to Tennessee, he was always a willing host when I came to visit. If he was single, I shared his bed (but not him.) If he was living with someone, I had the couch or the spare bedroom if there was one. Many a Friday evening, while I was living in Knoxville, Tennessee, I would arrive home from work to receive a call from Larry that a new club had opened and I should come down and see it. Tonight. So I’d clean up, pick out an outfit and zip two hundred miles down the interstate to Atlanta, arriving just as the Friday night crowd appeared at the new venue.
This went on long after I had left Atlanta and moved on, from Knoxville to Rockwood to Kingston and back to Knoxville.
Then came a weekend in June of 1976. My week of vacation from the radio station I’d spent at home, mainly at (and in) the apartment complex pool. Steve, my former lover, now roommate/best friend whom I still loved, was busy with work now that he had finished his degree in commercial art. (He worked as a manager of an Arby’s Roast Beef Restaurant, but at least he had the degree.) I hadn’t been to Atlanta in almost two years and got it into my head to finish the week with a Saturday night in Atlanta. I’d be tired the next day and have to go to back to work on Monday, but I didn’t care. I didn’t call Larry before leaving, but had his new address with me.
He was glad to see me, although he was disappointed I’d let my bleached surfer-blond hair grow out to its natural dirty blond. He was also disappointed to tell me he and his current boyfriend would be out very late, so I couldn’t spend the night. He’d be glad to see me in the morning though.
For some reason I was unfazed by this. I guess I figured I’d hit the clubs, have some fun and find someone to spend the night with. I’d done that enough before. I wasn’t as fresh a face as I’d been that first night at the Joy Lounge over six years earlier, but I was still fresh enough, especially since I hadn’t been seen in Atlanta for two years.
That evening, though, I discovered that freshness isn’t everything. Maybe I looked too desperate, maybe the crowd wasn’t right, but nothing clicked. Who knows? Maybe, like the young girl, Cher, in the movie, “Clueless,” I was standing in bad light. Whatever the reason, my bar search came to naught. It was almost two a.m., Larry wouldn’t be home for some time and I needed a place to sleep, even sleep alone.
So, for the one and only time in my life, I checked into the baths. The Locker Room was located in a suburban strip mall, giving all outward appearance of a health club. I paid my ten dollars for a locker and a room and off I went. I’ll explore the rest of that night in detail at another time, but suffice to say the sun came up, I checked out, and headed for Larry’s house.
Larry and his boyfriend were home and happy to see me, although Larry feigned shock when I told him where I’d spent the night.
We gathered in the living room and Larry brought in breakfast, a real southern style, Sunday morning breakfast: scrambled eggs, grits, sausage, coffee, orange juice. And a couple of joints.
Well maybe it wasn’t such a typical southern breakfast.
We enjoyed it all, though, while watching “Gold Diggers of 1932,” or some such Busby Berkeley film on TBS. It’s the one that end with the huge production number, “Lullaby of Broadway.” It was fun, campy and a perfect accompaniment to our meal.
I mellowed out for a while, then said my goodbyes to Larry and his boyfriend and headed up I-75 to Knoxville. I arrived home to an anxious Steve. He needed a ride to the airport where a charter flight would take him home to see his dying father.
My vacation over, I returned to work. But I wouldn’t return to Atlanta for another fifteen years. Larry never called again to tell me to come down to see a new club. Anyhow, he couldn’t have found me a year later since I moved to a new job out of town. Then, a year later, I moved out of state to begin a life in academia. There was academic life there, all right, but no gay life and my gay life pretty much became dormant, only to be reawakened years later when I finally returned to Atlanta. I tried to find Larry then, but to no avail. It seems we’d said our last goodbyes that Sunday morning in 1976.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Story 7 - A Heck of an Engineer
“A Heck of an Engineer” (March, 1970)
Of all the tricks and all the relationships (a relationship being a trick that lasted more than one night) I had in Atlanta, few were with college guys. Now that I think of it, that’s rather strange since Atlanta has an abundance of colleges and universities. Most of the twenty-something guys I met were in the work force, many having moved to Atlanta to work as well as to come out. Many had jobs that also allowed them a rather active social life. All of them had modest apartments that reflected their economic status. Some had graduated from college, but I only remember tricking with one who was actually in college. He was an engineering student at Georgia Tech.
I don’t recall where we met, I don’t recall his name, and I don’t recall why we went to his place instead of mine.
But, oh, do I recall the time we had in his apartment.
He was small built and, though attractive, had the look – if there is a such a thing – of an engineering student. His features were soft, his hair was barber-cut and his clothes were utilitarian. I don’t remember his hair color or exactly what he was wearing, but he gave the impression of a young guy more attuned to solving quadratic equations for fun than keeping up with the latest dance crazes. He wasn’t wimpy or geeky in appearance, but definitely not a slave to fashion. He was a Georgia boy, polite and soft-spoken. All this is to say that what was soon to happen would be a complete surprise to me.
Arrival at his apartment was uneventful and customary for such occasions. He turned on the stereo system for some “mood music.” Nothing unusual about that. He offered me a drink. Nothing unusual about that. He drew close to me and put his arms around my shoulders. Nothing unusual about that.
Just as I was expecting him to draw even closer, perhaps for a kiss, he reached one arm around my back, another behind my legs and picked me up and carried me to his bedroom!
Definitely something unusual about that.
I didn’t put up any kind of resistance. Shock does that to a person. I wasn’t afraid, just shocked. Who expected a geeky but cute Georgia Tech student to be so butch? OK, he wasn’t effeminate in any way, just soft-spoken (up to that moment, anyway.) His apartment was very utilitarian-masculine, with a drafting table, some sensible but well-worn furniture and no decorations or bric-a-brac on the tables or walls. The entire apartment, except for the bed itself, could have been furnished by Home Depot, if Home Depot had existed in 1970. Actually it could have been – and probably was – furnished by the local rent-to-own store.
So much for the furnishings. And I sure wasn’t thinking about interior design as he lifted me and carried me down a short hallway into the bedroom and dropped me on the bed. Yes, he dropped me. It was a soft landing but abrupt nonetheless.
I suspect he was counting on shock value and he was right. After all, I was the one who had made the first move at the club. I’m sure I did because, well, I always did. And I would have remembered had it been otherwise. I was short, small, looked younger than my years – and my years weren’t that many to begin with – yet I somehow ended up assuming the “butch” role, what today would be referred to as “top.” Butch guys took the initiative. Butch guys made the first move. We all knew that.
Tech Boy apparently hadn’t gotten the memo, I thought.
As I lay there looking up at him standing beside the bed, I saw him slyly smile.
He’d gotten the memo all right. And thrown it out. This engineer was on a mission. A mission to put butch boys in their place. In this case, on their backs.
On my back was where he had me and on my back I would stay. It was his apartment. It was his bed. It was, apparently, his rules.
Rules? Hadn’t I been the one to set the rules up to now? Didn’t I just say I would have remembered if he had made the first move at the club? Because I always made the first move. And because, if someone else made the first move, I would be likely to reject it. (In a nice way, of course. Usually.)
No, I wasn’t a control freak. (“Oh yes you were,” says a voice in my head. “Oh, shut up!” I reply.) It was just a pattern things had fallen into since I had first come out less than a year before. If, when you first arrived on the scene, first stepped into a gay club, you weren’t immediately classified as a “queen,” then you were assumed to be butch. The mold had been set. If you were marked with a scarlet “B,” you could hang out with other butch boys, you could drink with them, but you weren’t supposed to go home with them. Same thing for queens. “I couldn’t sleep with her! We’re sisters!” I guess that made us butch boys “brothers,” but it would be hard to think of it that way and none of us did.
Even then I was a transgressor. When I went on the prowl, I didn’t ask for gay role-playing identity papers.
Were they male? Were they gay? Were they cute?
All I asked was three out of three, although the last requirement was open to interpretation (and the number of drinks I had consumed.) I didn’t ask what they liked to do in bed. I only asked if they wanted to get into bed. With me. We’d work out the, um, details later.
Tech Boy had upset the scheme of things. There was nothing to work out. We were at his place, in his bedroom and he was in charge. He was standing beside the bed and I was on the bed, on my back. I had a pretty good idea of where things were heading and I had a pretty good idea that I would have little or no say about where things were heading.
And then he surprised me.
Again.
Of all the tricks and all the relationships (a relationship being a trick that lasted more than one night) I had in Atlanta, few were with college guys. Now that I think of it, that’s rather strange since Atlanta has an abundance of colleges and universities. Most of the twenty-something guys I met were in the work force, many having moved to Atlanta to work as well as to come out. Many had jobs that also allowed them a rather active social life. All of them had modest apartments that reflected their economic status. Some had graduated from college, but I only remember tricking with one who was actually in college. He was an engineering student at Georgia Tech.
I don’t recall where we met, I don’t recall his name, and I don’t recall why we went to his place instead of mine.
But, oh, do I recall the time we had in his apartment.
He was small built and, though attractive, had the look – if there is a such a thing – of an engineering student. His features were soft, his hair was barber-cut and his clothes were utilitarian. I don’t remember his hair color or exactly what he was wearing, but he gave the impression of a young guy more attuned to solving quadratic equations for fun than keeping up with the latest dance crazes. He wasn’t wimpy or geeky in appearance, but definitely not a slave to fashion. He was a Georgia boy, polite and soft-spoken. All this is to say that what was soon to happen would be a complete surprise to me.
Arrival at his apartment was uneventful and customary for such occasions. He turned on the stereo system for some “mood music.” Nothing unusual about that. He offered me a drink. Nothing unusual about that. He drew close to me and put his arms around my shoulders. Nothing unusual about that.
Just as I was expecting him to draw even closer, perhaps for a kiss, he reached one arm around my back, another behind my legs and picked me up and carried me to his bedroom!
Definitely something unusual about that.
I didn’t put up any kind of resistance. Shock does that to a person. I wasn’t afraid, just shocked. Who expected a geeky but cute Georgia Tech student to be so butch? OK, he wasn’t effeminate in any way, just soft-spoken (up to that moment, anyway.) His apartment was very utilitarian-masculine, with a drafting table, some sensible but well-worn furniture and no decorations or bric-a-brac on the tables or walls. The entire apartment, except for the bed itself, could have been furnished by Home Depot, if Home Depot had existed in 1970. Actually it could have been – and probably was – furnished by the local rent-to-own store.
So much for the furnishings. And I sure wasn’t thinking about interior design as he lifted me and carried me down a short hallway into the bedroom and dropped me on the bed. Yes, he dropped me. It was a soft landing but abrupt nonetheless.
I suspect he was counting on shock value and he was right. After all, I was the one who had made the first move at the club. I’m sure I did because, well, I always did. And I would have remembered had it been otherwise. I was short, small, looked younger than my years – and my years weren’t that many to begin with – yet I somehow ended up assuming the “butch” role, what today would be referred to as “top.” Butch guys took the initiative. Butch guys made the first move. We all knew that.
Tech Boy apparently hadn’t gotten the memo, I thought.
As I lay there looking up at him standing beside the bed, I saw him slyly smile.
He’d gotten the memo all right. And thrown it out. This engineer was on a mission. A mission to put butch boys in their place. In this case, on their backs.
On my back was where he had me and on my back I would stay. It was his apartment. It was his bed. It was, apparently, his rules.
Rules? Hadn’t I been the one to set the rules up to now? Didn’t I just say I would have remembered if he had made the first move at the club? Because I always made the first move. And because, if someone else made the first move, I would be likely to reject it. (In a nice way, of course. Usually.)
No, I wasn’t a control freak. (“Oh yes you were,” says a voice in my head. “Oh, shut up!” I reply.) It was just a pattern things had fallen into since I had first come out less than a year before. If, when you first arrived on the scene, first stepped into a gay club, you weren’t immediately classified as a “queen,” then you were assumed to be butch. The mold had been set. If you were marked with a scarlet “B,” you could hang out with other butch boys, you could drink with them, but you weren’t supposed to go home with them. Same thing for queens. “I couldn’t sleep with her! We’re sisters!” I guess that made us butch boys “brothers,” but it would be hard to think of it that way and none of us did.
Even then I was a transgressor. When I went on the prowl, I didn’t ask for gay role-playing identity papers.
Were they male? Were they gay? Were they cute?
All I asked was three out of three, although the last requirement was open to interpretation (and the number of drinks I had consumed.) I didn’t ask what they liked to do in bed. I only asked if they wanted to get into bed. With me. We’d work out the, um, details later.
Tech Boy had upset the scheme of things. There was nothing to work out. We were at his place, in his bedroom and he was in charge. He was standing beside the bed and I was on the bed, on my back. I had a pretty good idea of where things were heading and I had a pretty good idea that I would have little or no say about where things were heading.
And then he surprised me.
Again.
Story 6: About that bar raid . . .
It’s a good thing my Camaro’s interior was red . . . (February 1970)
In another six months, it’d be different. Hell, in another six months, I’d be different.
It would be a hot Saturday night in August. The crowd would be huge, the deejay’s music would be loud, and that funny thing we’d later come to know as a disco ball would be spinning, I - and every gay guy within miles of Atlanta - would be partying at the Sweet Gum Head.
But it wasn’t six months from now. It was a cold Saturday night in February. The crowd was small, the music came from a jukebox, and the only flashing light came from the neon beer signs. I - and several gay guys from Midtown - were partying at the Joy Lounge.
Gay Atlanta in February 1970 offered two alternatives. There was Mrs. P’s, a fairly decent restaurant open late to serve a hungry and cruisy crowd. Or rather a hungry and cruising crowd. But it was just a restaurant, not a bar, not club, not a real party place.
The other alternative was just a short walk east on Ponce De Leon. The Joy Lounge occupied the first floor of a large house, one that had once had been home to a wealthy family when Ponce De Leon was a boulevard of old Southern wealth and not a commercial strip leading to Decatur. It was owned, so I understood, by two lesbians, one of whom usually tended bar. It’s front room had a few tables and some old living room furniture, while it’s back room held the bar, some booths, a few tables and space for dancing near the jukebox.
That’s what made the Joy Lounge special. The dance floor. A place where guys could dance with other guys. (There were rarely any female customers; where lesbians went to dance with each other, I have no clue.)
Yes, the dance floor was the Joy Lounge’s drawing card for us gay boys. And the dance floor was the Joy Lounge’s drawing card for the not-so-gay boys in blue. You see, the Joy Lounge didn’t have a permit for dancing. Without a permit, dancing wasn’t legal at the Joy Lounge. And boys dancing with other boys wasn’t legal even with a permit.
So the owners made a deal - a financial deal - with the local police. Money changed hands, apparently, and it was agreed that “Lily Law” wouldn’t invade the premises unannounced. (They were required to make periodic inspections but, with advance warning, the tables could be moved to fill the dance floor space.)
It was a satisfactory deal for all, until that night in February when the deal apparently fell through.
I’d almost not gone out that night. I was tired from work and I’d already tricked twice that week. Tomorrow was a day off and I could sleep in. Atlanta bars had to close at midnight on Saturdays anyhow. I could just stay in, lay back on my shag covered couch - everything was shag then - and listen to Simon and Garfunkel. But as Paul Simon sang, “I am a rock, I am an island,” I felt vaguely nauseous at the thought of a Saturday night alone. It was about nine, enough time to do the typical gay boy primping and arrive at the club at a decent time.
I parked my white ‘67 Camaro in the gravel parking lot adjacent to the Joy Lounge and found the crowd surprisingly festive; there were even some fresh faces, ones I hadn’t tricked or tried to trick with. In a little over a month since that first night, the night my first pickup line had begun a volatile three-week relationship with Danny, I’d become a familiar face in the Joy Lounge crowd, but a face that still seemed fresh enough to attract other fresh faces. I’d even made some friends. Even Danny, no longer a lover, was still a friend and I got to meet his friends, many of whom were apparently his former lovers also. But remember that this was a different time, time in which, if you gathered a dozen gay guys in one room, you’d discover that most of them had slept with each of the others.
So I sat with my friends, drank with my friends, and danced with my friends. For a while, all was well with my Saturday night world. I’d likely go home alone, but it would be my choice. I did go home alone, but it wasn’t my choice.
My departure was the result of another arrival, the arrival of Atlanta’s finest.
What happened next took only seconds, but I lived a lifetime during them.
The cops had come to the front entrance, as the Joy Lounge had no apparent back entrance, at least none I was aware of. Until that night. I was dancing with some fresh face when I heard a commotion and cries of “Raid! Raid! It’s Lily Law!”
Did I panic? Sure I panicked. But just when my mind was racing to scenarios of calling home to upstate New York to ask for bail money, someone’s arm grabbed mine and said, “This way!” I was hustled behind a black curtain that formed the bar’s backdrop and, sure enough, the Joy Lounge had a back entrance.
As it had only been three years since I was on my college’s cross country team, I made it across the gravel parking lot really fast. Too fast. I slipped, I fell, I got up and ran. I cranked that white Camaro, peeled out the parking lot not even bothering to look back or look for police cars, headed down Ponce De Leon to Highland to North Morningside to my apartment.
Once in parking place, assured I hadn’t been followed, I began breathing again. I shut of the engine and grabbed the shifter to put the car in gear. And I felt something wet and sticky. Turning on the dome light, I could see the shifter. And the steering wheel. And my hands. All covered in blood. Then I remembered my fall in the gravel parking lot. I’d driven all the way down Ponce De Leon, all the way up Highland and onto North Morningside with my hands bleeding. For a moment, I panicked again, but only for a moment.
After all, I was in my apartment parking lot. I wasn’t in jail. I could go wash my hands and the cuts would heal. And I was thankful my Camaro’s interior was red.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Story 5: "I like to hit my boyfriend"
“I like to beat up my boyfriend” (February, 1970)
After Danny and I broke up, I didn’t have another long-term relationship the remainder of my time in Atlanta. And since Danny and I lasted slightly less than three weeks, my definition of “long-term” was clearly a flexible one.
So what did I do the remaining eight months in Hot’lanta?
I tricked.
A lot.
But I did it respectably. I never picked up street trade and never, ever used a public restroom for other than its intended purposes. I wanted to get to know the guy, if only for the night. Or part thereof.
Sometimes I’d meet someone at a club. Other times I’d meet someone at a party. Sometimes I’d meet someone at a club and we’d go to a party.
In the my early months in Atlanta, I worked a basic nine-to-five shift at the radio station, doing middays on the air, trying to sell ads, producing commercials and trying to keep the automation on the FM side working. This meant I could stay out fairly late on weeknights, as I didn’t have to leave for work until about 8:30 in the morning. For someone with experience getting up at 4:15 to be on the air at 6 a.m., this was like sleeping in all day.
One night, through circumstances I do not recall, I ended up at a party.
Party, in this case, simply meant a gathering of gay guys at someone’s apartment for the purpose of doing what we had originally gone to club for – to drink and have sex. It could be a rather desperate gathering as being at the party indicated one had not already found someone to “go home with,” so to speak.
Not only do I not recall how I got invited to this particular gathering, I don’t remember knowing anyone there. Apparently some guys at whatever bar I was at saw me and asked me to join them. If this sounds bizarre, it wasn’t unusual. If the hour was late, the bar was about to close, and one was still alone, it wasn’t difficult to get included in a group of strangers heading for some party somewhere.
There were maybe a dozen of us, maybe an even number, maybe not, but almost immediately the “pairing off” began and couples began to form. For all I know, some may already have been couples, but other “pairs” may have been total strangers. Just as I was considering my options, the guy whose apartment this apparently was decided to “pair off” with me and led me to his bedroom. He suggested I undress and told me he’d be right back.
The party, at this point, was about five minutes old.
I hesitated about undressing right away. I’d always regarded disrobing as part of foreplay, but maybe I was just old-fashioned in that way. Or maybe modest. Modest? Nah. But it did seem awkward. I didn’t know him; I didn’t know any of the others in the living room. Throwing caution to the wind (and my clothes to the bed), I stripped to my briefs and awaited his return. The strangeness I felt standing alone in a stranger’s bedroom in only my white nylon Jockeys was soon to be surpassed by even greater strangeness.
He (no, I never got his name) returned, put his arms around me as I stood by his bed and moved his hands down to my waist. “Mmm. Fancy underwear!” he exclaimed, which surprised me since nylon Jockey briefs weren’t all that uncommon at the time and mine were at least white. But he liked them and wanted me to keep them on. He undressed but left his briefs on and we lay down side by side, on our backs on his unmade bed. Well, it was more than unmade; there was only a bottom sheet and two pillows.
And then he asked me the strangest question.
“Do you like to get hit?”
“Excuse me?”
“I liked to hit my ex when we were in bed – right here.” He pointed to my chest.
“Uh, may I ask why?” I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to be there.
“Oh, it’s fun to do,” he said, almost giggling. “So, do you like to be hit?”
Now you might expect that I’d immediately say something like, “No!” or “Not really.” But I hesitated, not because I liked to be hit or wanted to be hit, but because I wasn’t sure just where he was going with this question. He didn’t seem the S&M type, but maybe there was some kinky subculture I hadn’t yet learned about. I’d only been “out” less than a year at this point and in Atlanta only about four months. He seemed normal enough otherwise. He had a relatively slim and smooth body, dirty blond hair and a nice smile (even as he spoke of hitting ex-boyfriends.) I just couldn’t get a read on this boy.
He must have noticed my hesitation and sought to change the subject.
“So, what do you like to do?”
Oh no, not that question! I’d almost prefer, “Do you like to be hit?”
It’s amazing that a gay guy can be bold enough to come on to a total stranger in a club, invite him to his place or agree to go to the other guy’s place, both with total confidence in what they are doing. Yet when the moment arrives, when they are both in bed, both undressed, the question arises:
“So, what do you like to do?”
Granted, this question is sometimes asked at the club, but seemingly the answer is either ignored or left for consideration at a later time, in bed that is. Or it can be used to get away from someone at a club, as in:
“So, what do you like to do?”
“Improve my skills as a serial killer.”
Right now, in this room, in this bed, with this guy, didn’t seem the time for levity.
Finally, instead of words, I replied with action. No, I didn’t hit him. I embraced him. I came on to him. I started making out with him. Choose your cliché.
I wasn’t so much trying to be “butch,” or a “top,” as would be said today. But someone had to take charge of the situation and better I take charge than someone who likes to hit ex-boyfriends.
It worked. We had sex. We fell asleep.
In the morning I left him, still asleep on his bed, stepped gingerly over the sleeping bodies sprawled around the living room, and went downstairs to my car. It was 8 a.m. I started the car. Nothing happened. The battery was dead. I’d left the car’s lights the night before. I had gotten “hit” after all.
After Danny and I broke up, I didn’t have another long-term relationship the remainder of my time in Atlanta. And since Danny and I lasted slightly less than three weeks, my definition of “long-term” was clearly a flexible one.
So what did I do the remaining eight months in Hot’lanta?
I tricked.
A lot.
But I did it respectably. I never picked up street trade and never, ever used a public restroom for other than its intended purposes. I wanted to get to know the guy, if only for the night. Or part thereof.
Sometimes I’d meet someone at a club. Other times I’d meet someone at a party. Sometimes I’d meet someone at a club and we’d go to a party.
In the my early months in Atlanta, I worked a basic nine-to-five shift at the radio station, doing middays on the air, trying to sell ads, producing commercials and trying to keep the automation on the FM side working. This meant I could stay out fairly late on weeknights, as I didn’t have to leave for work until about 8:30 in the morning. For someone with experience getting up at 4:15 to be on the air at 6 a.m., this was like sleeping in all day.
One night, through circumstances I do not recall, I ended up at a party.
Party, in this case, simply meant a gathering of gay guys at someone’s apartment for the purpose of doing what we had originally gone to club for – to drink and have sex. It could be a rather desperate gathering as being at the party indicated one had not already found someone to “go home with,” so to speak.
Not only do I not recall how I got invited to this particular gathering, I don’t remember knowing anyone there. Apparently some guys at whatever bar I was at saw me and asked me to join them. If this sounds bizarre, it wasn’t unusual. If the hour was late, the bar was about to close, and one was still alone, it wasn’t difficult to get included in a group of strangers heading for some party somewhere.
There were maybe a dozen of us, maybe an even number, maybe not, but almost immediately the “pairing off” began and couples began to form. For all I know, some may already have been couples, but other “pairs” may have been total strangers. Just as I was considering my options, the guy whose apartment this apparently was decided to “pair off” with me and led me to his bedroom. He suggested I undress and told me he’d be right back.
The party, at this point, was about five minutes old.
I hesitated about undressing right away. I’d always regarded disrobing as part of foreplay, but maybe I was just old-fashioned in that way. Or maybe modest. Modest? Nah. But it did seem awkward. I didn’t know him; I didn’t know any of the others in the living room. Throwing caution to the wind (and my clothes to the bed), I stripped to my briefs and awaited his return. The strangeness I felt standing alone in a stranger’s bedroom in only my white nylon Jockeys was soon to be surpassed by even greater strangeness.
He (no, I never got his name) returned, put his arms around me as I stood by his bed and moved his hands down to my waist. “Mmm. Fancy underwear!” he exclaimed, which surprised me since nylon Jockey briefs weren’t all that uncommon at the time and mine were at least white. But he liked them and wanted me to keep them on. He undressed but left his briefs on and we lay down side by side, on our backs on his unmade bed. Well, it was more than unmade; there was only a bottom sheet and two pillows.
And then he asked me the strangest question.
“Do you like to get hit?”
“Excuse me?”
“I liked to hit my ex when we were in bed – right here.” He pointed to my chest.
“Uh, may I ask why?” I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to be there.
“Oh, it’s fun to do,” he said, almost giggling. “So, do you like to be hit?”
Now you might expect that I’d immediately say something like, “No!” or “Not really.” But I hesitated, not because I liked to be hit or wanted to be hit, but because I wasn’t sure just where he was going with this question. He didn’t seem the S&M type, but maybe there was some kinky subculture I hadn’t yet learned about. I’d only been “out” less than a year at this point and in Atlanta only about four months. He seemed normal enough otherwise. He had a relatively slim and smooth body, dirty blond hair and a nice smile (even as he spoke of hitting ex-boyfriends.) I just couldn’t get a read on this boy.
He must have noticed my hesitation and sought to change the subject.
“So, what do you like to do?”
Oh no, not that question! I’d almost prefer, “Do you like to be hit?”
It’s amazing that a gay guy can be bold enough to come on to a total stranger in a club, invite him to his place or agree to go to the other guy’s place, both with total confidence in what they are doing. Yet when the moment arrives, when they are both in bed, both undressed, the question arises:
“So, what do you like to do?”
Granted, this question is sometimes asked at the club, but seemingly the answer is either ignored or left for consideration at a later time, in bed that is. Or it can be used to get away from someone at a club, as in:
“So, what do you like to do?”
“Improve my skills as a serial killer.”
Right now, in this room, in this bed, with this guy, didn’t seem the time for levity.
Finally, instead of words, I replied with action. No, I didn’t hit him. I embraced him. I came on to him. I started making out with him. Choose your cliché.
I wasn’t so much trying to be “butch,” or a “top,” as would be said today. But someone had to take charge of the situation and better I take charge than someone who likes to hit ex-boyfriends.
It worked. We had sex. We fell asleep.
In the morning I left him, still asleep on his bed, stepped gingerly over the sleeping bodies sprawled around the living room, and went downstairs to my car. It was 8 a.m. I started the car. Nothing happened. The battery was dead. I’d left the car’s lights the night before. I had gotten “hit” after all.
Story 4: Measuring Boys' Inseams
Measuring Boys’ Inseams (February 1970)
Charlie had a thing for measuring teen boys' inseams. Charlie was Danny's roommate and ex-lover, and in his bedroom door was the alleged bullet hole.
By day, Charlie was a banker, although I never really ascertained just what sort of work he did. I just know that he worked in a bank. He looked like a banker. Though he was likely in his mid-to-late twenties, just slightly older than Danny and me, he affected the appearance of one approaching middle age. His well-kept mustache, his conservative attire – even when dressed for clubbing – and his slight paunch created an impression of aging betrayed only by his youthful complexion.
Whatever Charlie did at the bank, it apparently didn't pay well enough, for he worked several evenings a week in the teen and young men's department at Davidson's, a major downtown Atlanta department store.
And while Charlie never said much about his banking duties, he regularly regaled us with tales of his Davidson's customers. It wasn't that he talked about how cute or studly some of his customers were. Most any gay guy does that. Charlie's particular joy came when a customer needed to be measured for slacks and Charlie had to measure the lad's inseam.
Charlie was sensible enough never to take liberties with any of his customers, especially since most, at best, were of the age so often described as "barely legal," and some likely wouldn't be legal for sometime. Oh, Charlie was careful, but he was also very observant.
Charlie provided me with quite an education. I'd never really been aware that some males dressed with their, um, equipment, to the right side and some to the left. I also learned from Charlie that such positioning was not a matter of chance, but personal preference. I thought it rather odd that, after 24 years of life as a male, I’d never given any thought to the matter of “positioning.”
Especially exciting – and perhaps risky – for Charlie were those occasions when the boy to measured what wearing shorts. Boys at this time didn’t wear the khaki knee-length shorts one finds at Gap or Banana Republic, or the long nylon shorts favored by today’s basketball players, ones that can almost be stretched to one’s ankles. Shorts were, well, short. Very short. Boys and young men wore briefs. Boxer underwear was not yet in fashion for any male under the age of, say, 60. Boxers wouldn’t have worked in a time when the look in clothes was the tighter, the better.
As a result, Charlie often got an eyeful or at least a glimpse of underwear. And sometimes – on very rare occasions – Charlie got a glimpse of no underwear. That surprised me. Oh, I had heard once that Elvis (who, at the time was very much alive and on the comeback trail) never wore underwear, but I had assumed he was probably the only male who did so. And I doubted that – in 1970, at least – many of Charlie’s young male customers were Elvis fans.
After I found an apartment of my own, I came to miss Charlie’s nightly tales of adventures in inseam measurement. But when I would occasionally encounter him at a club, I’d be sure to ask him about any recent inseam exploits.
To this day, every time I need some pants shortened – to my 24-inch inseam – I think of Charlie and what he taught me. And I wonder if the clerk doing the measurement takes note of my “positioning.”
Charlie had a thing for measuring teen boys' inseams. Charlie was Danny's roommate and ex-lover, and in his bedroom door was the alleged bullet hole.
By day, Charlie was a banker, although I never really ascertained just what sort of work he did. I just know that he worked in a bank. He looked like a banker. Though he was likely in his mid-to-late twenties, just slightly older than Danny and me, he affected the appearance of one approaching middle age. His well-kept mustache, his conservative attire – even when dressed for clubbing – and his slight paunch created an impression of aging betrayed only by his youthful complexion.
Whatever Charlie did at the bank, it apparently didn't pay well enough, for he worked several evenings a week in the teen and young men's department at Davidson's, a major downtown Atlanta department store.
And while Charlie never said much about his banking duties, he regularly regaled us with tales of his Davidson's customers. It wasn't that he talked about how cute or studly some of his customers were. Most any gay guy does that. Charlie's particular joy came when a customer needed to be measured for slacks and Charlie had to measure the lad's inseam.
Charlie was sensible enough never to take liberties with any of his customers, especially since most, at best, were of the age so often described as "barely legal," and some likely wouldn't be legal for sometime. Oh, Charlie was careful, but he was also very observant.
Charlie provided me with quite an education. I'd never really been aware that some males dressed with their, um, equipment, to the right side and some to the left. I also learned from Charlie that such positioning was not a matter of chance, but personal preference. I thought it rather odd that, after 24 years of life as a male, I’d never given any thought to the matter of “positioning.”
Especially exciting – and perhaps risky – for Charlie were those occasions when the boy to measured what wearing shorts. Boys at this time didn’t wear the khaki knee-length shorts one finds at Gap or Banana Republic, or the long nylon shorts favored by today’s basketball players, ones that can almost be stretched to one’s ankles. Shorts were, well, short. Very short. Boys and young men wore briefs. Boxer underwear was not yet in fashion for any male under the age of, say, 60. Boxers wouldn’t have worked in a time when the look in clothes was the tighter, the better.
As a result, Charlie often got an eyeful or at least a glimpse of underwear. And sometimes – on very rare occasions – Charlie got a glimpse of no underwear. That surprised me. Oh, I had heard once that Elvis (who, at the time was very much alive and on the comeback trail) never wore underwear, but I had assumed he was probably the only male who did so. And I doubted that – in 1970, at least – many of Charlie’s young male customers were Elvis fans.
After I found an apartment of my own, I came to miss Charlie’s nightly tales of adventures in inseam measurement. But when I would occasionally encounter him at a club, I’d be sure to ask him about any recent inseam exploits.
To this day, every time I need some pants shortened – to my 24-inch inseam – I think of Charlie and what he taught me. And I wonder if the clerk doing the measurement takes note of my “positioning.”
Story 3: About that Bullet Hole in the Door
About that Bullet Hole in the Door . . . (January 1970)
The dog had found a home all right – for about a month. My relationship with Danny didn't last that long – about two weeks.
Oh, it started out fine, even passionately. Danny and Charlie shared a rather spacious two-bedroom apartment and I shared Danny's bedroom. And I don’t just mean that Danny and I shared the bed. We did that, of course, but we also shared the bedroom. I worked days at the radio station, basically nine-to-five, and Danny worked the graveyard shift at Dunkin Donuts next door to the apartment complex. He slept days; I slept nights. And between night and day, from just after his arrival home around 6:15 until my departure for work around 8:45, we slept together. We had our evenings and weekends too, but that proved to be too much time together.
What led to our break up? That's never easy to say, but there were at least three factors: astrology, opera and inappropriate laughter. Oh, and a bullet hole in a bedroom door.
Astrology. “Aquarius and Taurus should never fall in love,” observed Danny that first night we shared together. Whatever, I thought to myself. He was Aquarius; I was Taurus. He took star signs seriously; I didn’t. Perhaps I should have. Danny’s birthday was Valentine’s Day. My birthday was once observed in most southern states as Confederate Memorial Day. Lovers or would-be lovers exchanged cards on Danny’s birthday. Southerners put flowers on graves on my birthday. And Hallmark didn’t make cards for Confederate Memorial Day.
Opera. Danny was the first opera queen I'd met and he introduced me to several others. Now, I didn’t hate opera, but I guess the opera “marker” was missing from my gay DNA. (I was later to realize I was also missing the “show tune” marker.) But Danny was passionate about opera. Saturday afternoons meant listening to live Met broadcasts. When we went to the nearby branch library, I checked out books; Danny checked out opera recordings. He knew each work, he knew each performer – he even knew their nicknames, for gosh sakes. Love Danny, love his favorite operas. Love me, love rock and roll.
Inappropriate laughter. One evening one of Danny’s fellow opera queens dropped by. Despite his passion for opera, Danny was a fairly butch boy. Not so his friend, the ultimate overweight screaming queen, manifesting every effeminate gay stereotype imaginable. I’d never been comfortable with gay guys referring to one another as, “she,” but here I made an exception. The conversation was pleasant enough – even fun – for a while, until we began to regale one another with tales of bad tricks we’d had. “What really turns me off,” she said, “is to get some gorgeous stud home and discover he’s wearing silk panties!”
We all laughed. But then I kept laughing, recalling Danny’s attire that first night at the motel. And I kept laughing. I couldn’t stop. Even as Danny glared at me, I couldn’t stop. I don’t really think I was laughing at Danny, more likely at the thought that this outrageous effeminate queen would take offense at a trick wearing female underwear. But the damage was done. Danny was livid. And he never forgave me.
Which brings up the matter of the bullet hole.
During my first day tour of the apartment, as Danny showed me Charlie's bedroom, he pointed to a hole in Charlie’s bedroom door. “That’s from a bullet I fired once – when we had a fight.” For some reason, this chilling revelation didn’t, well, chill me at first. But now that I’d made Danny really angry, I thought again of the bullet hole. Did he still have the gun? I didn’t really want to stay around and find out. The next day I began apartment hunting.
The dog had found a home all right – for about a month. My relationship with Danny didn't last that long – about two weeks.
Oh, it started out fine, even passionately. Danny and Charlie shared a rather spacious two-bedroom apartment and I shared Danny's bedroom. And I don’t just mean that Danny and I shared the bed. We did that, of course, but we also shared the bedroom. I worked days at the radio station, basically nine-to-five, and Danny worked the graveyard shift at Dunkin Donuts next door to the apartment complex. He slept days; I slept nights. And between night and day, from just after his arrival home around 6:15 until my departure for work around 8:45, we slept together. We had our evenings and weekends too, but that proved to be too much time together.
What led to our break up? That's never easy to say, but there were at least three factors: astrology, opera and inappropriate laughter. Oh, and a bullet hole in a bedroom door.
Astrology. “Aquarius and Taurus should never fall in love,” observed Danny that first night we shared together. Whatever, I thought to myself. He was Aquarius; I was Taurus. He took star signs seriously; I didn’t. Perhaps I should have. Danny’s birthday was Valentine’s Day. My birthday was once observed in most southern states as Confederate Memorial Day. Lovers or would-be lovers exchanged cards on Danny’s birthday. Southerners put flowers on graves on my birthday. And Hallmark didn’t make cards for Confederate Memorial Day.
Opera. Danny was the first opera queen I'd met and he introduced me to several others. Now, I didn’t hate opera, but I guess the opera “marker” was missing from my gay DNA. (I was later to realize I was also missing the “show tune” marker.) But Danny was passionate about opera. Saturday afternoons meant listening to live Met broadcasts. When we went to the nearby branch library, I checked out books; Danny checked out opera recordings. He knew each work, he knew each performer – he even knew their nicknames, for gosh sakes. Love Danny, love his favorite operas. Love me, love rock and roll.
Inappropriate laughter. One evening one of Danny’s fellow opera queens dropped by. Despite his passion for opera, Danny was a fairly butch boy. Not so his friend, the ultimate overweight screaming queen, manifesting every effeminate gay stereotype imaginable. I’d never been comfortable with gay guys referring to one another as, “she,” but here I made an exception. The conversation was pleasant enough – even fun – for a while, until we began to regale one another with tales of bad tricks we’d had. “What really turns me off,” she said, “is to get some gorgeous stud home and discover he’s wearing silk panties!”
We all laughed. But then I kept laughing, recalling Danny’s attire that first night at the motel. And I kept laughing. I couldn’t stop. Even as Danny glared at me, I couldn’t stop. I don’t really think I was laughing at Danny, more likely at the thought that this outrageous effeminate queen would take offense at a trick wearing female underwear. But the damage was done. Danny was livid. And he never forgave me.
Which brings up the matter of the bullet hole.
During my first day tour of the apartment, as Danny showed me Charlie's bedroom, he pointed to a hole in Charlie’s bedroom door. “That’s from a bullet I fired once – when we had a fight.” For some reason, this chilling revelation didn’t, well, chill me at first. But now that I’d made Danny really angry, I thought again of the bullet hole. Did he still have the gun? I didn’t really want to stay around and find out. The next day I began apartment hunting.
Story 2: Dog Catches Car
Dog Catches Car (January 1970)
My first pickup line had worked. Danny had agreed to go home with me, “home” being a cheap motel in Marietta. Since Danny lived in Atlanta, in what I would later realize was the gay ghetto, he followed me in my car to our tryst in suburban Cobb County.
As I drove, checking my mirror periodically to be sure I hadn’t lost him in traffic, I pondered what I’d just done. I was a bit like a dog that chases a car. The dog has no idea what it will do if it catches the car. I had caught Danny. Now what would I do?
Remember that this was my first pickup, my first “catch.” Before this, I had been the one who was chased and caught. Well, I thought, Danny had done this before. I’ll just take my lead from him.
Upon arriving at the motel room, I checked all my worldly belongings I had earlier unloaded from the car and introduced Danny to Athena, my two-year-old tabby cat. He petted her a bit, she sniffed his clothes and checked him out a bit, then headed for a corner to nap, leaving Danny and I to check each other out.
Then began the customary embrace-fondle-grope-explore routine, the start of most all making out, straight or gay. Standing face to face, we embraced, then began exploring each other with our hands, first all around the back, then down toward the waist, then back up again, kissing all the while, first the lips, then the cheeks, then the lips again, whatever we desired. Once I glanced aside to the corner. Athena was sound asleep. As a cat, she apparently was uninterested in what a dog does when it catches a car.
My hands continued to explore Danny’s back, his shoulders and spine, then his waist. And then, remembering what others had done to me, I slid my hands down and began caressing and, I think, squeezing his butt. He returned the favor.
Then I almost screwed up. I slid my hands up and slipped them under the waistband of his jeans, and over his underwear. Boxers or briefs, I wondered, but I couldn’t tell. Well, one way to find out. I removed my hands and slipped them between us to undo his belt. And then he – rather gently – pushed me away.
“Uh, can I use your shower? I really need one before we go any further.”
I was taken aback, suspecting he had some concern other than personal hygiene. Had I come on too strong? Did he have second thoughts? Though I was new to all this, I knew most guys showered before heading to the club, in order to be ready for just such an occasion as this. But he insisted, saying he hadn’t planned to go out that night, so he’d just gone to the club for a couple of drinks and really needed a shower.
Stupidly, perhaps, I wasn’t buying any of it. Much to my surprise I pulled him back toward me and proceeded to undo his belt buckle and top jeans button. I had to wrestle him as well as his zipper as he continued to protest – though not at all violently – that he really, really needed a shower. His protest failed, the zipper came down, followed by his jeans. It was then I saw his concern.
He was wearing blue nylon panties.
A brief awkward silence. “Well, I guess that answers the ‘boxers or briefs’ question,” I said, smiling. “Actually, they look quite good on you,” I continued, and they actually did, but this boy would have looked good in anything.
“Uh, they’re not mine,” he stammered, “I don’t usually, uh . . .”
“Relax,” I lied, “I’ve got a pink pair just like them.”
I don’t know if he believed me or if he was just relieved I didn’t ridicule him, but he seemed to relax a bit. “Go take your shower,” I said, gently patting his pantied behind, another first time experience. I needed time while he showered to think about what would – or should – happen next. Actually, I needed time to consider my own behavior up to that point, being rather surprised at the aggressiveness I’d just shown. I was still too new to all this to have any understanding of male-male roles, of “top” or “bottom.” I had assumed Danny would “take the lead,” but my libido seemed to have other ideas. That would soon change.
Danny emerged from his shower, a towel wrapped around him. I was still fully dressed, but Danny soon remedied that situation, then dropped his towel and pushed me on the bed.
What exactly happened next – and for the next few hours – isn’t nearly as important as the fact that Danny was still there with me in the morning. Today was to be my first day at my new job, selling advertising for a local radio station. Danny didn’t have to be to work until just before midnight as an assistant manager of a Dunkin Donuts franchise located next door to his apartment complex.
He asked, “What are you doing tonight?” I told him that I was going to ask off early to locate a place to live.
“Well, you can come and stay with me and Charlie for a while.” His reply was so quick, I was sure he’d already thought about the offer. I reminded him that it wouldn’t be just me, but my beloved cat, which would join them. “No problem,” he replied, again appearing to have already considered the matter.
I had just about an hour to get cleaned up, properly dressed and presentable for my first day of work, so I agreed. He wrote the address and drew a sketchy map on a piece of motel stationery, kissed me goodbye and left.
The night of “firsts” had continued into morning. My first pickup line had resulted in my first pickup and my first pickup had been my first sexual encounter to stay the entire night and now he was to become my first gay roommate.
No, we hadn’t said the “L” word. Yet. But when – and if – we would (and we would), it would be another first.
The dog had caught the car. Now the dog had apparently found a home.
My first pickup line had worked. Danny had agreed to go home with me, “home” being a cheap motel in Marietta. Since Danny lived in Atlanta, in what I would later realize was the gay ghetto, he followed me in my car to our tryst in suburban Cobb County.
As I drove, checking my mirror periodically to be sure I hadn’t lost him in traffic, I pondered what I’d just done. I was a bit like a dog that chases a car. The dog has no idea what it will do if it catches the car. I had caught Danny. Now what would I do?
Remember that this was my first pickup, my first “catch.” Before this, I had been the one who was chased and caught. Well, I thought, Danny had done this before. I’ll just take my lead from him.
Upon arriving at the motel room, I checked all my worldly belongings I had earlier unloaded from the car and introduced Danny to Athena, my two-year-old tabby cat. He petted her a bit, she sniffed his clothes and checked him out a bit, then headed for a corner to nap, leaving Danny and I to check each other out.
Then began the customary embrace-fondle-grope-explore routine, the start of most all making out, straight or gay. Standing face to face, we embraced, then began exploring each other with our hands, first all around the back, then down toward the waist, then back up again, kissing all the while, first the lips, then the cheeks, then the lips again, whatever we desired. Once I glanced aside to the corner. Athena was sound asleep. As a cat, she apparently was uninterested in what a dog does when it catches a car.
My hands continued to explore Danny’s back, his shoulders and spine, then his waist. And then, remembering what others had done to me, I slid my hands down and began caressing and, I think, squeezing his butt. He returned the favor.
Then I almost screwed up. I slid my hands up and slipped them under the waistband of his jeans, and over his underwear. Boxers or briefs, I wondered, but I couldn’t tell. Well, one way to find out. I removed my hands and slipped them between us to undo his belt. And then he – rather gently – pushed me away.
“Uh, can I use your shower? I really need one before we go any further.”
I was taken aback, suspecting he had some concern other than personal hygiene. Had I come on too strong? Did he have second thoughts? Though I was new to all this, I knew most guys showered before heading to the club, in order to be ready for just such an occasion as this. But he insisted, saying he hadn’t planned to go out that night, so he’d just gone to the club for a couple of drinks and really needed a shower.
Stupidly, perhaps, I wasn’t buying any of it. Much to my surprise I pulled him back toward me and proceeded to undo his belt buckle and top jeans button. I had to wrestle him as well as his zipper as he continued to protest – though not at all violently – that he really, really needed a shower. His protest failed, the zipper came down, followed by his jeans. It was then I saw his concern.
He was wearing blue nylon panties.
A brief awkward silence. “Well, I guess that answers the ‘boxers or briefs’ question,” I said, smiling. “Actually, they look quite good on you,” I continued, and they actually did, but this boy would have looked good in anything.
“Uh, they’re not mine,” he stammered, “I don’t usually, uh . . .”
“Relax,” I lied, “I’ve got a pink pair just like them.”
I don’t know if he believed me or if he was just relieved I didn’t ridicule him, but he seemed to relax a bit. “Go take your shower,” I said, gently patting his pantied behind, another first time experience. I needed time while he showered to think about what would – or should – happen next. Actually, I needed time to consider my own behavior up to that point, being rather surprised at the aggressiveness I’d just shown. I was still too new to all this to have any understanding of male-male roles, of “top” or “bottom.” I had assumed Danny would “take the lead,” but my libido seemed to have other ideas. That would soon change.
Danny emerged from his shower, a towel wrapped around him. I was still fully dressed, but Danny soon remedied that situation, then dropped his towel and pushed me on the bed.
What exactly happened next – and for the next few hours – isn’t nearly as important as the fact that Danny was still there with me in the morning. Today was to be my first day at my new job, selling advertising for a local radio station. Danny didn’t have to be to work until just before midnight as an assistant manager of a Dunkin Donuts franchise located next door to his apartment complex.
He asked, “What are you doing tonight?” I told him that I was going to ask off early to locate a place to live.
“Well, you can come and stay with me and Charlie for a while.” His reply was so quick, I was sure he’d already thought about the offer. I reminded him that it wouldn’t be just me, but my beloved cat, which would join them. “No problem,” he replied, again appearing to have already considered the matter.
I had just about an hour to get cleaned up, properly dressed and presentable for my first day of work, so I agreed. He wrote the address and drew a sketchy map on a piece of motel stationery, kissed me goodbye and left.
The night of “firsts” had continued into morning. My first pickup line had resulted in my first pickup and my first pickup had been my first sexual encounter to stay the entire night and now he was to become my first gay roommate.
No, we hadn’t said the “L” word. Yet. But when – and if – we would (and we would), it would be another first.
The dog had caught the car. Now the dog had apparently found a home.
Friday, October 10, 2008
My First Pickup Line
This is the story that started it all, started, that is, my quest to document my gay life in the 1970s.
It was published in an anthology called Bar Stories by Alyson Books in 2000. (Don't worry. I hold the rights to it.)
---------------
My First Pickup Line (January 1970)
It was a dump but it had a dance floor. And that made it beautiful to me.
My first night in Atlanta. The night before my first day of my first job in Atlanta. And my first visit to a gay bar.
Oh, it wasn't my first night “out.” That had been some six months earlier, in Knoxville, Tennessee. July 4th, in fact. Independence Day, though that bit of irony didn't hit me until the next afternoon, as I reflected on the night before, a night that had begun on a neighbor boy's front porch and ended on the floor of my apartment. In the days and weeks that followed my sexual Declaration of Independence, I'd become a part of the Knoxville gay subculture and, as “fresh meat,” I'd had my share of sexual opportunities. But it was always at someone's party, someone's apartment, for “K-town” had only two gay bars, tiny places located down back alleys of downtown that I wouldn't have visited in broad daylight, much less at night. Besides, I had the fresh-out-of-the-closet fear that every new gayboy has about entering his first gay bar. So I stuck to private parties.
But now I was in Atlanta, having landed a radio job in suburban Marietta that would start the next morning. I'd arrived that afternoon, found a motel for me, my Camaro-full of personal belongings and my cat. And now, armed with a map of a city I'd explored for a month while job-hunting, I headed in search of a bar I'd heard about from Knoxville friends.
The Joy Lounge was a two-story house, the first floor of which had been converted to a bar. It faced Ponce DeLeon, a main east-west drag north of downtown Atlanta, with an adjacent gravel parking lot. I probably noticed it was gravel that first night, but it didn't become important until a few months later when, while escaping through the back door from a police raid, I’d fallen and cut my hands on the stones, a fact I was unaware of until arriving safely home and noticing the blood on the steering wheel. But that's another bar story for another time.
It was a Monday night and so the front room of tables was empty and maybe a few dozen people occupied the back room, a room consisting of the bar itself, a few booths and tables and, oh yes, a dance floor. Well, at least a space from which tables had been removed and jukebox had been placed. Yes, a jukebox. I guess I should mention this was just six months after Stonewall and gay club life hadn't yet entered the Disco Era of lighted dance floors and DJ booths. In fact, the police raid I mentioned was because the club wasn't supposed to have a dance floor, at least not one on which boys danced with other boys.
Of course my presence immediately drew attention. I was short (very short), blond (bleached blond), young (24 and looking 16, if that) and not exactly (well not at all) a stud. But I was fresh meat. The scent of freshly packed USDA prime gay boy was instantly picked up on.
Now I'd been accustomed to this at some Knoxville parties, but at least there I had friends to “protect” me. This night I was on my own. So, having no friends to run to, I headed for the bar and ordered a beer, perching myself on a stool (from which my very short legs dangled) and turned my face toward the bar. Well, almost.
My defensive technique worked too well. While eyes were still upon me, no one approached; no one spoke. Finally, I turned a bit to the boy on the next stool, only to realize I had no idea what to say to him. “Come here often?” would be much too trite. “God, you're incredibly cute!” seemed much too forward. Until now, I'd never had to come up with an opening line.
Others had offered theirs to me.
So I did the obvious. I briefly stared, then looked away, then stared again, and then looked away. Smooth operator I was. Real smooth.
Then someone played the jukebox, a great dance number. I was definitely a dancing fool, if not yet a dancing queen. So I turned again and asked the cute boy, “Wanna dance?” That I'd never danced with another boy, much less asked one to dance, didn't matter. Another first for a first night.
“All right,” came his plaintive reply and we headed for the dance floor where we stayed for, oh, maybe three songs. They were all fast, so we never touched, but then came a slow song and, in another first night first, I was dancing in the arms of another boy, a boy I learned was named Danny.
From the time of my first-grade dancing school lessons, I'd loved to dance even if I'd never learned to love girls. And the girls I'd never learned to love loved to dance with me. My above-average dancing ability was a saving social grace for a guy not otherwise likely to be a “chick magnet.” I knew how to hold a girl; I knew how to lead. And I guess the girls especially liked the way my hands never “wandered” when I held them, although they may not have known why they didn't wander.
But dancing with Danny was different. It was almost like coming out all over again. If I'd had any doubts of who I was that personal Independence Day, all doubts now faded in Danny's arms. Yes, I was gay all right. I was a boy who was born to dance with other boys. I was in an unfamiliar town, in an unfamiliar place, with an unfamiliar boy, but it all seemed so familiar. The anxiety I should have felt – and prominently displayed – was absent. The Joy Lounge might as well have been called Heaven, for that's certainly where I was. It was a tiny, dumpy, hole-in-the-wall, police-protection-paying Heaven, but that didn't matter. I was there and so was Danny and we were slow dancing.
The music ended, for it was closing time, just before midnight. Yes, midnight, the hour when beer-only bars had to close. Danny and I returned to our adjacent bar stools, there to finish our beers and make our respective exits.
“So what are you going to do now?” Danny asked.
It was time for a final first.
“I'm taking you home with me,” I replied.
“You are?”
“Of course I am. You're going home with me.”
And he did. The next day I moved in with him.
My first pickup line. And it worked.
It was published in an anthology called Bar Stories by Alyson Books in 2000. (Don't worry. I hold the rights to it.)
---------------
My First Pickup Line (January 1970)
It was a dump but it had a dance floor. And that made it beautiful to me.
My first night in Atlanta. The night before my first day of my first job in Atlanta. And my first visit to a gay bar.
Oh, it wasn't my first night “out.” That had been some six months earlier, in Knoxville, Tennessee. July 4th, in fact. Independence Day, though that bit of irony didn't hit me until the next afternoon, as I reflected on the night before, a night that had begun on a neighbor boy's front porch and ended on the floor of my apartment. In the days and weeks that followed my sexual Declaration of Independence, I'd become a part of the Knoxville gay subculture and, as “fresh meat,” I'd had my share of sexual opportunities. But it was always at someone's party, someone's apartment, for “K-town” had only two gay bars, tiny places located down back alleys of downtown that I wouldn't have visited in broad daylight, much less at night. Besides, I had the fresh-out-of-the-closet fear that every new gayboy has about entering his first gay bar. So I stuck to private parties.
But now I was in Atlanta, having landed a radio job in suburban Marietta that would start the next morning. I'd arrived that afternoon, found a motel for me, my Camaro-full of personal belongings and my cat. And now, armed with a map of a city I'd explored for a month while job-hunting, I headed in search of a bar I'd heard about from Knoxville friends.
The Joy Lounge was a two-story house, the first floor of which had been converted to a bar. It faced Ponce DeLeon, a main east-west drag north of downtown Atlanta, with an adjacent gravel parking lot. I probably noticed it was gravel that first night, but it didn't become important until a few months later when, while escaping through the back door from a police raid, I’d fallen and cut my hands on the stones, a fact I was unaware of until arriving safely home and noticing the blood on the steering wheel. But that's another bar story for another time.
It was a Monday night and so the front room of tables was empty and maybe a few dozen people occupied the back room, a room consisting of the bar itself, a few booths and tables and, oh yes, a dance floor. Well, at least a space from which tables had been removed and jukebox had been placed. Yes, a jukebox. I guess I should mention this was just six months after Stonewall and gay club life hadn't yet entered the Disco Era of lighted dance floors and DJ booths. In fact, the police raid I mentioned was because the club wasn't supposed to have a dance floor, at least not one on which boys danced with other boys.
Of course my presence immediately drew attention. I was short (very short), blond (bleached blond), young (24 and looking 16, if that) and not exactly (well not at all) a stud. But I was fresh meat. The scent of freshly packed USDA prime gay boy was instantly picked up on.
Now I'd been accustomed to this at some Knoxville parties, but at least there I had friends to “protect” me. This night I was on my own. So, having no friends to run to, I headed for the bar and ordered a beer, perching myself on a stool (from which my very short legs dangled) and turned my face toward the bar. Well, almost.
My defensive technique worked too well. While eyes were still upon me, no one approached; no one spoke. Finally, I turned a bit to the boy on the next stool, only to realize I had no idea what to say to him. “Come here often?” would be much too trite. “God, you're incredibly cute!” seemed much too forward. Until now, I'd never had to come up with an opening line.
Others had offered theirs to me.
So I did the obvious. I briefly stared, then looked away, then stared again, and then looked away. Smooth operator I was. Real smooth.
Then someone played the jukebox, a great dance number. I was definitely a dancing fool, if not yet a dancing queen. So I turned again and asked the cute boy, “Wanna dance?” That I'd never danced with another boy, much less asked one to dance, didn't matter. Another first for a first night.
“All right,” came his plaintive reply and we headed for the dance floor where we stayed for, oh, maybe three songs. They were all fast, so we never touched, but then came a slow song and, in another first night first, I was dancing in the arms of another boy, a boy I learned was named Danny.
From the time of my first-grade dancing school lessons, I'd loved to dance even if I'd never learned to love girls. And the girls I'd never learned to love loved to dance with me. My above-average dancing ability was a saving social grace for a guy not otherwise likely to be a “chick magnet.” I knew how to hold a girl; I knew how to lead. And I guess the girls especially liked the way my hands never “wandered” when I held them, although they may not have known why they didn't wander.
But dancing with Danny was different. It was almost like coming out all over again. If I'd had any doubts of who I was that personal Independence Day, all doubts now faded in Danny's arms. Yes, I was gay all right. I was a boy who was born to dance with other boys. I was in an unfamiliar town, in an unfamiliar place, with an unfamiliar boy, but it all seemed so familiar. The anxiety I should have felt – and prominently displayed – was absent. The Joy Lounge might as well have been called Heaven, for that's certainly where I was. It was a tiny, dumpy, hole-in-the-wall, police-protection-paying Heaven, but that didn't matter. I was there and so was Danny and we were slow dancing.
The music ended, for it was closing time, just before midnight. Yes, midnight, the hour when beer-only bars had to close. Danny and I returned to our adjacent bar stools, there to finish our beers and make our respective exits.
“So what are you going to do now?” Danny asked.
It was time for a final first.
“I'm taking you home with me,” I replied.
“You are?”
“Of course I am. You're going home with me.”
And he did. The next day I moved in with him.
My first pickup line. And it worked.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
