Just Another Day in Gay Heaven

The corner of Castro and Market mid-afternoon, a bright, sunny day in...

 Well, who knows?  In Gay Heaven, every day is the best day of your life, every moment is the best of all possible moments.  Even bad things, like getting dumped by a boyfriend, are the best of all possible bad things, because they are taking place here.   So who bothers to look at the calendar?   There is no yesterday to regret or tomorrow to look forward to, just an endless succession of  "today."

Not that it's constant joy, like the Nazarenes told us heaven would be like.  You are too busy with the rhythms of everyday life to stop and think about feeling anything. 

And there's a lot of pressure.  You are a representative of a thousand gay men who long for the peace and freedom of Gay Heaven, but lack the resources to come, so you must keep constantly moving, constantly busy.  Dates, house parties, sex parties, and cruising, of course, but more than that. 

Out in the howling homophobic wilderness, they can get only a few occasional glimmers of gay culture, so you must live for them, rushing to club meetings, church services, fundraisers, art exhibits, book signings, film festivals,  trivia contests...the list is endless, two or three events on your calendar every night.  You leave the house at 7:00 am and return at 11:00 pm. A night home alone is a luxury to be dreamed of.

You cross 17th Street, which meets Castro here in a rash of streetcar cables.  Orphan Andy's and the Twin Peaks Tavern are on your left.  You walk south, past the Castro Theater, Almost Home, Thai Thai.  Some bars are already open, al fresco, with leather-clad men inside.  This is before the Castro became openly gay, so there are no gay monuments, no Harvey Milk memorial, no rainbow sidewalks.  You know it is gay heaven because there are no women or straight men on the street.  You are surrounded, on all sides, by brothers.

Everyone you see, everyone you know, everyone you spoke to today and will speak to tomorrow, is a gay man.  Varied, certainly, all sizes and shapes, personalities, and passions, football fans and birdwatchers, drag queens and leathermen, Buddhist monks and Episcopal priests, but all gay men.

And all connected in erotic and romantic links that extend across time and space.  You never meet anyone for the first time: everyone is the ex-boyfriend of an ex-boyfriend, the roommate of a guy you dated last month, or the ex-boyfriend of the roommate of the guy whose party you attended last month.  You, or someone you know, has gone down on him;or you will someday soon.

Life in Gay Heaven is exhausting and frightfully expensive.  You rarely see anyone under 30 -- they simply can't afford it -- or over 60 -- they can't keep up with the breakneck pace.   And the streets are full of people who tried it and failed.  There are homeless people everywhere, sleeping under blankets in doorways, sitting in groups on the sidewalk, waving their cans around and chanting "Any change? Any change?  Any change?"

Or they cope with the pressure through alcohol and drugs.  San Francisco has the highest rate of illegal drug use in the country.  Methamphetamine, cocaine, and heroin are surprisingly common.

Or they become overwhelmed with the availability of sex, and do nothing else, living in a blur of sex parties and street cruising, barebacking, rimming, forgetting to use condoms, being exposed to HIV

Ursula K. Leguin wrote a story, "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas," about a city where everyone experiences infinite joy and peace, but their joy is dependent on the constant suffering of a child.

Sometimes you wonder if the joy of living in Gay Heaven is dependent on the suffering of others.

Then you check tonight's events: a beer bust at the Eagle, a sex party South of Market, a book signing at the Different Light, an AIDS Benefit at Twin Peaks, and your friend Manuel is having a dinner party.

Just another day in Gay Heaven.

"Dude, Math Class Sucks": The Slur Behind the Phrase

It's commonplace in our society to use the phrase "It sucks" to indicate that something is ineffective, useless, boring, ignorant, or just plain bad.

Why would you want to insult your job, your math class, an activity, or a tv show by stating that it draws air or liquid into an opening by forming a partial vacuum?

How could they even do that?  And if they could, what's the problem?  Why is that especially bad?

It's an expansion of the derogatory term used for people: "He sucks."

Same question: why does drawing air or liquid into your mouth by forming a partial vacuum make you a bad person?

The Urban Dictionary claims that it from comes from jazz musicians, who would blow their horn to make music.  If they were inept, they would suck instead of blow.  Thus, "They suck."

That's bull.

We all know what it really means, but in case you need a reminder, sometimes the phrase is expanded to "cocksucker."

It means that you are a bottom for oral sex.

Why would that form of sex be deemed so reprehensible?

Women do it to hetero men, and of course hetero men find women reprehensible.

When gay men do it, it makes them "like women," and of course hetero men find that even more reprehensible.   How could someone with a penis demean himself like that?

Of course, you're probably not thinking of it in that way.  You're using it as a general expression of distaste, just like we might call someone a "motherf*er" without implying that they actually have sex with their mother.  We're trying to imply a similar level of wrongdoing.

So when you say "Math class sucks," you don't mean that it actually behaves like a gay man; you mean that it is as reprehensible as a gay man who engages in oral sex.

Thus insulting every guy who has ever gone down on you, and insulting yourself, if you have ever gone down on a guy.

Trapped in a Dormitory with College Freshmen

Long Island, August 1997

On August 26th, 1997, at 10:00 pm, I got on an airplane with two suitcases, leaving friends, my boyfriend, most of my stuff, and memories of home, to go to graduate school at Setauket University in New York (not its real name)

Eight hours later, after a layover in Chicago, I arrived at LaGuardia.  I had never been to New York before. I expected skyscrapers and subways.  Instead, I found the suburban sprawl of the Straight World.

The admissions guy said that Setauket was 30 minutes from New York City.  He lied!  From LaGuardia Airport it took 2 hours by train, with a change at Jamaica station.

Exhausted after a night with no sleep, I got to the campus at a little after noon, only to find the Housing Office closed for lunch.

When I returned at 1:15, they had no idea who I was.  There was no application for graduate student housing on file.

I was standing in the middle of Long Island with two suitcases, a day before classes started, with no place to stay!

"Don't worry," the housing clerk said.  "We can move you into emergency housing until a graduate student apartment opens up.  It shouldn't be longer than a week or two."

She gave me a key to a room in the freshman dormitory!

Two bunk beds, four desks and chairs, two shared closets, bathroom down the hall. With three freshman boys as my roommates.

I know what you're thinking -- were they cute?  Did you get a sausage sighting?

The answer is, it never occurred to me.

1. I was not yet a twink magnet, not used to the idea of guys who were substantially younger.

2. I was already feeling self-conscious about my age, being the oldest graduate student in my program by about ten years. And now I was surrounded by 17 and 18 year olds.  They would think I was a freshman, too.  I was too humiliated to think of biceps and bulges.

3. Twinks were uncommon in San Francisco -- the money and energy it takes to live in Gay Heaven were beyond the means of most 20-year olds.  So I had spent the last two years surrounded by guys in their 30s, 40s, and 50s.  From my perspective, a 17 year old looked a little kid.

Sniveling homesick babies crying into their pillow and getting various fevers that made them go to the nurse constantly.

Rambunctious Bart Simpsons wearing "Dare to Misbehave" t-shirts as they skateboarded down the hallways at 2:00 am.

 The staff treated us like kids, too.  Nightly room inspections to make sure we don't have any contraband -- including free weights, musical instruments, open food containers, and porn magazines.

Daily "hall meetings," required even for me and the 10 or so other grad students put in emergency housing.  With required ice breaker activities like "You're going on a picnic.  Everybody has to bring something starting with the first letter of your last name."

I'm bringing dynamite.

The next day I went to the housing office to see if an apartment had opened up.  And the next.  And then it was Saturday; I took the train into Manhattan, but had to be back by the 11:00 pm curfew.

Yes, freshman dorms had curfews, even for 36-year olds.

Monday was Labor Day.  Campus offices are all closed.

On Tuesday I went to the housing office again -- nope -- and then started my classes: two graduate seminars and teaching assistant for an intro class.

Two of my roommates were my students!

Then I went back to the freshman dorm to sit at a table full of rambunctious kindergarteners for dinner, followed by a required "hall meeting" with  ice breaker activities for little kids.

"Write down three things about you, two lies and one the truth.  We have to decide which is true."

I had a four-way with Brad Pitt.
I went down on a guy with 11" backstage at the Hollywood Bowl.
I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose from 50 feet away.

No, I didn't use those.  I said something about having studied 10 languages, owning a pet iguana, and having starred in Star Trek: The Next Generation.

After the ice breaker they served ice cream sandwiches, but I wanted to high-tail it back to my room to hide from the humiliation of being treated like a 17 year old. But on the way, one of the freshman coat-tailed me.

His name was Jesse, and his true statemnt had been "I spend summers on a ranch."  He was tall and slim, with thick black hair, pale skin, and a snarky grin.

"Hey, sir, do you really speak 10 languages?"

"Studied, not speak.  Ni hau bu hau?"

"That's cool.  Want to play pingpong, sir?"  He emphasized the "sir" in a snarky way.

Why not?  It beat hiding in my dorm room, with no computer and no tv, for the next four hours, until lights out.

Still, as we played, I couldn't help thinking of the humiliation.  Having lived in my own apartments for 14 years, I was playing pingpong in the lounge of a freshman dorm with a little kid.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, how old are you?" Jesse said.

"17, Sonny.  I stopped counting birthdays in 1978."

He did the math.  "You're only two years younger than my Dad.  Cool!"

Jesse also found it "cool" that I was from California, that I had studied Comparative Literature at USC, and that I knew a lot of celebrities, including Leonardo DiCaprio, Tom Cruise, and Brad Pitt (ok, so I made some up).

"I never met anyone yet.  I'm just a farmboy from Ulster County."

"How old are you?" I asked.

"42.  I'm young looking for my age.  So I guess you have to call me Daddy.  So, what brings you to college, sir?  Senior citizen tuition remission?"

"I like little boys, and this is the best place to find some," I said with a leer.

He stared at me for a moment, then laughed.  "You got a good sense of humor on you, sir.  Hey, do you want to see something cool?  I've been here for a week -- baseball practice -- so I know my way around.  Meet me in the 3rd floor bathroom at 11:30.  They don't do dorm checks until 1:00, so we'll have about an hour."

At age 36, having lived on my own for 14 years, I was in a freshman dorm, having a late-night adventure.  I just hoped Jesse wasn't taking me on a panty raid.

Jesse was carrying a blanket and a pair of binoculars.  He led me to a stairwell, up two flights of stairs, down a hall, up another stairwell, and we were on the roof.

It was a warm, clear night.  We lay side by side on the blanket, and Jesse handed me a pair of binoculars and pointed.

We could see directly through most of the windows of the dorm next door.  It was for upperclassmen, who had no curfew, so most of the windows were lit.  College guys sitting at desks, lying on bunks, roughhousing.

Bare chests, once a bare butt.

"It's like a dozen little live theaters. I keep hoping I'll see someone beating off, but it hasn't happened yet."

"The night is young."

I overcame my humiliation long enough to go down on Jesse (the age of consent in New York is 17). Small with a mushroom head, cut, big load.  He called me "sir."

But mostly from that night I remember the "live theater" of a dozen lit windows.

The next day an apartment opened up, and I met the roommate from hell.

See also: My Date with the Teenager and his Mom; Gay Panic and the Obnoxious Roommate; My Most Embarrassing Date