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.

San Francisco Is Still Gay Heaven

San Francisco, September 1995

For gay people in the 1990s, West Hollywood was a sacred site, a safe haven free from the heterosexism and homophobia of the straight world. Everyone visited at least once; almost everyone moved there (like my ex-boyfriend Fred); or tried to (like Oscar, the former lover of Ronald Reagan,).

But if West Hollywood was a Gay Mecca, San Francisco was Gay Heaven, a mythical, perfect place, beyond the reach of all but the very blessed or the very lucky.

In the fall of 1995, we managed it. For a little while.

First we tried the Castro, the heart of the heart of Gay Heaven, but it was impossible -- even the tiniest, most horrible apartment had dozens of people scrambling to fill out applications.

Other gay neighborhoods, South of Market and the Mission, were likewise impossible.  Eventually we found an apartment in "The Avenues," about 3 miles west of Castro Street.

There were lots of things wrong with San Francisco:

1. It was very expensive, and there were no jobs.

2. It was very cold and damp, with a wet wind whipping through you all the time.  And those quaint Victorians?  Drafty, freezing, cramped. Constant sinus congestion, frequent colds.

3. The Muni stopped running at 7 pm, so at night you had to drive everywhere.

4.  When we drove anywhere, we had to spend 45 minutes looking for a parking space, and invariably we ended up parking a mile from our destination,  in a scary neighborhood.

5. We felt guilty going anywhere, due to the dozens of panhandles holding out their cups and chanting "Any change?  Any change?"  If we gave in and deposited change, we were marked as "easy," and aggressive panhandlers would follow us around, demanding money.

6. Crime was everywhere.  People were robbed regularly. Our car would be broken into regularly, even if nothing was visible.  The trunk would be jimmied open to see if anything was inside.

7. There were lots of heterosexual tourists who thought of gay people as an attraction, and kept gawking and taking photographs.

8. And lots of homophobes.  Teens would drive in from the suburbs every weekend and yell anti-gay slurs and threats from their cars.

We couldn't stay there forever.  It never felt like home.  But in spite of the problems, San Francisco was still Gay Heaven.

Not because of the milling crowds of Christopher Street West, or the beefcake-nudity exposition of Dore Alley, or the GLBT Historical Society on Mission Street.

Because of the little things.

A matinee at the Castro Theater.
Browsing in All American Boy on a Saturday afternoon.
The Sunday beer bust at the Eagle.
A quick burger at Orphan Andy's
Climbing up from the Castro Street Muni Station early in the morning, and walking through the bright, cold new day.

Gay Men and Their Dogs

Not many men in gay neighborhoods own dogs.  When you live in a cramped one-room apartment by yourself, and are away 16 hours a day, you'd be better off with a cat or a parakeet.

And what do you do with them during 4 weeks and dozens of weekends every year when you're visiting gay neighborhoods on the other side of the country?

But those men who did have the space and free time for a dog became superstars.  Their dogs were the life of the party, sure to draw a crowd of admirers.

















 And their furry friend was an ideal wingman for street cruising.  Take the dog out for a walk, meet at least five guys who want to pet him.  And say hello.  And give you their phone number.

Dogs were a problem on the date itself.  You bring the guy home, and instead of getting intimate with you, he won't stop playing with your dog.

And in the bedroom?  If the dog is locked outside, he howls to get in.  If he comes in, he thinks you're hurting his master, and tries to intervene.

More after the break.