Barry and the Creepy Old Guy

You remember Barry, the shy, slim boy growing up in a conservative household in Colonial Williamsburg, who sought escape by getting drunk and experimenting with drugs?

How did he get from there to the health-conscious gym rat I knew in New York, who didn't drink or use drugs, who would never even set foot in a bar?

After his first sexual experience, when he was 16, Barry was angry and bitter over the Big Lie, the conspiracy to keep him from knowing that gay people exist, as well as the everyday heterosexism of "what girl do you like"?  So he continued his smoking and drinking, and moved from marijuana to prescription drugs.

He spent the next two years driving into Norfolk and using a fake id to get into the bars, where he would drink, dance, and hook up, usually for money.  Often with two or three guys in a night.

"Norfolk is 50% black," he said.  "Can't get much better odds than that."

"How did you find the time to go home with so many guys on the same night?"

"I didn't usually go home with them.  We did it in a parked car, or in an alley off Stockley Gardens."

By some miracle Barry managed to graduate from high school with a 3.5 GPA.  His search for black men led him to 80% black Howard University in Washington, DC, as a pre-law major.  Again, he spent most nights going to the bars on Dupont Circle with his fake id., dancing, drinking, trying Ecstasy, tricking, and hustling.


He was arrested twice, once for propositioning an undercover cop (DC had sodomy laws until 1995) and once for "indecent exposure" in a public restroom.

"I'm all for exploring masculinity in all its variety," I said, "But it sounds like you were obsessed."

"I thought that's what gay life was about.  Drinking, dancing, drugs, and hooking up."

He felt very guilty after his hookups, especially the anonymous encounters where a guy would go down on him without even a kiss first.  How degrading!  This wasn't what sex was supposed to be about.  What happened to the affection, the caring?  Sometimes he prayed afterwards to turn straight, so he could have a "normal," caring relationship.

"Did you date?"

"Just once."  During the summer of 1992, he fell in love with a tourist from St. Lucia -- his first romantic relationship, four years after coming out!  After a courtship of only a few days, he returned to St. Lucia with his new boyfriend.  But he soon grew bored, returned to DC, and resumed his life of drinking, dancing, tricking, and hustling (See A Boy, A Man, and a Caribbean Island for what really happened).

"Did you use condoms with your tricks?" I asked.

"Not usually. I didn't really care about HIV or hepatitis.  It's a miracle that I'm negative now."

He graduated from Howard University, with a C+ average.  Not good enough to get into a reputable law school.

So he moved to West Hollywood, got a clerical job, and spent his nights at Mickey's and the Rage, dancing, hooking up, drinking, and using drugs. He graduated from Ecstasy to cocaine and crystal meth.

The demon at his exorcism happened to disapprove of an evening where one of his tricks went down on him at the notorious hustler hangout, a donut shop on the corner of Highland and Santa Monica.

(It's under new management and not a hustler hangout anymore.)

"I loved West Hollywood," I said.  "The gym, the bookstores, the restaurants.  Did you go to the French Quarter?"

"Not really."

"Lots of spiritual activities, too.  The Metropolitan Community Church, Beth Chaim Chadashim Synagogue, Evangelicals Together."

"I didn't really join any groups."

"Not even gay Catholic groups?"

"ESPECIALLY not gay Catholic groups.  I wouldn't even trick with a guy if I knew he was Catholic.  Once a guy took off his shirt, and I saw a crucifix around his neck.  I ran away like a vampire."  He paused.  "Maybe I was a vampire."

Then, in the summer of 1998, a trick took him to a very nasty apartment complex near downtown.

Sagging, peeling wallpaper, threadbare carpets damp with mysterious stains, dim light from sickly yellow lamps, stultifying heat,  It was insufferably hot and damp.

As they were walking down the hallway, they passed a couple on the way out.

One was a creepy old guy in a business suit.

"What's wrong with old guys?  I'm 14 years older than you."

"Some of them are hot, but this guy was the worst: smelly, sweaty, with warts and claw-hands, slicked-back hair, and that creepy leer, you know, that they get when they won't take 'no' for an answer."

His companion was a blond guy in his 30s, but very worn and craggy, with bloodshot eyes and a scraggly beard, sweating in an old-fashioned leisure suit and gold chains.

As they passed, the blond guy locked eyes with Barry and mouthed the words "Help me!"

Barry noticed a crucifix around his neck.

"Do you think it was a kidnapping?  Or a hustler changing his mind about a trick?"

"I think it was a glimpse into my future.  I was seeing myself in ten years."

Barry was too freaked out to follow through with his own trick.  He ran back to his car and zoomed home, and said the Rosary for the first time since high school.

"I felt the presence of the Blessed Virgin, as if she had been watching over me all along, waiting for me to come home again." 

A week later, he was back in his parents' house in Williamsburg.

He gave up the bars, went to drug counseling, joined a gym, began practicing Zen meditation, and started going to Dignity, the gay Catholic group.

For the first time in his life, he had gay friends.

Maybe the Blessed Virgin had watched over him for a purpose.  He should become a monk.  But it had to be a pro-gay monastery.

Asking around Dignity, he discovered Andre's Traditional Catholic Community, and applied to join as a postulant.  That's when I met him, on the night of his exorcism.

Barry decided that he didn't have a monastic vocation, but he continued to go to Mass, say the rosary daily, and live a clean, almost monastic lifestyle. An hour of meditation and two hours at the gym every day.  No drinking, no smoking, no drugs, no bars.  No hookups, just dating and sharing with friends.

Today, thanks to the Blessed Virgin and a Creepy Old Guy, Barry is still DDF, still going to the gym and meditating daily.  He and his partner Daniel run a gay bed and breakfast on Long Island, near the Hamptons.

Daniel, by the way, is twenty years older than Barry.

See also: The Colonial Williamsburg Boy Finds Out What Gay Means; The Catholic Priest in my Bed; and The Homophobic Demon.

Derek the Fitness Model's Date with David Cassidy

West Hollywood, June 1989

It's my third date with Lane, the date you traditionally introduce him to your friends, so we're having dinner at my house with Raul, Will, my Celebrity ex-boyfriend, Fred and Matt...and my housemate Derek?

Derek and I are not close.  We don't eat meals together, we rarely share each other's dates.  We are invited to each other's parties by default, but we rarely attend.

So why is he here?

I'm worried that the former fitness model with the baseball bat between his legs will steal my new boyfriend before we even have a chance to seal the deal.  It's happened before.

I serve barbecued chicken, baked potatoes, "roshineers," and tomatoes.  Lane brings a salad, and Derek furnishes the desert.

After dinner we start talking about childhood crushes -- tv and movie stars you found dreamy, back in the day: Luke Halpin of Flipper,  Desi Arnaz Jr.,  Barry Williams of The Brady Bunch.  

Derek keeps silent.  He's substantially older than the rest of us, so he probably doesn't want to call attention to his age by mentioning Ricky Nelson or...or Frank Sinatra.

Then someone mentions David Cassidy, the androgynous star of The Partridge Family, who had a string of hits in the early 1970s: "I Think I Love You," "I Woke Up in Love this Morning,"

"Incredibly hot!" Will exclaims.  "Those eyes!  That voice!"

"And so fey," Lane says.  "It's obvious he's one of us."

We all nod in agreement.

"He's bi," Derek says suddenly.  "But mostly into girls.  Guys once in a blue moon.  Pity...he's got a face that can break your heart."

"Do you...um...have firsthand knowledge of this bi thing?"  I ask.

Hollywood, Fall 1973

Derek was 26 years old, an amateur bodybuilder, newly out, divorced from his wife Ellen, and exploring the gay world.  He was trying to make a living as a fitness model -- magazine ads, semi-nude photos in "physique magazines," and nude photos in gay magazines like In Touch and Blue Boy. He supplemented his income with gigs as a bodyguard, bouncer, and...well, paid escort.

One night his friend Panther (Jim at the time) arranged a "date" for him: "He saw you in In Touch, and wanted a better look.  He's a big star, really big, so everything has to be on the hush-hush."

Curious, Derek drove to the house in the San Fernando Valley, and got buzzed in -- by David Cassidy!

They sat in the living room, drinking wine coolers.  The most famous pop star in the world seemed rather star-struck by Derek.  He wanted to know about his workout routine, his diet.  They talked about the gay world, the bars, discos, bath houses -- David was shocked that such things existed. They were so busy talking that three hours passed before they even thought of going into the bedroom.

What they did when they got there is private, but it was amazing.  Afterwards they cuddled and talked all night. David was smooth, androgynous, rather well hung, exactly Derek's type.  He was hooked.

David had a heavy touring schedule -- and he liked girls, a lot -- so he didn't have much time for Derek.  They got together maybe once a month.

That wasn't enough.  Derek wanted a full-time lover.  He wanted to move in with David, to stand next to him as the papparazi swarmed, to spend every night kissing and talking softly in that king-sized bed with the black silk sheets.

"Sort of like the millions of teenage girls who wrote 'Mrs. David Cassidy' in their school notebooks," Fred notes.

Finally one day in May, Derek put his foot down.

"I need more time," he said.  "I understand that you're the idol of every teenage girl in the world, but I'm here, now.  We should go out, do something together, have a real date."

David thought for a moment.  "Well...I have a concert in Glasgow next Friday, and then I don't have to be in London until Sunday afternoon.  I can bring you along as...say, my new bodyguard?"

A romantic weekend in Britain with the man of his dreams!

They sat side-by-side on the plane en route to Glasgow, and stood side-by-side to be photographed leaving the airport -- you can still see the AP wire photo of David and Derek together.

Of course, they had separate hotel rooms, but after the concert on Friday night, David sought out Derek's room.  They had an energetic, passionate night.

On Saturday morning, they took a private plane from Glasgow to Cardiff, where they rented motorcycles and drove two hours north, through Brecon Beacons National Park, to the tiny town of Three Cocks for lunch.

"I thought you would get a kick out of it," David said with a grin.

Another two hours north to Aberstwyth, where they registered as "Joe Drummond" and "Derek Drummond" at a guest house.  One room, two beds.

When they walked through the town, a few people stared, as if trying to place them, but David was only recognized once: a teenage boy came up and asked for his autograph.

"Are you David's mate, then?" he asked.

"Um...bodyguard," Derek said.

"Ok, right," the boy said with a knowing grin."  He walked off, singing "I Think I Love You."

"This morning I woke up with this feeling," Matt obligingly sings, "I didn't know how to deal with, and so I just decided to myself, I'd hide it to myself, and never talk about it...."

Derek looks miserable at the memory, so I cut Matt off.  "Do you think the kid knew that you and David were together?" I ask.

Apparently David thought so.  He was quiet all the way back to the guest house.  That night he insisted on sleeping in his own bed.

On Sunday morning, they got up early, biked the 2  1/2 hours back to Cardiff, and got on a plane to London.

On Monday, David flew on to Amsterdam, and Derek flew back to Los Angeles.

He never saw David again.

"Stay away from those celebrities," Derek says, looking pointedly at me.  "They'll break your heart."

Was Derek telling the truth, exaggerating a simple bodyguard job, or making the whole thing up?

Evidence that he was telling the truth: David Cassidy did tour Britain in May 1974, and the bodyguard in the AP photo looks like Derek.

Evidence against: David doesn't mention Derek, or any same-sex relationships, in his memoirs.  It is unlikely that the most famous pop star in the world would be able to take a weekend off and motorcycle through Wales without drawing the attention of the press.

See also: Derek the Fitness Model and the Teenage Cowboy; David Cassidy.