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.