We Stick It to the Wicked Witch of the North

Hell-fer-Sartain, April 1985

Near the end of my horrible nine months and 22 days in horrible Hell-fer-Sartain, the worst place in the world, my ex-boyfriend Fred came to visit.

We were together for only about six months back in 1980, when I was a stupid 19-year old college student.  We lived together, moved to Omaha together -- big mistake -- and broke up -- but stayed friends.  He had given up the ministry -- the only churches he could get were in horrible small towns -- and was working as a mental health counselor.

Near the end of his visit, he asked, "Boomer, when are you coming back to the Midwest?"

"May 8th.  The minute classes are over!"  I told him.  I'm dropping off my last grade, getting in my car, and heading north, and not stopping until I'm out of Hell-fer-Sartain!"

"That's perfect!  You can help me stick it to the Wicked Witch of the North."

"Who?"

"You know, She Who Must Not Be Named... my ex-fiancée...Diane?"

In 1976, Fred moved to Chicago to study for his M.Div. at McCormick Theological Seminary. He had been with a few guys, and even had some gay relationships, but he knew that a theological career required a wife and kids, so he started dating 28 year old Diane, daughter of his professor of Christian ethics and the granddaughter of a big wig in the United Methodist Church -- a prize catch for any upwardly mobile young theologian.

Plus she came with a ready-made family -- David, a 9-year old son from a marriage in her wild hippie youth.  Within a few months, they were engaged.

Diane knew her way around church hierarchy, and made sure that Fred went to the right parties and met the right people.  There was some tension between them -- she wanted sex a lot more often than Fred was willing to give, and she disapproved of his goal of becoming a small-town pastoral counselor -- why not aim for the top, an administrative position at the United Methodist Headquarters in Nashville?  But generally they got along well.

Fred completed his coursework in the spring of 1979, and got an internship at a church in Rock Island.  The plan was for Diane to stay in Chicago, until he completed his internship and got called to a church.  Then they would get married.  But in August 1979, the night before he was to leave for Rock Island, he decided to come out. He still wanted to get married...he promised to stay faithful...but she deserved to know the truth.

Diane did not take it well.  Crying, screaming, throwing things, calling him names, accusing him of being a pedophile: "I can't believe I almost married a queer!"  "You took my dad's class so you could get into his pants!" "You're moving to Rock Island so you can screw homos in public restrooms!" "You're just dating me so you can seduce my son!"

She wouldn't allow him to return to the apartment to pick up his things.  Or send a friend: "Nobody from your child molester club is setting foot in my house!"  Finally her brother offered to do it.

Fred tried to stay in touch -- he hated losing friends -- but Diane hung up on him when he called, and sent his letters back with a terse note: "Refused. Return to pervert."  He did manage to stay in touch with her son, sending letters and gifts to him through his Uncle John, making telephone calls when Diane was at work. David even managed to come to Christmas dinner one year by claiming that he was going to visit a friend.

When Fred came out to him, David said "Yeah, I always knew.  Even when you and Mom were dating.  I figured that's why you never stayed over."

"You may have...um...mentioned her," I said.  "But why did you call her the Wicked Witch of the North?"

"She and her husband live in Dubuque, 60 miles due north of Rock Island."

Figures.  I had driven through Dubuque many times, but never stopped.  It always gave me a frisson of dread.  Nazarenes considered it the epitome of evil. the Mordor of the utter north.

"David is 18 years old now," Fred continued.  "Can you believe it?  Where does the time go?  Anyway, he's going to graduate from high school -- and he sent me an invitation.  I thought you could come as my date.  Just up for the day and back, no overnight."

I was curious.  About Mordor, and about the Wicked Witch of the North.

"Will there be yelling?  I hate it when homophobes start yelling about Leviticus."

"Don't worry -- Diane won't start yelling in public.  One thing she always hated was 'Making a scene.'"

"Sounds great.  I'm in."

Dubuque, June 2, 1985

Fred picked me up at my parents' house at 10:00, and we drove north for an hour to Dubuque. There was enough time for a brief tour of the city -- surprisingly mundane - and a a sneaky-drive past the house where the Wicked Witch of the North lived -- not a castle, an older two-story frame house, painted green -- before going to Dubuque Senior High School.

The graduation ceremony was held in the fieldhouse: about 200 students, so it was easy to find David in the staging area.  He was very tall, with thick brown hair, blue eyes, and a long chiseled chin.  I couldn't tell anything about his physique under the graduation robe.  He hugged us both and asked if I was "the...um...you know."

Fred handed him an envelope containing a graduation-present check and said "No, we tried, but it didn't work out. Where's your mother?"

"Oh, milling around, I guess.  Can you come to the party later?  You can see her then."

"Will we be able to?" I asked. "Or will your mother...um...start screaming?"

He gave me a weird confused look.  "No problemo.  Mom only screams when the Hawkeyes score a touchdown."

We took our seats.  Fred looked around, and finally pointed out the Wicked Witch, wearing a black robe and a pointed hat, carrying a sign saying "I'll Get You, My Pretty."

Ok, not really.  But I swear, there was a dark shadow hovering over her.

When each graduate crossed the stage, their family and friends cheered.  David was in the W's, toward the end.  When he crossed, Fred stood and bellowed loudly "Yeah!  Go, David!"

The Wicked Witch froze in her seat, staring.

After the ceremony, we hung out for awhile, cruising the cute guys (I was only 24 years old, so 18 was ok for me), then headed over to the party at the Witch's house.  There was a sign on the front door: "Come to the back," so we walked around to the back yard, where there were picnic tables festooned with white and blue (the school colors) laid out with hamburgers, bowls of chips, veggies, and potato and macaroni salad, two kinds of cake, and various sodas.  "Rhythm of the Night" was playing from a boom box.

We saw David talking to a group of friends, and headed in his direction. But then someone grabbed my shoulder.  I turned.

The Witch!  Aka Diane.  A short, petite woman with her hair done up in a bob.  Smiling broadly.  Grabbing our hands.

"Fred, it's so great to see you again!  And this must be your boyfriend!"

Being nice to us?  Not screaming?  Fred was just staring, his jaw open, so I jumped in: "I'm Boomer.  We dated for awhile, but it didn't work out.  But we stayed friends...Fred hates losing people."

"Me, too!  When I lost my first husband, I vowed to never lose anyone I cared about again, if I could helpit"  She took Fred's arm.  "We'll have a nice long chat to catch up.  But first let me introduce you to my husband.  You'll love him -- but hands off, he's taken."   She laughed and turned to me.  "But David is single, Boomer."

People can change a lot in six years.

Fred and Diane stayed in contact for the rest of his life.

My Most Embarrassing Hookup, in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

Houston Texas, January 1985

I spent nine horrible months in 1984-85 in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, in the northern suburbs of Houston, the worst place in the world.

The gay neighborhood of the Montrose was only 25 miles away, but still, it was nearly impossible to meet people.  First, it was nearly an hour's drive away, in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

All of the gay organizations met on weeknights, when I didn't have time.  That left bars, which were dangerous, with good old boys driving by to issue homophobic threats, and undercover cops waiting to arrest you for "homosexual conduct."

And when you got past the danger, you found a barful of very closeted guys with weird quirks.

But at Christmastime in 1984, I went back to Rock Island and hooked up with my old bully at JR's.  After he turned out to be both apologetic and massive (#7 on my Sausage List), I thought it might be possible to meet someone nice in a bar after all.

So one Saturday night in January 1985, I drove down to the Montrose, to a cruise bar called the Ripcord, a very dark, rather dingy expanse, with peanut shells on the floor and the bottles of the last customers still on every table.

But for some reason I didn't get any attention.  Guys my own age, even older guys gave me nothing but Attitude.

I was 24 years old, but I looked a bit younger.  I was wearing a leather jacket, a short-sleeved shirt that displayed my physique, and very tight jeans, and I knew how to "stand and model" with a phallic beer bottle thrust up from my crotch.  I was the hottest guy there!

Can you figure out why I was getting Attitude?

After an hour, I was desperate.  In order to maintain my self-esteem, I would have to find a "sure thing," someone so inept or unattractive that he would be open to practically anyone.



I found someone standing in the shadows by the pool table: mid-40s, bushy-haired, glasses, a nerd's unstylish shirt and slacks.  But he was shorter than me and a bit chubby, both characteristics that I find attractive.

When I walked over and said "hello," he gave me as much Attitude as everyone else.  But I didn't care: I started talking to him anyway, and gently stroking his thigh.  He didn't move away.

Eventually he began to look at me -- with a cold glare -- and to respond to my questions -- with curt monosyllables.  Better than nothing. 

His name was Warren.  He wouldn't say what his job was, so I didn't volunteer mine, either.

I might have mentioned that it was hard making ends meet; I was always short on cash.  

No, he wasn't from Houston.  He had just been living here a few years.  He grew up in Utah.

"Mormon?" I asked, thinking of the Mormon missionary I met on my way back from California in 1980.

"It's the Reformed Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints," he said, looking around suspiciously.  "But let's not talk about that here."

Did he think he could be identified by his church membership?  "Ok, well, why don't we go somewhere else?"

He continued to glare, but reached out to fondle my chest. "Where should we go?"

I didn't want to admit that I lived in a far suburb -- an instant turn-off in gay neighborhoods -- so I lied: "We can't go back to my place.  I live with my parents."

"Well...how about a hotel room?"


I followed Warren to one of those sleazy discount hotels on the edge of downtown, and he got us a room.  He turned out to be respectable beneath the belt, and very passionate, into kissing and cuddling as much as the more advanced activities.

I awoke in the morning to the bouncing of the bed as Warren, already dressed, was putting his shoes on.

"Want to go out for breakfast?" I asked.

"Oh, no, I can't afford any more.  Besides, I have to be going.  I'm late already."

Can't afford any more?  What did that mean?

His shoes on, Warren checked his wallet to make sure his credit cards were still there, and headed out the door.

"Wait...you forgot..."  I began,  You always exchanged phone numbers with a hookup, just in case...

"It's on the nightstand.  Thanks, this was fun."  And the door slammed behind him.

I lay in bed, naked, shocked.  Why was he so anxious to be out of there?

I leaned over to the nightstand to retrieve his phone number.  Instead, there was:

An unmarked envelope containing five $20 bills.

The cruisy outfit, the "short on cash," the "living with my parents": Warren thought I was a hustler!

My face burned as I realized that everyone in the bar must have thought so, too. That's why they gave me so much Attitude!

I was too mortified to ever go near that bar again.

See also: Topping and Bottoming in Texas

My Grade School Boyfriend and the Old Lady Schoolteachers

Rock Island, Fall 1984

You're probably wondering about my "boyfriend" Nick who saved me from The Killer one summer (I'm guessing the summer after 3rd grade, when I was eight years old).

The muscular, redheaded law student with freckles on his chest who took me out for an ice cream soda afterwards.

I don't have many more details, no long-ago smiles or glimpses of his shame.  He visited a few more times, that summer and the next -- once he took me and Bill for a ride in his convertible with the top down.

Then he vanished without explanation (or maybe he just happened to visit when I wasn't around.  I was busy every summer with Nazarene Bible camp and vacation and summer enrichment classes).


He left me with one connection: his grandmother.

Her name was really Mrs. Lindquist, and her companion was Miss Deverr or Devere, but everyone called them the Old Lady Schoolteachers because they had taught at Denkmann Elementary School for many years, beginning when it first opened in 1934.

I never knew their first names.

When I was growing up, Mom knew them from the PTA or the Safe House Program or something (Safe Houses had brown stars in the window, signifying that you could run there if a stranger tried to abduct you).  She used to go over and visit them -- maybe they reminded her of her own mother, who died in 1965.  Occasionally they sent banana bread or cookies back with her.

They always made popcorn balls for Halloween.

Sometimes my brother and I went over to shovel their sidewalks or mow their lawns.  We were supposed to do it for free, but they always tipped us a quarter each anyway.  They invited us inside once, while they fumbled about in their purses.  I remember dark, ponderous furniture, General Hospital on tv, and dozens of framed pictures of relatives. Nick was smiling in a graduation gown.

Miss Devere died when I was in high school, leaving Mrs. Lindquist alone in the house.

I brought my first boyfriend, Fred, over to meet her.  She gave us Swedish cookies and asked what we were studying in school.

Mrs. Lindquist died in 1984, during my year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.  Since I was 1000 miles away, I didn't go to the funeral, but Mom and Dad were there.  They talked to Nick briefly: he was a lawyer, living in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, with a wife and two kids. No doubt he was still buffed, with freckles on his chest.

The obituary they sent filled in the details in the life of Mrs. Lindquist: born in Galesburg in 1896, graduated from Augustana College, married Axel Lindquist, had two children.  She taught at several Rock Island schools, and at Denkmann from 1934 to 1961, when she retired. Her husband and her son Jonah preceded her in death.  She had four grandchildren and two great-grandchildren.

Miss Devere was not mentioned.

At the time I didn't think that they might be a lesbian couple.   After all, they lived on the next block!  They made banana bread!

But now I wonder: were they just heterosexual roommates, sharing the bills, describing the penises of their male lovers, on Friday nights gazing lustfully at aging sleuth Barnaby Jones on tv?

Or were they "together"?  Back in the 1930s, did they wear cravats and smoke cigarettes and read to each other from The Well of Loneliness?  Did they teach together, and then stroll across the grassy field to their house, a lesbian couple living freely and openly during the 1940s and police-state 1950s?

I might be able to find Nick on the internet, reunite with him, and ask for more details.  But I'm not sure I want to.  Living in Cedar Rapids, he's probably conservative, and might not amenable to the suggestion that his grandmother may have been a lesbian.

Besides, he's about 70 now.  I would rather remember the muscular redheaded teenager with freckles on his chest who rescued me on that hot summer day a thousand years ago.

See also: The Face of Pure Evil

In Search of Books and Boyfriends in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

Hell-fer-Sartain, November 1984

I'm a big bibliophile.  When I move, it takes 30 boxes just for my books.

The highlight of visiting a new town is checking out the bookstores.

If I walked into this scene, I would check out the books before making out with the guy.

So during my awful year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, when I ran an ad in the Montrose Voice, Houston's gay newspaper, looking for a boyfriend, I specified "must like books."

It was a boyfriend ad -- I was 23 years old, conservative, romantic, not into "tricking" (the 1980s word for hookups).  I wanted dating, romance, a relationship.  So, to make sure we had a lot in common, I specified more than my sexual tastes:"into bks, tv, f/sf, mus, dts only.

Into books, tv, fantasy/science fiction, bodybuilding (muscles).  Dates only (they charged by the letter).

 Most guys who answered didn't even read the ad -- they just answered all of them, in search of an elusive hookup.

Others misunderstood, thinking I meant "pornographic books, transvestism, and fisting in San Francisco."

Others were "into books," but strongly disapproved of the "mindless, infantile dreck" on the rest of my list.

Finally, after about two months of running the ad, I got a response from a guy named Hank, who seemed ideal.

He was from Ottumwa, Iowa (about two hours from Rock Island); he had a bachelor's degree in psychology (I had a master's degree in English); and he claimed a love of books, movies, tv, and science fiction (at least he knew what sf meant).

So I agreed to a date.

When I arrived at Hank's apartment on Kipling Street in the Montrose, Houston's gay neighborhood, he answered the door in bathrobe.

Cute: short black hair, deeply-set eyes, sharp chin, high cheekbones.  From what I could see through the bathrobe, a nicely toned, smooth chest with flat nipples and a hint of six-pack abs.

"I'm still getting ready," he said apologetically.  "Have a seat, and I'll be with you in a minute."

It was a small one room apartment with a single window that looked out onto a fire escape, and nowhere to sit but an unmade bed.  A kitchenette with unwashed dishes in the sink and open boxes of cereal on the counter.  A coffee table with more unwashed dishes on it.  A small dresser and a black and white tv.

I shouldn't complain -- I had a small apartment, too.  But at least I knew how to wash dishes and make a bed.

As I looked around the tiny room, I noticed something missing.  No books.

I have books in every room in the house, including the bathroom.  Hank had none.   A bookcase full of knicknacks; snow globes, toys, figurines.  No pile of novels waiting to be read.  No coffee-table books for visitors to browse through.  Nothing.

For that matter, no magazines or newspapers, either.

Hank bounced out of the bathroom in a t-shirt that revealed a v-shaped torso and very thick hard biceps.  He plopped down on the bed next to me.  "So, what do you want to do?  Go out to eat, go to a movie, go cruising?"

He had never had Japanese, Indian, Thai, or Vietnamese food.  We went out to dinner at a...yawn...steakhouse, where I subtly quizzed Hank on how much he really liked the four things on my list.

Books: His favorite author was...um..Shakespeare.  His favorite gay author was...well, what difference did sexual orientation make, as long as the book was good?

TV: He used to watch The Brady Bunch when he was a kid.  He had a crush on Greg.  Contemporary shows?  Well, he didn't have much time for tv.

Fantasy/Science Fiction:  Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is science fiction, right?

Bodybuilding: He went to the gym.

After dinner I suggested that we browse in the Wilde and Stein Bookstore, which specialized in gay fiction.  I bought The Boy Who Picked the Bullets Up, a gay coming-of-age story.  Hank looked bored.

We returned to his book-free apartment and sat on the bed.

I was ready to bolt.  This guy was cute and all, but I was looking for a boyfriend, someone who shared my interests.

"I don't think this will work out," I said, sighing.  "We don't have much in common.  I'm really looking for a guy who is into books."

"I read books!" Hank protested.  "I have a whole pile of them!"  He opened a drawer under the bed and displayed...some well-worn children's books.

Charlie an the Chocolate Factory
The Little House on the Prairie
The Boxcar Children
The Hardy Boys

"Um...have you read anything lately?" I asked.

"Well, I don't have time to read a lot, but look -- have you ever read The Phantom Tollbooth?  It's about a boy named Milo, see..."

"I don't think...." I began.

"Look..."  Hank wrapped his arm around me to draw my attention to the book.  A hard bicep against my back, a big hand on my shoulder.  I fell against his chest.

There was a definite bulge in his pants.

"We don't have to look at my books," Hank said, "If there's something else you'd rather do."

There was something else I wanted to do: kiss and lick his chest, and gradually move my way down to his beautifully shaped Bratwurst+.   I eagerly thrust up and down until Hank lay on the bed and pulled me on top of him for interfemoral and kissing, then into 69.

Ok, there are some things I like more than books.

See also: Anal and Astrology in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

A Glory Hole at a Rest Stop in Arkansas

Forestville, Arkansas, May 1985

In 1984, just after getting my M.A. from Indiana University, I took a job in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.

If you don't count Christmas and spring breaks, 7 1/2 months, 210 miserable days in the worst place on earth: hot, humid, construction everywhere, heavy traffic constantly, every chore taking hours, flat tires several times a week, tiny apartment with no airconditioning, illliterate boozing landlord, heavy-metal blaring neighbor, an hour's drive to the nearest gay neighborhood, and all the gay people into hookups instead of dating and romance.

I hated every minute of it, except for my Italian class and the few occasions when a well-hung redneck shared my bed.

On May 8th, 1985, I packed my stuff into my car -- actually, I threw most of it out in order to travel light -- dropped off the apartment key to my horrible illiterate landlord, and drove to the horrible campus of Longhorn State University, where I gave my last final exam to my last horrible class, graded it, and turned in the grade forms to the horrible department office.  Then, at 3:05 pm, I walked out into the parking lot, got into my car, and drove.

The quickest route to Rock Island took you through godforsaken Texas for five hours, and I wanted out as soon as possible.  So I drove east for two hours, not stopping for food, gas, or bathroom breaks until I saw that "Welcome to Louisiana" sign, breathed deeply, and vowed never to set foot in Texas again.

And I haven't.

I planned to drive the whole 20 hours home straight through, but I'd been up since before dawn grading papers and cleaning my apartment, so at around 12:30 am, I couldn't drive anymore.  I  stopped at a rest stop on Interstate 40, near Forrestville, Arkansas.

In the 1980s you were allowed to park at rest stops and sleep.

After an hour or so, I had to go to the bathroom.  so I went into the little bathroom building, chose a stall, and and sat down.  It had a glory hole looking directly into the next stall!

I knew from my experience at Lambert Airport in St. Louis and the public parks of New Delhi that public restrooms were sometimes used for sex, so I waited there for awhile, peering through the glory hole.  Maybe a horny redneck trucker would stop by and push a Mortadella+ through.

Soon someone came into the next stall.  From what I could see, it was a young guy, probably my age, medium height, pale skin, square hands, smooth chest and belly.  Wearing a blue shirt and jeans.  Holding a magazine.

Did he know I was in the next booth?  Was he interested in public sex, or just doing his business?

I waited.

He sat on the toilet, leafed through the magazine, and started fondling himself.  His penis was average sized, ruddy, cut, with a thick head.  Soon he was aroused.

Put it through the hole!  I thought savagely.

He began masturbating, intent on the magazine. Soon his penis was standing straight up.  He spat on his hand and continued to work it.  But he didn't put it through the hole.

Didn't he know I was there?  I made some coughing noises.

He didn't stop, but he ignored the glory hole.

Maybe he thought I was just doing my business.  I stood, flushed the toilet, and obviously stayed in the stall.

He kept working.

I put my head right up to the hole, so he could see my open mouth.

Nothing.

Why doesn't he want me to go down on him?

I put my eye right up to the hole and looked into the stall.  Nice tight body, taunt, breathing heavily.  Pants around his ankles.

He spurted with a sigh, wiped off with toilet paper, and flushed the toilet.

Feeling rejected and embarrassed, I waited until he zipped up, left the stall, washed his hands in the sink, and swung through the doors.  Then I gave him another few minutes to get into his car and leave.

No such luck -- he was staring at the snacks in in the vending machine.  A very cute college boy with curly red hair and flawless pale skin.

"Hi,"  I said.

He didn't answer.

I got into my car and drove, not stopping again until I reached St. Louis about 7 am.  I stopped at a diner for breakfast.

There was a  cute guy sitting by himself at one of the little tables: about my age, thin, with thick sandy hair, dark eyebrows, and pink lips.

Having been awake for over 24 hours, except for short catnaps, my discretion was gone.

"Hi!  I've had a rough night.  Can I join you?"

He smiled.  "Sure."

I haven't been back to Arkansas in 32 years, either.

See also: Public Cruising in Mississippi in 1984; The Joy of Public Sex; A Hookup in the College Restroom

Our Search for the Gayest Place in America

San Francisco, June 1996

After dropping out of USC in 1989, I worked as an editor at the Getty Consternation Institute, a juvenile probation officer, an architectural assistant, and a freelance writer.  But I really liked academe, so I planned to return to grad school and get a Ph.D. in a field of the social sciences, history, anthropology, or sociology.

Of course, I could only go to grad school in a city with a strong gay neighborhood.  The list of cities with strong gay neighborhoods and strong graduate schools was short: Atlanta, Austin, Boston, Chicago, Columbus, Minneapolis, New Orleans, New York, Philadelphia, and of course Los Angeles and San Francisco.

In the summer of 1996, I made plans to visit them.

To my surprise, my boyfriend/ex-boyfriend Lane, who had wimped out on San Francisco to move back to West Hollywood, offered to come with me.  "I could use a change," he said.  "And who knows? We might find a town that's gayer than West Hollywood."

So we took a Grand Tour, looking for the gayest towns in America.

Days 1-2: Chicago (U. of Chicago and Northwestern).  The City of Big Shoulders and non-nonsense men.  Boystown, the first gay neighborhood I ever visited, back in 1983.  Man's Country was still there, plus The Cellblock, the Sweat Lodge, the Jackhammer.  The only dark room I've seen in the U.S.  Plus private parties, biker runs, bear clubs, even a gay nudist group.

Cruising has never been easier.  We met a tall, gruff bear with a short beard, a little belly, and a shaved Kielbasa beneath the belt, And a cute 30-ish film producer with a long Bratwurst.

"You'd never get any studying done," Lane complained.  "Too many distractions."

Days 3-4. Columbus (Ohio State).  German Village, near downtown, a gentrified neighborhood of small shops, boutiques, restaurants.  Gay presence, but not as strong as what we were used to.

The Book Loft, a "32 room book sale," almost sealed the deal for me.

In 2005 I would be moving to Dayton, an hour's drive away.

Days 5-6. Boston (Boston U. and Harvard).  Ok, my chances of getting into Harvard were nil, but I couldn't resist walking around the quads and cruising the crazy Harvard boys.

The gay neighborhood centered around Boyston Street, in the Back Bay.  A lot of bars and restaurants, but small, cramped, impossible to find your way around.

We met a Ecuadorian twink with pomaded hair, a slim muscular physique, and a cut Bratwurst.  Very nice, but not enough to seal the deal.

Days 7-8. New York (NYU and Long Island U.)  This was my first time in New York.  It was fascinating seeing all the places I knew from literature and film, and from Seinfeld: 42nd Street, Time Square, Greenwich Village, Central Park.

The Village is the best documented gay neighborhood in the world, the subject of countless histories and biographies.  Gay Liberation was born here.  During the 1970s and 1980s, a group of writers called the Violet Quill wrote a dozen novels set here.

And the twinks were everywhere! We met a Columbia University undergrad with blond hair and a tight smooth physique.

I loved it.  But Lane said "It's all about history.  It's a place to come from, not move to."



More after the break.

August 1984: Public Sex in Mississippi

Oxford, Mississippi, August 1984

Studying for my M.A. at Indiana University was lots of fun, but an academic failure.
1. Faced with 3,000 possible courses, I went crazy: South Asian Anthropology, Russian Folklore, Mandarin Chinese, Tibetan Culture, Languages of Africa.  Competing with students majoring in these topics, I didn't do well, and eked by with B's (failing grades in grad school).
2. I planned to become a book editor, not a literature scholar, so why did I need to read Ralph Roister Doister, Pamela, The Mill on the Floss, Love's Alchemy, The Vicar of Wakefield, Sartor Resartus, Ulysses, , The Waste Land, and The Duchess of Pembroke's Arcadia?  I got B's in my English classes, too.

So there was no question of going on for a Ph.D. -- it wasn't going to happen. Instead, in the spring of 1984,  I sent out resumes to 130 publishing companies, 48 newspapers,  34 television stations, and 16 translation agencies.

Nothing.

Then one day in July, Ben the Fairy Godfather asked "Why don't you teach?  They always need English professors."

"But...I hate teaching!  Surly students who never do the assigned readings, fall asleep in class, and make homophobic comments!"

"Do you hate it more than making sandwiches?"

He gave me a copy of the Chronicle of Higher Education, which lists academic job openings.  It was mid-July, so there weren't a lot of jobs for the fall still open, and most required a Ph.D.  But I applied for five teaching positions, and in mid-August, I got a phone call from a college near Houston, Texas:  "Classes start in a week: Intro to Literature, Survey of American Literature, and two Freshman Comps.  How soon can you be here?"

Houston, Texas or making sandwiches?

The Lyceum, Ole Miss

On August 19th, 1984, I packed my car with two suitcases and two boxes of books, and drove 1000 miles south through Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and finally Texas.

As I was driving through Tennessee, I saw two country boys with guns (top photo), and thought "This is a good sign."

I spent the night in Oxford, Mississippi, and walked onto the campus of Ole Miss, the University of Mississippi.  The Lyceum was brightly lit in the darkness.

 I wondered if I would see Luster and Quentin from The Sound and the Fury, or Bo and Luke Duke from The Dukes of Hazard, or at least more country boys with guns.

The Lyceum pointed the way to the Mississippi equivalent of the Levee in Rock Island,  a wooded area outside William Faulkner's Rowan Oak, with grassy walkways and secluded groves of oak, elm and magnolia trees, where men met each other in secret, in the dark.

Lots of men -- rugged Ole Miss Rebel football players, well-kept businessmen-types, bears, blue collars, rednecks who drove a dozen miles to stand in seclusion in the warm, humid night. Lots of muscles.  The smell of beer and cigarettes and sweat.

And a cute U. of M. undergrad named Elmer.

Another good sign.  Maybe Texas wouldn't be so bad after all.

See also: 36 Hours of Cruising at Lambert International Airport.

Moving to West Hollywood #1: Is It Still There?

June 1985

During my year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, all I could think of was escape.  I hated everything about Houston: the endless construction, the ridiculous traffic, the suburban sprawl, the humidity, and especially the rampaging homophobia.  I wanted a place where:
1. I wouldn't have to drive.
2. I wouldn't have to deal with constant homophobia.

That meant a Gay Neighborhood, and I had only heard of five, in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, and Boston.

How to get to one?  Applying for jobs in publishing or translating never worked; I would have to go to graduate school.

So I applied to Ph.D. programs in
1, Renaissance Studies at Berkeley
2. Comparative Literature at Columbia
3. Comparative Literature at the University of Southern California
4. Romance Languages at Chicago
5. Romance Languages at Harvard.
(I was obsessed with Renaissance Italy that year.)

Only USC admitted me.  That meant moving to West Hollywood!

But I had a question: was it still there?

AIDS was announced to the world in an article in The New York Times in July 1981, but I don't remember hearing anything about it during my senior year at Augustana (1981-82).

During my two years at Indiana University in Bloomington (1982-84), I heard a few homophobes shrieking about a "gay plague!!!!" that was "God's punishment on homos!!!", but homophobes were always shrieking about something, so I ignored them.

It wasn't until  I got to Houston (1984-85) that I heard anything substantive, through the Montrose Voice and pamplets that the AIDS Foundation distributed: AIDS got its start among gay men, and 6,000 of them had died, but it was not a punishment, it was a disease, a virus transmitted through unprotected sex.

So I began using protection, and I gave up activities deemed particularly dangerous.

But what about the millions of gay men who had unprotected sex before they knew, who cruised as a form of recreation in gay ghettos, where thousands of partners were available?   Maybe the gay ghettos were deserted, the residents all dead or dying.

Was West Hollywood still there?

When classes ended, I packed my car and drove the 1000 miles from Houston to Rock Island without stopping.  I spent the next month watching tv, walking the dogs, lifting weights, and visiting friends.  None of them were sick.

My friend Tom, who I visited in Los Angeles in 1980 (top), offered to let me stay with him in Van Nuys while I looked for an apartment.  Dick, the former bully who I met at a gay bar (left), offered to drive along as far as Denver.

We left on June 28th, 1985, the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots.

Next: Moving to West Hollywood #2.

Moving to West Hollywood #2: The Move

June 1985

After spending a year in Hell-fer-Sartain, I managed to escape by being admitted to the graduate program in Comparative Literature at USC: so I would be moving to West Hollywood.  My friend Tom, who I visited in Los Angeles in 1980, offered to let me stay with him in Van Nuys while I looked for an apartment.  Dick, the former bully who I met at a gay bar, offered to drive along as far as Denver.

But I was worried.

I heard so much about AIDS decimating gay communities. Maybe West Hollywood was a ghost town, its residents all dead and dying.

Was it still there?

On June 28th, the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, we left Rock Island.





We spent the night in Omaha, with Thomas, the priest with three boyfriends.  He had only one now, and they didn't invite us to "join them."

June 29th: To Denver.  We stayed with Dick's straight, married cousin.

June 30th:  We went to church at the gay MCC of the Rockies, on Evans Street (they've moved; the building is now a gym).  It was packed.  But of course a church would be packed during an epidemic.

Afterward we went out to lunch with some guys we met, and to a beer bust at the Denver Eagle, a leather bar.  It was packed, too, wall-to-wall denim and muscle.  But there was not a lot of cruising going on, and everyone looked rather subdued and worried.

July 1st: Fishing with Dick's cousin (I liked to use fishing as bait to meet cute guys), then back to the Denver Eagle.  Not packed on a Monday night, but a muscle bear invited us back to his house  (safe activities only). He told us that Colorado hadn't been hit hard by AIDS; there were only about 100 cases.

It was the gay ghettos that were turning into ghost towns.

July 2nd:  Dick was staying in Denver to look for a job, so I was on my own.  On the way through Utah, I stopped at the Delano Inn where I met the Mormon missionary during my trip back from Los Angeles in 1980.  He wasn't there.  A casualty, I wondered?

 I drove on to Las Vegas, and went to a casino and a drag show.  They were having an AIDS benefit.  It was packed.

Michael, a cute guy my age, escaped to West Hollywood from Montana two years ago, only to flee to Las Vegas.

"Most of the guys here are refugees," he said.  "They can't stay in West Hollywood anymore, with all of their friends dying."  I remembered the courtiers who fled plague-stricken Florence in Boccaccio's Decameron, and sat around telling stories.

"Is it still there?" I asked.  "Or is it a ghost town?"

"It's nothing like what it was.  People are dying."

Michael invited me back to his apartment, but only to cuddle.  He planned to be celibate until they found a cure.

July 3rd: I left at 9:00 am, and by noon I was over the mountains, zooming through the sprawl of Pasadena and East L.A..  I should have kept going, into the San Fernando Valley to Van Nuys, where Tom lived.  But I wanted to take a detour into West Hollywood first.

I wanted to see if Michael was right.  If it was a ghost town.

I got off the freeway and drove down Santa Monica Boulevard to La Brea, the border of West Hollywood. It looked grim and industrial, with parking lots and nondescript, windowless buildings.  No one on the street.

 Like a post-Apocalyptic America.

At La Cienega, Santa Monica Boulevard veered left.  The first thing I saw was AIDS prevention poster starring Zelda Rubenstein of Poltergeist.  

Then a huge gym, with musclemen churning on exercise bikes.

Two guys in tank tops buying cookies at an outdoor Mrs. Fields.

A guy walking out of the Different Light Bookstore carrying a gay magazine.

A banner advertising an AIDS Benefit at the Rage

Male couples sitting al fresco under the awnings at The Cafe Etoile

Gay men shopping, eating, working out, buying groceries and books, coming home from work, dozens of them, hundreds.  West Hollywood was still alive, still vibrant.

I was home.

See also: Moving to West Hollywood #1.

A Student Strips in My Classroom

Hell-fer-Sartain, Fall 1984

I hated every minute of every day of my 232 days in Hell-fer-Sartain...ugh...Texas, where I was exiled just after getting my M.A. from Indiana University -- teaching bonehead English to classes of homophobes, if I could make it to campus through the constant gridlocked traffic.  But one incident  almost made one day bearable.

One of my students in Survey of English Literature was Chad, a soccer player from Australia, tall, slim, tanned, in the habit of flirting with me, or at least saying things that sounded like flirting, like"Can I knock you up later?" ("Can I come to your office?").

One day early in the semester, I was lecturing on Shakespeare, when Chad came running in late, still in his gym clothes: a t-shirt emblazoned with the school logo and red shorts.  He plopped down in the first row.

"Hamlet's soliloquy...." I began.

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Chad's shirt came off.  I saw a smooth, tanned, muscular torso.

On the beach, he might not have been impressive, but in a classroom on a dull September afternoon, he was stunning.

And shocking.  My jaw dropped.  I could not have been more surprised, not even if the whole class disrobed in front of me.

The room became very silent.    All eyes were on Chad as he carefully folded his shirt and put it in his gym bag.

Oblivious to the staring eyes, Chad took his gym trunks off.  Underneath was a well-packed jock strap.

Finally I was able to speak.  "Um...Chad?"

"What?"  He reached into his gym bag, pulled out a pair of jeans, and wriggled them on.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"  Next a fresh t-shirt came out of the gym bag and wrapped onto his muscular body.  And a notebook and pen to take notes.  He looked like a college student.

I continued my lecture, and called Chad up to my desk after class.  His excuse was: "I didn't want to be late."

Apparently students in Australia changed clothes in the classroom all the time.

Or maybe he just did it for my benefit.  

My Date with Two Brothers...and their Dad

Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, November 1984

During my horrible year in Hell-fer-Sartain, the worst place in the world, I tried to find a boyfriend by placing a personal ad in The Montrose Voice:

But most respondents lived in the Montrose, an hour away in Houston.  Others lived even farther away, in far-flung southern suburbs, even in Galveston. So I was overjoyed to hear from someone who lived only about 10 miles away (a half-hour drive in Houston traffic).

Jack said he was 24 years old, a little older than me, an English major at the University of Houston, with exactly my interests: literature, science fiction, classical music, languages, and foreign travel.  Plus, he said, he had a bodybuilder's physique and a Mortadella+ beneath the belt.

That was probably just "personal ad" bragging. But I didn't care. I would have accepted a date with a garden troll that was male, breathing, and less than an hour away.

He said he was laid up with a broken leg, and couldn't go out.  So I drove out to the house, a weird gray Tudor surrounded by crazy thin acacia trees and a bare mud lawn.

The door opened before I got to the front porch.  A shirtless guy stood in the doorway: short, compact, dark-skinned, just my type.  But definitely not 24.  Probably a teenager.

"I'm Eric, Jack's brother," he whispered.  "Keep your voice down -- my stepfather is asleep.  This way."

Brother!  Stepfather!  I thought we'd be alone!

He led me to the kitchen, and up a staircase to the attic.  It was now a messy bedroom: twin beds, both unmade; clothes scattered all over the floor; posters of Duran Duran, George Michael, and Rob Lowe.

One of the beds was occupied by another teenager, wearing only a bathrobe.  His leg was in a cast.  He was short and compact, but thin, no bodybuilder.

"I'm Jackie," he said.  "Sorry I can't really go anywhere.  But we can talk here...and stuff," he added with a leer.

I couldn't help asking, "Are you really 24?"

"Well, 20.  That's close.  And Eric is 18.  He's a senior."

Five years younger than me --  not a big deal. Maybe I could date Eric instead?

 "But I like girls," Eric added. "Jack and me never fool around together."

Jackie smiled evilly and reached out to stroke his basket.

"Ok, we fool around sometimes," he admitted, somewhat flustered.  "But I still like girls better.  Can I get you a soda?"

"Sure, Coke would be great."

He left.  There were no chairs, so I had no choice but to sit on the bed next to Jackie.  He quickly put his hand on my upper thigh.  I saw that he had "accidentally" left his bathrobe open.

"I'm not...really into tricking," I said (the old word for "hooking up").  "My ad was more for relationships. That's why I mentioned my interests in literature and music and...."

"I'm into music, too.  Who do you like the most?  I like Wham."

After more dismal conversation with a thin, naked kid with no interest in literature or classical music, Eric re-appeared with two cans of Coke and set them on the nightstand.  "Boomer, you want to see something cool?  Follow me."

He led me down the stairs and into the master bedroom, where Stepdad was asleep: Hispanic, in his 30s, very muscular.  He had kicked the covers off.  He was obviously having an erotic dream.

"Watch this!" Eric whispered.  He went to the bed and fondled Stepdad for a few moments. Then he pushed me down.  Stepdad drew me into an embrace.  Without waking up.

Which was admittedly erotic.  But:  Help! This is too weird!

I tore myself away and rushed out the door.  Eric followed.  "Don't freak -- I do it all the time," he whispered.  "He never wakes up.  Except sometimes I think he's just pretending to be asleep. You know..."

He put his arms around me. Soon we were kissing and doing other things in the hallway outside Stepdad's bedroom.

Which was admittedly erotic.  But: Help!  This is too weird!

I disentangled myself.  "Shouldn't I be getting...um...back upstairs," I stammered.

"Sure.  Jack must be getting lonely by now."

He followed me back up the stairs to the attic room, where Jackie had gotten completely naked.  I sat down on the bed, thinking that Eric would leave.  No -- he pushed me into a kiss with his brother.  Then he started undressing me.

Which was admittedly erotic.  But: What am I doing?  Two brothers, one straight, one into tricking, with Stepdad asleep but grabby downstairs?  

I made an excuse and went home.

I have often wondered what would have happened if I had stayed.  Would I be in a relationship with all three?

See also: Three Guys in My Bed in Baltimore.; Lane has a three-way with his boyfriend and his brother; Sausage Sighting of a Father, Son, and Grandson