The first thing to go is the memory. Or the knees. Sometimes both at once.
In my case, it's definitely memory. While some aspects of life in my 20s stand out very clearly, others are more…muddled. And what I'm increasingly discovering is that things I swore happened one way—or in such a such a month—actually did not, as backed up by photographic proof.
And while it could be that those photographs are nothing more than a glitch in the Matrix, I find it far easier to believe that I just got it wrong and it's a glitch in my matrix.
I don't exactly remember how I got there or what I was searching for, but last week I found myself knee-deep in the online archives of Arizona State University; more specifically, their collection of Arizona gay rags from the 70s onward.
The collection is far from complete, but reading the smattering of articles and opinion pieces pointed out exactly how far we've come as a community and our standing in society at large in the last 50 years.
It was also a wonderful trip down memory lane.
Phoenix Gay Bars/Bookstores, October 1979Tucson Gay Bars/Businesses, October 1979
(Click either to embiggen.)
Seeing the ads and logos from all these long-gone establishments especially brought me back.
And then there was the card shop on 7th whose name I was searching for a few weeks ago…
…where I bought this treasure in 1983:
Done by a probably local artist, "C. Ruth", it thought it was adorable. I loved the colors, I loved the subject matter, and while my partner at the time, Dennis, didn't have a beard, he was a ginger…
Frankly, I'm amazed that it's survived the 24 moves it's gone through since then.
But I digress.
Lastly, who could forget this information-packed reference? Kids wonder how we met up before the internet? This is how.
(I never bought one. Six dollars was a lot of money back for me in 1979; it was an hour's work!)
I decided to enlist Google Maps to see what now stood on these once-hallowed locations.
To say it was a sobering experience would be an understatement. While I knew instinctively that the bars came and went even back then, it was still disheartening to see that so many were now just vacant lots, or had been torn down to make way for new strip malls and condo/apartment complexes.
Interestingly, the one bar that still remains in business and at its original location is the Nu-Towne Saloon; the one bar I have never visited. Back in the day it was "way out east" and basically surrounded by little more than open desert. Now it's surrounded by development and doesn't seem nearly so far east as it once did.
We made our usual Sunday run to Target today. We've been getting four dinners a week from HelloFresh, but let's face it, we still need lunch and incidentals.
The store was abysmal, although not as picked over as it seemed a week ago. Still no paper products, but that was expected. We're still in good shape as far as toilet paper is concerned, and I was able to order paper towels off Amazon (even if they're not arriving until week after next) so there's that. We were able to get everything else on the list.
The one thing that stood out, however, was the fact that no one (except Ben and I) seemed to be observing the six-foot rule. Idiots, the lot of 'em.
We did some purging around the house yesterday, making a run to our meager storage unit in the process. I wanted to find the bungee cords I knew were in a box as well as retrieve a tub of my dad's architectural drafting paraphernalia that my sister had given me shortly after his passing. It had been my intent all these years to select a few of the pieces and make a shadow box to honor his legacy.
It took seven years, but after several hours' work today, that intent finally became reality.
On another front, I finally got the door locks on Rabbit to automatically lock when driving away. This was a standard setting on Anderson, and I noticed it wasn't happening with Rabbit, so I had to dig into the Owner's Manual to find out where that setting was hiding. I also discovered this morning that our local FM NPR station (KJZZ) also transmits on two separate channels in HD. One's for news only, and one's for all-day jazz, and I can easily switch between the two. This makes me happy since there is a dearth of decent radio in Phoenix.
…went to the tubs because I wasn't that kind of boy in my 20s. Drop to my knees at the gloryhole at the Univeristy of Arizona Main library yes, but go to a bathhouse? Never!
Until we moved to San Francisco and I discovered the 1808 Club.
The 1808 wasn't a bathhouse per se. The 1808 was among the first of many "sex clubs" that rose up in the City following the closure of all traditional bathhouses in the mid 80s. It differed from a bathhouse in that there were no private rooms and the only acceptable (and yes, it was monitored) interaction between patrons was jacking off, but it was still insanely hot. Lots of very hot men more than willing to lend a well-lubed hand when needed.
From an entry in my August 1991 Journal:
It's been an interesting evening. I went to the 1808 Club. I hadn't been there in over four years, and it was like becoming reacquainted with an old friend. Some things had changed, but for the most part it's still the same as it was. There wasn't anyone there I especially wanted to set up house with, but there were a few hunks running around; none of whom wanted anything to do with me. But that's fine. It's one of those places where you can still stare at 'em and whack off anyway; like live porn.
I don't know especially why I went…I just had a need to get naked with a bunch of naked men. Probably some sort of unconscious male-bonding thing. Yeah, right. I wasn't especially horny, but the thought of spending another Saturday night at home didn't appeal to me, and neither did going to the Night Gallery.* I sure as hell didn't want to deal with attitude and smoke in some Castro bar. Sure, there was attitude at the 1808, but at least you got to look at all the wonderful glistening naked bodies and throbbing cocks! It was kinda magical and the music was excellent.
*a.k.a. Mike's Night Gallery, another story for another time…
I am not now, nor have I ever really considered myself a "gamer" or "gaymer," if you insist. But for several months at the start of 1994, I was obsessed with a new game called Myst. Too many very late nights were spent attempting to solve those puzzles. I'd get drawn in, look up and realize it was 3 am. On a work night.
While the drama had been brewing with Emmett, I'd been in touch with a my longtime friend Michael in San Francisco. He and I had met on an inbound MUNI train years earlier, and after a couple romps in the hay we both came to the realization that we both carried too much baggage that didn't match and we'd probably be better off as friends than lovers. When I'd made the decision it was time to return to Bagdad By The Bay, he suggested I move in with him until I found a place of my own. "I have big house all to myself. You'd have your own room downstairs and I'd be glad to have the company."
Your host and Mary, my ex's mom, who really didn't want me to leave Tucson.
Michael lived out in the Avenues. Not my first choice of where in the city I'd ever want to live, but his offer to crash there until I found work and got a place of my own was too good to pass up. So, the first weekend in December, Michael flew down (to drive my car while I drove the rental truck) to Tucson and helped me pack up, load the truck and get out of town.
As I recall, a job arrived pretty quickly, even though I wasn't able to return to the firm I'd worked for the previous eight years. I still wasn't able to transition into PC support, but a job's a job and since I had the architectural and AutoCAD skillz, any port in a storm, y'know?
Unfortunately, instead of staying put at that prestigious national firm, when the opportunity arose for me to go elsewhere and actually get my foot in the door doing computer support work, I jumped on it.
While I prided myself on my PC knowledge, I soon found out I was in over my head. I knew the ins-and-outs of Microsoft Word, but not to the degree required by a Law Firm. Additionally it was a whole new world for me to be dealing with end users, many of whom were difficult at best and—being a Law Firm—hellspawn at worst. I got minimal support from the two other people on the Help Desk and next to none from my supervisor. I was miserable.
In one of those odd twists of fate, however, one day while returning from lunch, I ran into a guy I'd worked with in Phoenix twelve years earlier. I knew Fred had relocated to San Francisco, but lost touch with him shortly after he left the firm where we both worked.
Fred now had his own business. We chatted briefly and I told him of my employment woes. "I'm looking for people," he said. "Here's my card. Come by next week and we'll see if we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement."
And thus began two years of employment hell that was to send me back to Arizona again.
While my dad had arranged for he and my mom to be out of the house for the duration of my birthday party, they did stick around long enough to meet everyone who had accepted my invitation and made the drive up from Tucson.
My crew at my 19th birthday party, May 1977. (L-R) Don Hines, Phil Oliver, Chas Dooley, Kent Kelly, James Uhrig, Eduardo Robins
I remember very little of the party itself. There was food. There was cake. There was dancing. I recall someone shoving a bottle of poppers under my nose at one point. But mostly it was simply the jumping off point for my first steps into gay life in Phoenix. Phoenix was a very different place from Tucson and I'd been reluctant to go out on my own for two reasons: I was, until that night, still underage in the eyes of the law (and I'd been warned that the Phoenix clubs—unlike Jekyll's in Tucson—carded religiously), and frankly I was still more than a little apprehensive about throwing myself into the environment unaccompanied.
I shouldn't have been worried. Our destination that evening was a newly-opened/renovated club called Moon's Truck and it was 3-F: fierce,fabulous and friendly.
The club was located in a nondescript concrete block building on the east side of 16th Street just south of Indian School Road, and despite its recent rechristening, the actual name was unimportant because I soon learned that regardless of what was on the sign over the entrance, everyone simply referred to it as Maggie's. It changed names again about a year later to HisCo Disco before finally being forced to close by the neighbors' continual complaints about noise and other goings-on in the area.
It was a cavernous, magical place, and at the time was known for playing the some of the best music in Phoenix. It had a slightly raised lighted dance floor and a sound system that would leave your ears ringing for hours. The clientele was as interesting as Jeckyll's.
While outwardly an all-inclusive club (gays, straights, men, women, and people of indeterminate gender) were always welcome at Maggie's, the one thing I remember most was Hubert, one of the DJs (who did not want women in the club) was how he'd always yell "Uterus!" when women arrived. I found it amusing at the time, even if it embarrasses the fuck out of me now.
I also have no real memories remaining of the club that night. I must've suffered sensory overload. All I know is that soon thereafter I began to call it home on Friday and Saturday nights.
At the time, Phoenix probably had a dozen or so gay bars, the vast majority of which I would never be caught dead in. The names that spring to mind beyond Maggies are The Forum (which became my second favorite hang-out, a place I would automatically head to if Maggies seemed too dull on any given night), The Ramrod, The 307, The Connection, and several more whose names completely elude me (I will amend this later if/when they pop into memory). Since I didn't drink, I only went for the dancing—and the possibility of meeting someone for the evening, the non-dance establishments barely registered on my radar.
My other concern that summer was obviously finding a job. That arrived by way of my dad, who needed architectural drafting assistance at the office where he worked. Other than income it provided, our summer working together prompted the tag line for this post.
I don't recall the exact moment Dad acknowledged that I played for the other team; whether he outright asked or I volunteered, but I do remember a conversation that followed shortly thereafter. We had obviously been discussing something regarding my lifestyle and he blurted out, "Yeah, when you and your mom and sister were back east during the summer, I'd head down to The Ramrod with Oscar from down the street…"
Oh. My. Fucking. God. The Ramrod?!? My dad had just come out to me and had outed our equally-married-to-a-woman neighbor two houses down!
Well, this certainly explained how he got the article he'd sent me the previous spring from the gay paper.
And the flood gates opened. I provided the open and appreciative listener he so desperately needed after a lifetime being forced to lead a double life; how he joined the Navy at 17 to escape an abusive relationship with his father, his long-term love affairs with several of the"friends" who'd come around the house while I was growing up, how my parents met and why he got married, and how he worried that he'd somehow failed me as a father after watching my budding gayness develop from an early age. I learned more about my dad that summer that I'd ever thought possible, and our relationship—best described as loving but distant until that summer—improved to such a degree that Dad became more than just my father; he became a trusted friend.
While Mom obviously knew a lot of his history, she didn't know all of it, nor did she know the reasons or the underlying stories behind that history. Suddenly so much of why my dad did the things he did while I was growing up became clear to me.
I respected his desire for all this to remain solely between the two of us—at least for many, many years after their divorce. Dad's closet became mine.
So I had a gay dad. I famously knew about his brother Edward thanks to my mom. This led me to wonder who else in the family tree was sprouting lavender leaves, because in some families it ran; in ours it apparently galloped.
After Ric disappeared and we'd gone our separate ways, I would be lying if I said the rest of the semester was filled with sweet romantic interludes—or at least hot monkey sex, because it most certainly was not. That's not to say I didn't fall in love—or at least lust—with two more individuals, both of whom occasionally popped in at Louie's, but were far from regulars.
The first was a Hispanic boy named Jesse.
(L-R) John Marion, Tommy (aka Spider Lady), Jesse, and two queens I didn't know
Jesse and I were friendly, but he barely knew I existed. And yet, at 18 years old, I fawned over him. I remember sharing some writing I'd done about him with another friend at the table, James Uhrig. James, who was older and wiser than I was…kind…in his assesment of my musings, but suggested that perhaps I move on.
Kent Kelly
It was around that time that Kent Kelly and Peter Whitman entered my orbit. Kent was the catalyst that caused me to move on from Jesse. Peter and I immediately became best friends. I think Kent—also older and wiser by a couple years—sensed my fragile, newly-minted gay state, and very gently let me down when I confessed my feelings for him. It didn't make it sting any less, but I respected him for it, and out of that grew a friendship which lasted until his death in 1987.
(L-R) Kent Kelly, Chas Dooley, Don Hines
Kent became my mentor, my friend, and my dance partner; my Life Teacher if truth be told. After I quit school in 1978, Kent ended up in Phoenix with me, proclaiming that Tucson had simply gotten too small—or more likely as I suspected he'd simply slept with everyone he'd been interested in sleeping with there.
Kent in 1981
Shortly before the semester ended, I arrived at Louie's one afternoon and found the table abuzz. Ric was apparently at Student Health with a case of Hepatitis and they'd advised everyone who'd had sexual relations with him during the previous few months to get a Gamma globulin shot.
Needless to say, I was more than a little surprised at the number of us who got up from the table and formed a little parade that headed over to Student Health. Not as surprised, I'm sure, as the staff at the center was…
Apparently Ric was the table's resident Welcome Wagon.
I returned home at the end of the semester, leaving all my new friends behind and wondering what the hell I was going to do, not only for summer work but also with my new gay life in general. My 19th birthday was quickly approaching, so I decided to say fuck it and invite everyone up to my parents' house for an impromptu party. Not exactly how I envisioned coming out, but if they figured things out, they figured things out.
I think—based on that article he'd sent months earlier—Dad knew what was up, and arranged for he and Mom to be out of the house that night. My sister was having a sleepover at a friend's house.
Phil (the man who initially welcomed me into GSA) arrived on his motorcycle the afternoon prior to the party. Since no one else was showing up until the following day, he and I headed out (not on his motorcycle) to the local mall.
As we walked the mall, Phil freely ogling boys as they passed like a dog in heat and whispering salacious suggestions in my ears, by the time we got back to the house I was…aroused…to say the least. He tried to put the moves on me in my bedroom, but I rebuffed his advances. That was not the way I intended to come out to the family.
Phil was an expert at the art of seduction, and while it didn't happen that weekend, he did eventually bed me. Or maybe it was the other way around. It doesn't matter. He and I had many an overnight encounter until he moved to San Mateo in 1980.
As an aside, I briefly reconnected with Phil (not that way—although to be honest, prior to him actually showing up at my door that afternoon I'd fantasized about it) once in 1992 long after I'd moved to San Francisco. I didn't pursue anything phyiscal or even reigniting the friendship because something just seemed off, and frankly it creeped me out.
Ric was another Louie's regular, although I don't remember him ever showing up at a GSA meeting. A couple years older (I believe he was 20 or maybe 21 when we met), I was enraptured. On yet another Friday afternoon at the table plans were being made for the evening. Ric turned to me and asked what my plans were. "Just going back to the dorm and watching some television," I said.
"Posh! Come out with us!"
And by out, he meant Jekyll's, which billed itself as Tucson's newest and gayest disco,
"I dunno," I said. "I'm not much of a going-out kind of person."
"Well, if you change your mind, here's my address," he said, handing me a slip of paper. Tina's driving and we're leaving around 9. If you want to come with us, be there and we'll all go together."
I walked back to the dorm, butterflies dancing in my stomach. On one hand I was being honest when I'd said I wasn't much for going out; on the other hand, I desperately wanted to get to know Ric better and yes—I wanted to see what gay life was really like.
The butterflies didn't dissipate, even when, several hours later I was walking down 4th Street (or maybe it was 5th Street—I honestly don't remember) to the house he and Tina shared. I knocked on the door and Ric answered, giving me a big hug as I walked in. "Welcome! I'm so glad you decided to go with us. This will be fun tonight!"
I seem to remember one more person joining us—it was probably Don Hines—before we headed out. We all piled in Tina's big yellow sedan and drove to Oracle & Drachman, where Jekyll's was located.
Jeckyll & Hyde's, May 1977
At this point, some 42 years later, memories of that evening are little more than a blur, but some things do stand out. I remember paying a three dollar cover charge to get in, but I also remember I was not carded. (At the time legal drinking age in Arizona was 19, and I was still 18.) In fact, I was never carded, except at Maggie's in Phoenix years later—and then only because the bouncer wanted to know my name. (But that is a story for a future installment.)
Looking back, I'm sure Jeckyll's would be judged a dive by anyone's standards then and now, but for me it was absolute magic. I'd never been to a disco before, and here I was in a gay disco. There were men dancing with men, women dancing with women, and lots of people of—as we politely say today—people of indeterminate gender being their own fierce selves.
A wraparound bar greeted you as you walked in. To the right there was a sunken wooden dance floor and DJ booth. To the left was an elevated area with booths and tables.
And the music…I'd never been exposed to music like that before and I was entranced. It was here I first heard Giorgio Moroder's From Here to Eternity, Themla Houston's Don't Leave Me This Way and Cerrone's Love in C-Minor to name just a few. Disco wasn't something that had been on my musical radar at all, but it became something that I love to this very day.
Not apologizing.
We stayed until the bar closed that night, and afterward walked down the street to grab an early breakfast at Denny's. It seemed to be the place to go after the club shut down. Drag queens mingled with leathermen, and we were in the middle of it all. When we were finished eating, Tina and Ric drove me back to my dorm room, my head absolutely spinning.
I don't remember exactly what happened after that first night out together, but at some point Ric showed up at my door and didn't leave for a week thereafter. If my encounter with John had left me scratching my head, wondering what all the hoopla was about gay sex, Ric showed me. OMG…Ric took me places I didn't know existed and left me begging for more.
Ah, youth.
An obvious romance was brewing—at least in my eyes. We spent nights wrapped in each other's arms, sleeping on blankets in front of the fireplace at this house when we weren't at my dorm. When he'd left his beat-up army surplus jacket in my room one day, I brought it with me to Louie's that afternoon to return it and he said, "You like it? Keep it."
I wore it like a second skin.
But then something happened, and I was left wondering what precipitated it, other than what I now know to be the uncontrollable hormones of young gay men. Ric stopped coming around. We weren't doing anything together any more. He'd become very hard to get hold of, and when I did he was distant. And then the answer arrived. I was told by someone at the table that he'd been seeing some other boy; someone who was not from GSA or the table. I was crushed. When we finally connected, there were tears. At the time I just didn't understand. I thought we were something special…
Within weeks after the breakup, I became very ill. My tonsils and under-jaw glands swelled up. I went to Student Health and was diagnosed with mono. (I'd gone all through high school without coming down with the scourge, for obvious reasons, so it came as no surprise it finally hit when it did.)
I'd let my folks know what was going on and they expressed parental concern. I assured them I was in good hands with Student Health and basically spent an entire week in bed, missing every class. (Yeah, I felt that bad.) Shortly after my recovery, I received a very strange missive from my dad. It was an article about upper respiratory gonorrhea that had been clipped from the Phoenix gay paper. On the bottom he'd written in big block letters, "Don't give him anything but love."
Now keep in mind this was months before I finally came out to the family, and this left me confused as hell. How did he know? Where and how did he get this article?
The student mailboxes were adjacent to Louie's, so I didn't actually open the mail or read it until I was already sitting at the table. I guess my jaw must've dropped to the floor because they asked what was going on. "I just got this from my dad," I said, passing it around the table.
It was shortly after my second meeting with GSA that I was introduced to thetable at Louie's Lower Level.
Louie's—located in the basement of the Student Union—was the funky laid-back alternative to the more traditional and sterile campus cafeteria upstairs and doubled as a great gathering place for students before and after class. Think lots of dark wood, Tiffany lighting, and plants in macrame slings. Kind of TGI Fridays on a budget. (It was 1977, after all.)
I'd been going there since I started at the university, but until my second GSA meeting and a group of us headed downstairs afterward to grab a bite to eat, I'd somehow been completely oblivious to the fact that one long table off to the east side of the dining room was home base for many of the campus homosexuals.
It was there where I met my tribe that spring: John Maguire, Ric Hathaway, Chas Dooley, Don Hines, Kent Kelly, John Marion, Abe Marquez, Tina, Marco, and many others who became friends, mentors, and yes, in a couple cases, even lovers over the coming months. I shall do my best to give each their proper due since so many of them are no longer with us.
Chas Dooley
I actually met Chas before GSA or Louie's. He was a good friend of Andy's and visited him a lot when I was in the old dorm. Chas was young, black, proud, flamboyant, and simply had no fucks to give. He intimidated me when I was still in the closet; once out I came to admire and adore him. In fact, there were times over the next couple years I wanted nothing more than to jump his bones, but while the interest seemed to be mutual, the timing was always off and it never happened.
I lost track of Chas sometime between 1978 and 1980. He'd moved home to Louisiana and while we'd continued to correspond eventually a letter was returned as undeliverable and the phone number I had for him was disconnected.
It was in 1991 or so that I was walking home from the Castro to my apartment off Church Street in San Francisco and I passed a handsome black man coming my way. We made eye contact, smiled, and after we'd passed almost immediately turned around. "Chas?" "Mark?" We rushed to each other and hugged. He was late to be somewhere, so we couldn't catch up. We exchanged numbers (I guess everyone ends up in SF eventually), but not for lack of trying, we never did reconnect.
I have tried to track him down, both through normal channels as well as through the Social Security Death Index (you never know, and if he's gone I'd like closure) but there are hundreds of Charles Dooleys listed online (but none in the SSDI), so I've given up hope of ever reconnecting with him.
The First Time: John Maguire
I wasn't particularly attracted to John. We'd both become regulars at Louie's and had gotten friendly, enjoying each other's company, but while there were many tasty things on Louie's menu, lust of John definitely wasn't one of them. One Friday afternoon we were at the table talking and discovered we were both still virgins. He looked at me and asked, "Do you want to do something about that?" A thousand thoughts ran through my head in a flash, and I blurted out, "Sure!" It was one of those, "Oh fuck, why not?" moments.
We didn't go out on a proper date beforehand and there was no romance; he simply showed up at my dorm room at the appointed time and we got naked. I won't go into all the gruesome details, but let's just say the experience was far from what I think either of us had hoped for. After he left I thought, "This is what has everyone in such an uproar?" John and I were still amicable after the encounter, but something had definitely changed and neither one of us really put any further effort into our friendship developing further.
I have no idea whatever happened to John. Upon returning to school for my sophomore year, many people had disappeared from GSA and the table, John being one of them. I heard he'd moved home to New Jersey.
And again, like Chas, there are hundreds of possible John Maguires online. So…yeah, tracking him down, living or dead…not going to happen.
Okay…remembering and writing about all this is fun!
Previously on Battlestar Galactica… (In case you're wondering, I'm calling it this as a throwback to my original posting of these stories on the old blog, written at peak Battlestar Galactica popularity.)
While I suppose I could have come out publicly in High School, for a variety of mid-70s reasons I chose not to. I had consciously decided that I would announce to the world once I'd moved away from home and started college. Based on my mother's earlier reactions to gay men—which was surprising considering she was an interior designer and had worked around them her entire career—I wasn't entirely convinced it would be warmly received by the family and wanted to be as far away as possible when I dropped the proverbial bomb.
My first semester at the University of Arizona was—not surprisingly—a difficult one, if only for the usual problems of any first year college student. I had never lived away from home, and while I made friends easily, in the beginning I knew no one in Tucson.
My first dormitory roommate was a Japanese-American gymnast. I don't remember his name or even what he looked like at this point other than he had a body that wouldn't quit. He was a gymnast, after all. Might've been a fantasy come true if not for the fact he was virulently homophobic and made it known almost immediately. While I was still firmly in the closet, I knew this was not going to work as my plans for coming out slowly began to coalesce in my head. After a week or so I swapped rooms with a guy down the hall I'd gotten friendly with.
My new roommate was Karl Kilgore, a tall, blond, good-looking civil engineering (?) student from southern California.
Karl and I got along famously. We shared the same world view, liked the same music, and enjoyed each other's company.
I still hadn't come out yet, but the guy in the room adjacent to ours read me from the moment I arrived on the floor. Andy was…flamboyant…out and proud. He was one of the first gay men I met who was not. taking. shit. from. anyone.
In many ways he took me under his wing for those first couple months at the university, keeping my secret to himself. I remember one day toward the holidays we were chatting and he flat out asked, "When are you going to end this charade and just come out?"
I was quite taken aback, and at the same time relieved that he knew it was time as much as I did.
Along the same time this happened, I was over at the campus planetarium one night, when a series of events were set in motion that led to my tearing the door off that closet and bursting forth into the light. I was touring the exhibits when another boy caught my eye, one David Miller.
Another freshman, David was from the hills of West Virginia and frankly, turned out to be sweet as fuck. We struck up a conversation and a friendship soon formed. Was David gay? I didn't get that sense about him at all, but I didn't get "wholly straight" either. I remember that when I told Andy I'd made a friend outside the dorm he quipped, "So…Mark's got a boyfriend."
No, that wasn't it at all, but when the opportunity presented itself for me to switch dorms and share a room with David, I jumped at it.
David accompanied me back to Phoenix for Thanksgiving that year and my family loved him.
The Christmas and New Year's holidays came and went, and upon returning to campus for the spring semester I'd resolved that this was now the time to come out.
One evening in late January, after we'd gone to bed, I said to David, "I have something to tell you."
"What is it?"
"You know that guy Adam I told you about? The one I met up with again at the library?"
(Adam was a guy from Phoenix whom I'd met and buddied up with during the Freshman Orientation weekend on campus the past August.)
"Yeah."
"I like him."
"Great! You made another friend. What's he like?"
"No, I like him, David. I really like him."
(It should be noted that nothing had ever actually happened between Adam and I at the library or anywhere else for that matter—but I was mightily infatuated with this now newly-minted frat boy I'd reconnected with.)
"What are you saying?"
"I'm gay, David."
There was an extended silence. After several minutes he said, "I have a confession too."
Was David about to tell me he was gay? I mean, that would be awesome.
"My uncle is Christine Jorgensen."
Now while I hadn't been officially out, I had done my gay history. I knew who Christine was.
"We don't talk about uncle George much anymore," he added.
Of course, this opened the conversational floodgates and for several days thereafter it seemed all was well in the world. David showed no signs of being freaked out, nor had his attitude toward me changed in any way.
HOWEVER, a little over a week later, David announced he was moving out of the room and in with—in his words several months later—"an Iranian who never bathed."
I soon learned that shortly after my coming out to him, David—who never had a drink in his life—had gone out one night and had gotten absolutely shit-faced. He returned to the dorm at 2 am and basically went door to door telling everyone on the floor, "Mark is a fag!"
Well, I was now officially out. It also explains why there was no hurry to backfill that empty bed and how I ended up with a single room for the remainder of the semester without having to pay for it. Membership has its privileges.
The question remained, "What now?"
Andy suggested going to one of the GSA (Gay Student Organization) meetings on campus. After ignoring his suggestions and the adverts in the student paper for weeks, one chilly February night I decided to head over to the student union and check out this GSA.
Nervous doesn't even begin to describe what I was feeling. Would I be accepted? Would they like me? Would I get raped by a group of sex-crazed homosexuals?
It turned out two of of three were correct and I left the meeting with my virginity intact.
When I first entered I was greeted by a guy named Phil Oliver. His first question—something no one had ever outright asked before—was "Are you gay?"
I answered in the affirmative.
The meeting was actually a bit of a bore, but I met a group of people who almost immediately became my tribe and ultimately confirmed two famous quotes from Richard Bach's book Illusions:
All the people, all the events in your life are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you.
and
The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.
In the original incarnation of Voenix Rising—that I stupidly deleted in 2011 after realizing a link to it had been sent out in the signature line of emails I'd sent to recruiters—I'd written multiple posts documenting my coming out and first tentative steps into gay life. It was one of the few things I truly regret not having backed up.
More recently, I've been following Mike Balaban, a gay historian on Instagram who is doing much the same thing, this time with pictures. From what I've seen we're about the same age, and considering how everything else in the world is fucking awful right now, it's inspired me to relate my stories again, to do something positive.
Grade School
Like a lot of gay men, I'd known I liked boys instead of girls from an early age. When I first discovered masturbation in fourth grade, it was sex between men and women that captured my imagination. But then my focus turned more and more to the imaginary men in these imaginary encounters, and finally coalesced with my Phys Ed coaches and the men—not the women—in the Sears catalogs exclusively fueling my fantasies. Oh, how I eagerly anticipated the arrival of the Summer Catalogs because it meant shirtless guys in swim trunks!
Growing up, my exposure to men-who-love-men had been less-than-ideal. I don't know if my mom already sensed my budding gayness or if she was just trying to—warn?—me, but I remember her coming into my room one evening in advance of a visit by my dad's brother. She turned on the television (or changed the channel) to show me an interview happening with Truman Capote. "That is a homosexual," she said, "And so is your Uncle Eddie. I don't want you to be alone with him." The old child molester trope…
My uncle was nothing like Truman Capote. He wasn't a butch queen, but neither was he anything like the mincing, lisping example my mom was so keen to show me. Anyhow, I took some solace in knowing I wasn't the only one in the world like that, and not the only one in the family. [Spoilers: If I only known the full extent!]
Uncle Edward (R) and his "friend" Lenny (L) in 1966. They were together until Edward's death in 2002.
I remember my uncle (especially after I became an adult) as loving, generous, and very, very funny. As a child I always thought him so cosmopolitan for living in New York City. I mailed him my coming out letter in the late 1980s (because somehow he hadn't gotten the news), telling him I was "living the life" in San Francisco and hoping we could connect over drinks sometime to share stories. After not hearing from him a couple years thereafter, one Christmas in the 90s a card arrived from him with a five hundred dollar check enclosed and a note that read, "I'm sure you'll be able to put this to good use in 'frisco."
High School
Your host, 1972-1976
My freshman year in high school was the first time I fell in love with another boy. His name was Tom Pleger.
It was odd how we initially met. I was crushing hard on his best friend, a guy named Jim Hurst, with whom we all shared a Freshman Communications class. Jim wouldn't give me the time of day, but Tom and I soon discovered shared interests and we started hanging out together.
Tom's family belonged to a neighborhood Lutheran church. I'd been raised Lutheran but my family was one of those Christmas and Easter churchgoing broods. That was, until I met Tom and convinced my mom that we needed to start attending—and more regularly than just twice a year. (Ulterior motives, of course.) She was initially reluctant since this church was Missouri synod and we were Wisconsin. (How that makes any difference is just one more reason when I came out I gave up on organized religion altogether. It's all bullshit.)
Anyhow, we started attending on a regular basis and I found Jesus and developed a typical teenage religious streak that no doubt absolutely drove my dad (who was very non-religious) to absolute distraction.
Sadly, my romantic overtures to Tom were not reciprocated, and my confession of true love ended our budding friendship about a year after we met. Nothing more was said of it, and surprisingly, when we crossed paths at church he and his family were still cordial.
It was during my sophomore year that—perhaps because of my newfound churchgoing habits—my mom decided that I was well overdue for my Confirmation; a right-of-passage that would allow me to start taking communion. This led to classes led by the new, young, cute, and very liberal pastor who had just come on board. I remember the subject of homosexuality coming up during one of our question and answer sessions and he pointed out that Jesus never said anything about the subject…
Anyhow, these classes threw yet another boy into my life, Mike Knigge.
Mike was a year younger than me and a few inches taller. His family had recently moved to Phoenix from Lake Zurich, Illinois, a small suburb north of Chicago. From his description (he was terribly homesick) it sounded like a wonderful little hamlet, and I often fantasized moving there with him after we finished college and building a beautiful English Tudor home (my preferred architectural style at the time) with a huge swimming pool and cabana out back. I don't remember much of our year or so together, but it must've been something special because I grew to love him as well.
Like Tom, it all fell apart after I confessed my feelings to him.
My junior year, after Mike, I took a break from romantic entanglements with boys, no doubt because no one had entered my life to pique such interest. I spent the year concentrating on existing friendships, including the one I shared with Jean Davis.
Jean and I were inseparable; partners-in-crime. People thought we were dating, and even though she was the first—and only—girl I've kissed and made out with (there was never any sex)—I only ever thought of her as my best bud. I think she viewed me as something more however, and when I ended up leaving Phoenix to go to the University of Arizona in Tucson, we both breathed a sigh of relief when she decided to stay behind. It was a breakup without any of the associated drama.
My senior year brought my unrequited love life new trouble in the form of Daniel Baxa.
Tom and Mike were just warm-up acts. I fell hard for Daniel. But sadly, like Tom and Mike, it was ultimately not meant to be.
His family had just moved to Phoenix from somewhere and I have no memory of how or where we met or why we even started hanging together. Why do teenage boys do anything?
Why did I keep falling in love with straight boys? Because at the time I knew of no other gay boys in high school—or at least none I was even remotely attracted to. The ones who were gay were so obviously gay that they were the subject or scorn and ridicule wherever they went. It was the mid 70s, after all. Despite Stonewall years earlier, was no gay marriage, no Love, Simonpositivity swirling around gay relationships.
Daniel was a bad boy. He smoked. He drank. And yet he drove a pink 1968 Mustang and loved ABBA. He was…confusing. As our friendship grew, he wasn't above physical contact, and many evenings while laying on my bed watching television, a spontaneous wrestling match would erupt, with one or the other of us getting pinned with obvious erections involved. But that was as far as it ever went, much to my disappointment. I often fantasized about just kissing him while pinned, yet never garnered enough courage to actually do it.
I was obsessed with Daniel, going so far as to climb up on the roof of our house to watch him arrive home at night from his job at Sirloin Stockade, telling my parents I was up there to "look at the stars." I even got a job at the same Sirloin Stockade the final summer before I headed to college—ostensibly to earn money for college—and it showed me what an absolute jerk he could be when it wasn't just the two of us together. It didn't sour me to him, but I learned that great life lesson of people weren't always what they seemed 100% of the time.
When I finally confessed my love, there was no big scene. I told him I loved him and he responded, "Oh, you mean like a friend?" "No," I replied. The color kind of drained from his face as I recall and he said something to the effect, "Look Mark, I like you, but I'm not…"
Holding back tears, I left his house and went home. That fall I moved to Tucson.
I heard from a mutual friend sometime later (who, by that time, also knew I was gay) that our parting left Daniel hurt and confused. He hadn't been ending our friendship; he was simply straight and didn't want anything more.
After getting his address from the same mutual friend many years later, I wrote him a letter, apologizing for the misunderstanding and asking if he'd like to talk. I never heard back.
This was playing when we walked into Starbucks this afternoon. I haven't heard the song in years.
I always associated it with my life in San Francisco, especially in regard to my 1998 return to The City. It was pumping out of my car stereo as I first crossed the Bay Bridge that one particular afternoon, and is forever burned into memory in that context.
I happened upon this at one of our satellite offices yesterday, and my first thought was, "OMG! I haven't seen one of those in probably 25 years and I'd completely forgotten they even existed!"
I posted this on Instagram and a friend—who had actually been in the architectural profession longer that I had—wrote, "What's that?"
Needless to say, I was incredulous that she didn't remember it, or what it was used for, considering by the time the late 80s and early 90s had descended upon us I was convinced every architectural office in the country owned one.
For those who don't know what a Kroytype 80 is…
Prior to the advent of CAD, the only way to get good-looking type on an architectural drawing was to use Letraset press-on letters, or the Leroy device. The Kroy made those all but obsolete.
The machine itself was ridiculously expensive, as were the tapes, but it was a godsend to architectural drafting.
Again, so many memories that put a smile on my face.
I was going to write a short "Twenty Years Today" post because occasionally I find something worth sharing when looking back, but after actually reading a few of my Journal entries from March 1999—and then going down the rabbit hole of reading all the entries from 1999—I decided I really didn't want to subject you to any of that.
There's nothing lurking in the past that needs to be regurgitated now.
What stands out the most from twenty years ago is how profoundly unhappy and lost I was. While it wasn't clear to me at the time (at least consciously) in hindsight, it screams off those pages. It's no exaggeration to say (as I have many times) that the Mark prior to the cancer diagnosis was someone completely different from the Mark who emerged after treatment. When I think of the hundreds—no, thousands—of dollars I threw away on stuff, trying to fill the very obvious emotional hole in my life that leaps off those pages, well…I'm not here to judge that past self or anyone else, but damn gurl, I was a mess.
As I posted a week or so ago, after spotting the house on Zillow where I lived during high school and until I moved out on my own in 1980, my sister and I resolved to pay a visit to the old place to see it in person since we figured it would probably be our last opportunity to ever do it.
So this past Monday morning we headed over, made the arrangements to get it unlocked (ah, the wonders of technology), and figuratively stepped back in time 46 years.
As I wrote previously, naturally there had been many changes—and I can now report that really none of them were for the better. We joked it would take $50-75K just to get the place (including the rear/side yard wasteland) back to what it was when we lived there. The only real positive improvement I saw was the fact that at some point they'd removed all the popcorn ceilings…
But despite all the years and the numerous families who have passed through those walls, the energy of the place was still the same as I remember it. It felt calm. It felt safe.
The house seemed neither larger or smaller than I remembered. The infamous ghost chose not to acknowledge our presence; perhaps it had no interest, had been exorcised, or had simply moved on.
Naturally we took lots of photos, but none worth posting that really show anything more than what I'd put up previously from the listing itself, save this:
20181978
Same location, just a little closer in this time…
And this, the obligatory in-my-old-bathroom selfie:
It's been a busy month. Shortly after my last journal entry, my phone was shut off because of a bounced check and some asshole smashed my car window just for the fun of it. If I had a baseball bat I'd love to beat the motherfucker's head in.
The car is now being locked up at night, over in R&H Wholesale's parking lot. It's only $25.00 a month, so it's a real bargain for the peace of mind and not having to hassle anymore with the midnight street cleaning.
I finally received money back from the IRS which I paid in for "self-employment tax" for my 1986 return. It amounted to just over $1000—and believe me, it came just in time. I have intentions of using it for new tires for the car and miscellaneous other expenses, but for the moment, it just got me caught up on several outstanding bills and a few that weren't due until later in the month. So, for all intents and purposes it's gone—for at least two weeks until I get paid again. I'm not too upset over the sudden income and loss thereof; it did get rid of those few pesky bills that I could just never seem to get around to paying (Time-Life Mozart and the Astronomy Book Club to name about $110 worth).
I arranged to get cable TV yesterday. They'll be out next Friday to turn it on.
I went with John Trapp last night to the George Michael concert at the Shoreline Amphitheater. I'm still not that fond of G.M., but John doesn't have a whole lot of friends [with cars] so I agreed to go. The light show was the best part of it, along with a hunky chunky lighting technician who I ended up paying more attention to than G.M. There was a straight south-bay Hispanic couple sitting next to us who were on the point of copulating by mid-show. It really ruined the rest of the performance for me.
And if I never hear another screaming 14-year old girl, that would be just fine.
I've been feeling pretty down lately. I can't put my finger on any one thing, but I know I'm just not my perky sociable self. I've had my usual doses of hot impersonal sex, but I find what I'm really missing is being touched and caressed. When I got my haircut the other day, Patrick gave me a really good scalp and shoulders massage, which made me realize just how long it's been since anyone has touched me.
The painting of the Magician still isn't finished, although it's a lot farther along than it was at my last entry. I'm still not feeling especially creative, and though I've got a refrigerator full of slowly-desiccating paint, I just can't seem to get up the gumption to finish it. I'm not especially pleased with it (am I ever with any painting?), but his eyes are nice and I suppose I can always give it away.
Ron has decided to move to L.A. for real. I guess his love life is finally improving. And I've decided to stay put on Folsom until further notice. The thought of moving just makes me sick. I'm so settled in here I can't imagine hauling it all out again. And anyway, I've got better things to do with my money than pay another security deposit to some new strange landlord. At least I know Trish and Ron.
I may move upstairs if #12 becomes available though. It's got a view of Twin Peaks (from the Kitchen) and you can see up above the freeway.
I bought six CDs with some of that tax refund money: two by Yanni (replacing his album from last year which I sold), one by Suzanne Vega "Solitude Standing", one by Sting "Blue Turtles", two by Dead or Alive and one by Curiosity Killed the Cat. The Cat CD is going to Streetlight Records at the earliest opportunity.
And I'm home. Not at all unusual for the last twenty-five years. Ben is out at the moment doing his Lyft thing to pay some bills. I don't expect him back until around 3 am, by which time I will be deep asleep and probably won't even hear him come in. I'm listening to some classic jazz on the radio while Bobo is sleeping in his bed and Sammy is running around the living room like a maniac.
Forty years ago however, at 9 pm on a Friday night I'd be heading out the door to go dancing. (We didn't call it clubbing.) I'd most likely start out the evening by meeting my friend Kent at His Co. Disco because the cover charge between 9 and 10 was only a dollar. If the crowd got boring or if certain B-list DJs were spinning, we'd then head over to The Forum. But His Co. always seemed to play better music and have the new stuff sooner. It also had a slightly raised, lighted dance floor and a much better light show, so whatever else happened we'd always start out there. I can't say I ever reliably got laid on a regular basis via either place (it wasn't until many years later that I discovered The Connection and all that changed), but His Co. was where I met the great unrequited love of my life Steve Golden, and where I connected with Paul Bayfield and Ken Coyer, the two doormen—with whom I did have carnal relations on multiple occasions. Separately. (They couldn't stand each other and were each aghast when they learned that I had slept with the other.)
Oh, and there was the boy who'd driven all the way into town from Gilbert (which was to hell and gone in relation to the club's location back in the day and still is—just not out in the middle of nowhere like it was in 1978). My buddy Chas was up from Tucson that weekend and since I was still living at home he let me borrow his hotel room for a few hours to entertain Mr. Gilbert. "Don't get anything on the sheets! I have to sleep on those!"
And come to think of it, His Co. also served up Craig—and his lover—whom I'd encountered at work as customers in the housewares department at Broadway Southwest just that afternoon. "You really should wear underwear with those Angel Flights," Craig told me later that evening. "I could almost see veins!"
Good times.
Anyway, I bring this up because my previous post about Live and More triggered lots of memories of my wonderfully misspent youth.
And speaking of 3 am, forty years ago if neither none of us was busy getting laid, I'd probably be at breakfast with Kent and a drag queen or two before heading home…
Comic actor Stephen Stucker would've turned 71 years old today. The man who played impish Johnny in Airplane! (1980) and Airplane II: The Sequel (1982)—a character who relished sales at Penney's and who noticed Leon's fluctuating largeness—became one of the first public figures to announce that he had AIDS. Stucker relied on metaphysical healing, vitamins, a positive outlook, and a healthy diet to combat the syndrome, which he suspected he had as early as 1979 and which he somewhat questionably attributed to past blood transfusions and intravenous drug use. He passed away in 1986 at 38.
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