March 1975: Could a Man Have Sex with a Man?

 

Rock Island, around 1975

I'm 14 years old, growing up in the Midwest, and although Stonewall was seven years ago, nobody knows that same-sex desire, behavior, relationships, or gay people exist.  Or if they do, they pretend not to.  All I see on tv, all I hear in the classroom or in church or from my parents or friends, with anxiety or smug assurance, everbody and everything tell sme that jeterosexual desire is universal human experience.

 Even the "fairies," those poor pitiable boys who pretend to be girls, long for girls.  

Every boy who ever lived, or who ever would live, or who ever would be written about in a book or shown on a tv screen, aches with desire for feminine curves and smiles. 

 I don't not yet, but everyone I know is certain that my "discovery"is  imminent.  One day soon, I will see The Girl walking in slow motion across the school yard, her hair blowing in the wind, and in an instant I will know what everyone else in the world knows.   From that moment on, I will devote my life to the pursuit of the feminine.

But what about the "Best Men" who inform my life, Doug, Dan, Bill.  I imagine us growing up and living together forever, finding a "Good Place."  What about my flurry of excitement over Bomba the Jungle Boy, Peter Brady, David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman?  My Book of Cute Boys from before kindergarten?

They do not signify same-sex desire, to me or to anyone else.  Same-sex desire is simply beyond the boundary of what can be imagined.  No boy ever touches another boy, except for brief ritualistic gestures like shaking hands.  If they touch by accident, they spring away, too disgusted for words.  Boys enjoy and desiredonly the touch of a girl.  

But there have been hints throughout my childhood, looks, gestures that didn't fit into this heteronormative universe.

Hippie leader Charles Manson wanted to get revenge on Terry Melchior, a record producer who had rejected his songs.  So on August 8th, 1969, he sent his is "family" to kill everyone in the house.  Melchior was no longer living there; the hippies killed actress Sharon Tate and her houseguests.  The next night, they killed the LaBianca family to throw the police off their trail.

Manson did not actually commit the murders, but ordering his disciples to do it was enough: he was found guilty of seven murders, and sentenced to death (later changed to life in prison).  

Tonight I'm up late -- my brother is out.  I'm flipping through the channels on the small black-and-white tv -- not difficult, there are only three -- when I chance  upon long-haired, long-bearded hippie in a prison suit being interviewed on a late night news program.

I was only eight years old at the time of the murders, so I didn't hear about them, and I don't recognize the man as Charles Manson was.  Just a long-haired, long-bearded hippie in prison.

"What do you miss most about life on the outside?  The interviewer asks.  "Sex?"

"Sex? No!" The hippie scoffs.  "There's lots of sex in prison."  

Then he stares menacingly at the camera, and the interviewer goes on to the next story.

Sex in prison? But...it's all men.  How could you have sex? 

Could a man have sex with a man?

But...men spring away from the slightest touch.  How could he put his penis in another man without being overcome with disgust?  And where would he put it?  

And why was it never mentioned?  All of the dozens of times I 've heard about "making love" from family, friends, on tv, in movies, it is always men and women.

I decide that women must sneak into the prison to have sex with him, or else there are male prison guards.  Problem solved.

But still the question haunts me.  Could a man have sex with a man?

See also: I Learn About Oral Sex in the Church Parking Lot

"Why Don't Yah Come Ovah?": Tarik's Hookup with a Ghost

Norfolk, July 2000

Tarik was 32 years old, working as a dietician in a hospital and cruising for older white guys, preferably cops.

Norfolk was a rough town, and rather homophobic, so you had to be careful: a lot of the cops would let you go down on them, then rob you or beat you up.  But there weren't a lot of gay venues other than the bars: he went to the MCC, the gay church, and wrote for Our Own Community Press, the local gay newspaper.

It was at the MCC that he met Mitchy: in his 50s, short, thin, greying, a bit on the femme side  (I have an image of Leslie Jordan), and something of a dollar-dropper (trying to attract guys with an ostentatious display of wealth).  Three minutes into the conversation, he had mentioned that he lived in Linkhorn, the wealthiest neighborhood in Virginia Beach, and that he owned a Rembrandt.  All in a thick Tidewater accent: "Hello theah, deah.  Ahm'm from Linhohn.  Ah own a pictuah by Rembrandt."

Maybe because he grew up poor and a member of the black-supremacist Nation of Islam, Tarik always found topping rich white guys very erotic, so he accepted Mitchy's invitation to "come ovah."

Not a great hookup.  A 45 minute drive, and turns out that Mitchy wasn't into anal; he wanted Tarik to go down on his very small, wrinkled cock, and when that took too long,  "Lick mah balls, deah.  That allus gets me off."

And no reciprocation.  He played with Tarik's cock for a bit, but wouldn't go down on him.

Plus his house was very cold, the Rembrandt was of a woman, there was another picture of a naked woman in the bedroom, he had torch songs playing constantly, and he was a bit racist: "Would you lakh to heah something else?  I know y'all lakh rap..."

But Tarik was not used to being pursued, so when Mitchy called two nights later and asked "Why don't yah come ovah?", he agreed.

More going down on Mitchy's small, wrinkled cock while a naked woman looked down on them and torch songs played, and it was so cold that they had to stay under the covers.  This time, at least, Mitchy went down on Tarik -- badly.

"Deah, ya'll are so big.  Ah can't get mah mouth around it."

Three nights later "Why don't yah cove ovah for dinnah?"

Mitchy served pork chops!  Tarik didn't belong to the Nation of Islam anymore, but he still avoided pork.  He filled up on mashed potatoes and green beans, and went down on Mitch's small cock right at the dining room table, before dessert.

And Mitchy insisted that he spend the night.

This was turning into a full-fledged relationship, except Mitchy never wanted to go out.  Apparently he was too closeted to go to the bars, and the day they met was the only time he attended the MCC.  He hooked up in online chatrooms, and went to First Landing State Park, the outdoor cruising area in Virginia Beach.

Great, an unwanted boyfriend who was in the closet!

Tarik accepted "Why don't yah come ovah?" invitations two or three more times before getting the gumption to say "No.  Sorry, I don't feel like it tonight."

"But deah, I'm horney.  I have needs."

It was always about Mitchy's needs, wasn't it?  "Sorry, I don't feel like it."

"But deah, if you won't come ovah, I'll have to go to the park to meet a fella."

"Do what you want.  I'm not coming over."  Tarik hung up on him.

The next night when he went to the office of Our Own Community press, they were talking about a newspaper article. "Does anyone know if he was gay?  Was it really a bashing incident?"

Mitchy's housekeeper found him dead in his bedroom.  He had been beaten and strangled.  Nothing was taken. The police were baffled, but Tarik figured that he had gone out cruising and propositioned the wrong guy.   

Tarik felt guilty, of course.  If he hadn't said "no" that night...but Mitchy made the decision to pick up rough trade.  He made the decision to stay in the closet.

A few weeks later, Tarik was lying in bed, just starting to doze off, when the phone rang. 
"Hello, deah.  Why don't yah come ovah?"

A prank call? But Tarik had told only a few people about his hookup/dates, and no one about Mitch's signature phrase or thick Tidewater accent.

Mitchy still pestering him for a hookup from beyond the grave? 

See also:
Tarik and the Blue-Eyed Demon

An Unsolved Murder and Two Super-Hung Redheads

When I was growing up in Rock Island, I often heard about the biggest unsolved murder in Chicago history.  It appeared in "Spooky Chicago" television pieces every Halloween, and in newspaper articles on the anniversary.  We discussed it in the schoolyard, even in class.

When I moved to West Hollywood, I often told the story, along with the story of my meeting with Mark Percy in 1977.  But then something weird happened.













Kenilworth, Illinois, September 17th, 1966

Charles H. Percy, wealthy industrialist, president of Bell and Howell Electronics, was running for the U.S. Senate.  On the night of September 17th, he and his wife and three of his six children went to a campaign fundraiser.  His daughter Valerie, age 21, a recent graduate of Cornell University, refused dates with two boys and stayed home.  Everyone was in bed by midnight.

Winward, their sprawling mansion in the Chicago suburb of Kenilworth, was silent and peaceful for the next five hours.  But about 5:00 am, the family, including ten-year old Mark, awakened to the sound of muffled screams.  They ran into Valerie's bedroom to see a stranger bent over her.  He fled, leaving nothing behind but a bloody palm print and a glove.

Valerie had been stabbed 14 times.

Was it a burglary attempt?  A mob intimidation that went wrong?  A jilted lover seeking revenge?


The killer used a glass cutter to get in through a downstairs window and went directly to Valerie's room.  He was targeting Valerie, not Charles.  AND he knew his way around the house.

He walked past a room where two dogs were sleeping.  They didn't bark.  It was someone they knew.

The FBI interviewed 10,000 people, including 1,226 suspects, but the killer was never apprehended, and no motive was ever discovered.

Charles Percy won the election and served as senator from Illinois from 1967 to 1985.  He was named a presidential possibility in 1968 and 1972.







Chicago, May 1977

During my junior year in high school, I was applying to West Point, and needed recommendations from a U.S. Senator or Representative.  I had already contacted Representative Tom Railsback, but just to be on the safe side, I called Charles Percy's office in Chicago.

He wasn't there, but his son Mark offered to meet with Dad and me.  He even took us out to lunch at an Italian restaurant.

22 years old, a tall redhead with a broad, open face, Mark had just graduated from Stanford, and was on his way to Yale for a M.B.A.

I was very nervous, both because I was trying not to think about the murder, and because Mark was incredibly cute.  I couldn't take my eyes off him.

We chatted about Star Wars and my interest in Arabic, and, I think, shared a cruising moment.  He promised that he would ask his dad for the recommendation.

When I told the story in West Hollywood later, I turned it into a full hookup at Winward, with a tour of the murder room, and gave Mark an enormous Mortadella+.

After getting his MBA, Mark became president of his father's compay, Charles Percy and Associates.  He now lives in Newport Beach, California.

Here's where it gets weird.

San Francisco, July 2013

I'm visiting my friend David in San Francisco.  He brings in one of his friends to share: James, mid-twenties, slim, black haired, a short beard, who graduated from Stanford with degrees in Computer Science and Arabic, with the idea of working for the Department of Homeland Security, but then came out and is working in a library.

"That sounds like my life!" I exclaim.  I tell him about applying to West Point, and my interviews with Tom Railsback and Mark Percy, son of the U.S. Senator, who had an enormous Mortadella+ and now lived in California.

"Percy?" he repeats. "I dated a guy with the last name Percy when I was at Stanford. A cute redhead with an enormous Mortadella+, just like Mark."

"Weird coincidence.  I wonder if it's his son?"

We do a quick google.  James' Percy turns out to be Mark's nephew, a 2007 Stanford graduate now working for Microsoft.

So a guy I hooked up with in San Francisco in 2013 dated the nephew of a guy I cruised in Chicago in 1977, who was a witness to an unsolved murder that I heard about all the time in the 1960s.

Sooner or later, everyone you know will hook up with everyone else you know.

See also: Arabic and Class Rings; Zack Hooks Up with the King of Sweden