Story 15: Steve: When a Trick Becomes a Treat (1974)

Steve: When a Trick became a Treat (1974)

It probably wouldn’t surprise you to learn that there’s not a lot to do in Rockwood, Tennessee on a Wednesday night.

It was late winter of 1974. I’d moved to Rockwood in the fall of 1972 to join a daytime AM radio station as a disk jockey and ended up as program director doing the morning shift. Rockwood was just over forty miles west of Knoxville via I-40, but a world away for a gay boy.

As I was on the air by 6 a.m. Monday through Saturday, Saturday night was about the only time I made it to the bright lights of the big city and the darkened rooms of its gay clubs. I was pretty much out to everyone at the station, the result of a visit by Joey a year ago when he got stranded at my place for four nights because of an ice storm. Before they come out, most gay guys assume they are the only one in the world. I pretty much knew I was the only gay guy in Rockwood.
Going to a bar in Knoxville on a weeknight was difficult. I had to be up at 4:30 the next morning for work and there wasn’t much “action” on those nights.

But one fateful night I couldn’t help myself. The aluminum walls of my mobile home were closing in, so I fired up my trusty Gremlin and headed for K-town.

For no special reason, I headed for Entrè Nous, a small club in Art Deco style just west of Gay Street. (Yes, Knoxville’s main street was named Gay Street.) Although it was a fairly chilly night, there seemed to be more guys standing outside in the parking lot than inside. I knew most of them, all except one.

He caught my attention for a number of reasons. He was dressed in jeans, a sweater and a waist length winter-weight jacket. He had black – very black – straight hair that fell over his forehead. And he was short. Not as short as me, for few people are, but short enough I could almost look directly into his eyes when talking to him. And talk to him I did. And he talked to me. His name was Steve.

Steve was a UT undergrad, major in communication design, UT’s fancy name for commercial art. He was assistant manager at an Arby’s and he shared a house with a straight roommate and, often, the straight roommate’s fiancé.

We talked for some time and then we made a date. Yes, a date. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who had to be to work by 6 a.m. Fast food managers did too.

We agreed to meet at his house around 6:30 on Saturday. Besides my Rockwood radio work, I did afternoon shifts Saturday and Sunday on a Knoxville country station. Steve had Sundays off and I didn’t have to be to the station until noon. We’d go eat, maybe go see a movie, go to a club or two and then, well, we knew what was next.

He gave me his address and phone number and we said our goodbyes.

We had made a date, but I’m sure we both knew it wasn’t a real date; it was a prearranged trick. That was all I expected or thought I wanted and he later admitted that was all he had in mind. Little did we know.

Over the next days, I thought about Saturday night, but it didn’t obsess me. It was exciting to know who I’d be sleeping with that night, but I never got starry eyed or imagined I’d found a lover. Steve would be another trick. The only difference was I had gotten his phone number before instead of after the trick..

When Saturday morning arrived, I selected a change of clothes for the evening I thought would be appropriate and headed out for Knoxville and six hours of playing country “classics” (oldies) on WIVK-FM. After signing off at six, I went to the downstairs lounge and restroom to change, freshen up and call Steve. He told me he’d just gotten home and was going to take a bath. If he didn’t answer the door when I got there, I was to come in and wait in the living room and he’d be out shortly. I wondered that he said he was going to take a bath and not a shower, but I’d discover later that his house, where I would later live, had only a bathtub.

I arrived about 6:30 and, sure enough, there was no answer, so I let myself in. Steve heard me come in and called from the bathroom that he’d be out in a minute or so.

I felt a little unsure of what would transpire when he did come out. After all, this was a date and not the usual trick. We wouldn’t have just arrived at his place (or my place) after meeting and talking (and likely groping) at the bar, ready for, um, action. ONo, our plan was to go get something to eat, maybe see a movie, and then hit the club scene.

Steve seemed just as unsure, for when he did come into the living room, we just greeted one another, made obligatory comments on each other’s outfits and then sat down on the couch as if to engage in some small talk about how each other’s day had gone.

But that’s not what happened.

Within seconds we were in a tight embrace, kissing and hugging like long-lost lovers reunited. It was a couple of minutes – time seemed irrelevant – before we came up for air and then it started again within seconds. Gone were thoughts of dinner, a movie, and the club. Neither one of us wanted to let go, even to leave the couch.

Oh, I’d had somewhat similar encounters with tricks, but we were usually on our feet, one leading the other awkwardly in the direction of the bedroom. But neither Steve nor I was leading anywhere.

My mind was flashing alarm signals. This wasn’t the passionate foreplay of a trick. This was something else. Something dangerous. Something that, dare I even think it, began with the letter, “l.”

No, I knew, you don’t fall in love with a trick. You don’t even say the word in a casual way, the way you might say, “I love that song,” or “I love pizza.” Maybe the word would come after a series of encounters, and then only hesitantly. Love was dangerous. Love could hurt.
Yet I was in love. As a song from years later would put it, truly, madly, deeply.

What in hell was going on here?

Finally we were ready to leave the couch. How long we were there I don’t know, but it was now dark outside and I had arrived about an hour before sunset.

Clearly Steve was thinking the same things I was and we both agreed it was time to at least get something to eat. So we sat back on the couch, a bit apart from each other, and decided on a place to go.

Then it started all over again.

I guess we both realized it was too early for bed, but dinner, a movie or a night at the club seemed irrelevant now. The night was to be ours and ours alone.

So what did we do next, finally freeing ourselves from the passionate hold of the couch? We went shopping, of course.

Well, actually, we headed out for the “Strip,” the several block section of Cumberland Avenue that runs through the University, block after block of eateries, record shops, service stations and anything else to attract a college crowd. Steve lived about six blocks north of the Strip, just off 17th, and, no, I don’t remember a thing we talked about while walking there. Nights like that are like that, I guess, with certain moments recorded indelibly and others lost forever because, perhaps, they didn’t matter. They didn’t matter because all that was important was we were together. Neither of us had said the “L” word yet and not just because gay boys are afraid to say it. We both knew it was going to be said, but we had all the time in the world to say it.

I don’t even recall where we ate, but I’m sure we did. It was probably at the Krystal, as there was no McDonald’s yet on the strip. It was just one more thing not worth remembering.

Now had we been straight, and had Steve been a girl, we’d likely have gone to a nice restaurant (there were a few nearby) for a quiet dinner at a dimly lit table.

But since we were gay, and we were both guys, we did what a gay couple would do. We went shopping for clothes. Our styles were a bit different, but not conflicting it turned out. Steve looked at things he liked and I looked over and tried on things I liked and we each offered opinions on the other selections. Straight women do this. Gay women do this. Straight guys don’t do this. Gay guys do. (Think about this the next time you see two guys shopping for clothes and asking each other’s opinions.)

It turned out neither of us had enough money on us for big-ticket items, so we settled on something we both liked and agreed upon.

Underwear.

Yes, the first intimate gift I bought for Steve was a pair of briefs with a checked pattern that reminded me of a tablecloth. He bought me a pair that was pale blue. Only gay guys in love would do that.

I’m sure we both saw where this was leading. If we’d bought each other jackets, we could have put them on there and worn them home, showing them off wherever we went. But, practically, putting on the underwear would have to wait until we returned to Steve’s place. And, that, of course, would mean getting undressed. Together. I know this was what I was thinking and I’m sure Steve was too.

As I recall, we didn’t head straight home, but wandered through a few more of the shops on the Strip, likely England’s record store and probably the Vol Market, a local deli, to buy a Coke. We knew what the evening still held, but somehow we were in no hurry to get to that point.

Shopping, browsing, snacking, walking, all that seemed to matter was that we were together. We talked on the way back, I’m sure, but I don’t remember what we said. I guess we probably were just getting to know more about each other.

One of the reasons Steve had suggested we get together this particular night was that his housemate (and the housemate’s fiancé) would be away the whole night. Or so we thought. At least they weren’t there when we returned.

It was at this point I was glad we’d bought the underwear. Without it, neither of us would have known what to do next. Why? Well, because we’d never been in quite this situation before.
You see, when two guys meet in a bar and head to one of their places, the process is simple. A bit of small talk, maybe a quick tour of the digs, an offer of a drink, a little “mood” music on the stereo, and then it begins. First, the kissing, the embracing, the groping, then the slow undressing, all accompanied by a gradual movement toward the bedroom and the bed.

Both of us had dated girls in high school. We’d meet them, take them to dinner, maybe a movie, maybe go for a walk and then take them back home. And there, because we were gay guys, the evening ended.

A trick, on the other hand, began at this point. There was no dinner or movie or long walk beforehand, only some glances and dances at a bar, a bar we’d both arrived at alone, hoping we wouldn’t leave alone.

Steve and I had spent the entire evening together and only now were we in his bedroom. Now what?

We did what we knew. When you get home from shopping, you try on what bought. You show it off to each other. We had bought each other underwear.