20 June 1990
Yesterday I finally got around to getting that card/photo thing together to send off to Bill Poole. I found a cute card that had an image of a guy stepping off a cliff; down below were hungry alligators. The caption read something like, "A new romantic steps out into the world" or some such thing. I covered the inside with a burnt-orange zip-a-tone. On top of that (on the left side of the card) I pasted the photo of me in the phone booth (the only one I had an extra of), and on the right, a little note. It read as follows:
Hi…it's Mark. Yeah, like I was saying the other night…our paths keep crossing, and our eyes keep meeting, but its hard to tell if he's flirting or just wondering why I'm staring at him. I can't help feeling that I've known him before. Like another life or something. When our eyes meet there are all these unresolved feelings. Pretty weird, huh? Yeah, I know. Guess I should have said something on one of those occasions…but it never felt right. Still…I dunno. Hell–I didn't know who he was until I happened to turn on Channel 35 a few weeks ago and caught some show called Electric City. You've seen it? Oh, well I hadn't. His name's Bill. Call him? He's not in the phone book. And even if he was, what am I gonna say? "Hey, you don't know me but we've flirted on the street and in Safeway several times? No, he'll think I'm a lunatic–and he probably gets thousands of cruises every day anyway–how's he gonna remember me? Any suggest-ions? The BBS? Hey, that's a good idea… someone's bound to know him there. Maybe I can get an address for the program so I could send him a card or something. Maybe a card with a photo. Kinda tacky but at least he'll know who I am that way. But it can't just be a card with a photo. It's gotta be something different. What? You gotta go? Okay guy…I'll catch you later. My number? Whadda ya mean don't have it? It's 861-4039. Call me sometime…
I popped it in the mailbox that afternoon. Well, I got a call this evening around 5:35 pm from Bill. It kinda threw me off at first cause he said that it was Bill….and that I'd sent him a card yesterday. That made the connection. Seems he's been very aware of me as I have of him. We're meeting in person tomorrow evening…
22 June 1990
Last evening was very interesting. Bill called promptly at 5:30 just as he'd promised night before last when he called. I was already standing in the shower when the phone rang, but still made time for a brief chat. He came over a bit past 6:00, dressed in a black leather motorcycle jacket, faded jeans, cowboy boots, and black leather motorcycle gloves. Can you say, "Hey Daddy?"
When we were chatting on the phone while I was standing in the tub, we'd discovered that we were both from Phoenix. He wasn't a native, but had been there since high school (1978), and had arrived in San Francisco only about two years ago. I had a feeling that he was a newcomer, but couldn't put my finger on anything specific. Supposedly he even knew Steve Golden, but alas, even he did not know his current whereabouts.
After he arrived we talked of many more things, but the conversation was punctuated with long periods of tongue-tiedness. I sensed (especially as time drew closer to 7:00 pm—when he had to leave to pick up his lover) that he really wanted to jump my bones. Frankly, I would have loved it if he had, but at the same time, I want this to be something more than a sexual liaison, however impossible that request may be. There is an undeniable attraction in operation here, and though he doesn't admit to any "I've known you before feelings", he slipped by saying that it must have been Phoenix where he knew me from. Quite unlikely, considering his age and the various bars he hung out at during his tenure there.
It was an awkward parting. We hugged goodbye and that was enough to give both of us a bit of discomfort in the jeans. He turned to face me as he stood on the deck; his discomfort was quite discernable. I told him that since it was probably going to be days and days before I saw him again perhaps he had better come back inside so I could at least kiss him goodbye. He readily agreed. I didn't want to stop or let him go. In fact, we kissed twice. The second time I patted him on the butt and told him he'd better get going or he'd be late picking up his husband. As he left, he said, "Thank you for making a fantasy come true."
There was no second rendezvous and I never really heard from Bill again, although we did cross paths for several years thereafter.
Ah, memories.