In these potentially darker days ahead … let’s have some fun, okay? It’s time to dance.
It’s very Summer of 1979 for me when I hear this album, but I’ll try to convey it in a way that I don’t think you’ve ever experienced before. And I’ll tell you why Madleen Kane’s album of that year meant so much to me.
Madleen Kane wasn’t the best singer in the world. She was no Streisand, that’s for sure. But then again, who is? Olivia Newton-John was making waves vocally, too. Madleen was a super-model who turned to music and found a niche for herself in the heady last days of the Disco era.
I’ve always been one of those queer boys who has been immersed in music from an early age. Any kind of music, really. My mother made sure of that. I heard it all. Classical (especially Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Liszt, Chopin, Schubert), Country (Freddy Fender, Loretta Lynn, John Denver, and Lynn Anderson), but mostly I was immersed in Broadway, Disco and R&B. I found a particular fondness for ANY music that told stories. Concept albums of the 70s and early 80s were king with me. Disco albums, oddly enough, had them in droves. In my world they took me places that my young queer boy heart needed to go.
During summer vacations, where the morning heat was already a blistering 89 degrees at six AM, I’d make my way from the coolness of my full sized water bed (yeah, you read that one right) to the music room to sing and dance for hours … often eight or nine of them STRAIGHT. Non-stop. I didn’t go outside to play with other kids — what the fuck did they have to contribute to my world? I’d go into our sauna of a music room, close the swinging door dad had up as measly protection from my disco onslaught, and slap on the headphones from early morning. Within an hour I was up on my feet, playing the music out of the speakers (a little softly at first – until the 9 o’clock hour hit, then all bets were off) and started dancing up a storm.
And it was all imaginary – in that near stifling music room of my parent’s house – sealed off from the rest of the world that didn’t understand how to connect with a gay boy.
When I discovered Madleen Kane’s classic Cheri I was beyond elated. It played on the only disco radio station we had in San Diego – K105 FM.
That album was a gayboy’s dream. The first song on the track was Forbidden Love. I knew what she was singing about. The collection of songs on the first side of the album are all tied to one another. They are of longing for that love that you can’t have. This album played through the headphones and speakers so many times that year (and for many years to come) that I know every subtle nuance in the orchestrations. And the arrangements mattered. The strings, horns and were beyond the trash you found on AM radio of the day. Kane’s words were a bold expression of how love should triumph over all. The gentle piano chords during Cheri coming out of the first musical break after the chorus had special choreography all on their own. That subtle chord progression explained the risk queers had in seeking love. I had it all planned out.
Hey, I was fourteen. As a lonely gayboy I needed this shit in the worst way. All of my straight friends were pairing up, I had no one. I had me my disco queens and those women put those words before me. I dreamt of Dancing Kings and wanted to make out with sexy young Princes. These women sang about things that I dare not even say to myself. Forbidden Love became my anthem. It’s the song I carry with me to this day.
My fifteenth birthday was right around the corner. Along with another candle on my cake and my voice finally cracking, I descended along into the last sweltering days of my summer vacation of 1979 and my freshman year of high school. Dark days of HIV/AIDS were ahead for me a few years down the road. But in that moment, I didn’t know. I just wanted to escape, dance and proclaim to a world of my own making how much these words of forbidden love and secret love affairs meant. Everything to me at that point in my life was secretive.
With John Rechy and Gordon Merrick – along with Andrew Holleran, Paul Monette, Armistead Maupin, Larry Kramer and the others in my back pack – all wrapped up in book covers made out of paper bags so no one knew what I was reading, I escaped into stories of men who fell in love with other men – the way I wanted to. Their words, paired with these ladies, collectively, they gave me permission to express myself. These weren’t just some random words or notes on a page, some song that a singer sang – they were my heart, sweat and blood I felt coming back to me, pouring out of each and every track or page in a book. These ladies voices of love, seared into my mind and heart and married up with the salacious and soul searching words of men, authors, I admired that filled my teen years. Together they formed the man I was going to become. They never knew it. That wasn’t the point, really. It’s what I needed. It’s what mattered.
From that earliest time when I begged my grandmother to buy me my very first record – a 45rpm of Diana Ross’ Do You Know Where You’re Going To? (a rather prophetic choice, no?) I knew that music would be a heavy influence in my life. It would connect an often disconnected world for me. In them I could escape into what I couldn’t find for myself in the world I saw around me.
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I was too young to get into the clubs in San Diego. Those days were still about four years off for me – underage queer clubs were just starting to pop up.
For the time being, I was just starting to get my groove on. Fashion was starting to become important. How I expressed myself really became important – even when I got slapped down for it (disco wear didn’t go down well in my high school – let’s just leave it at that).
But for now, here are a few of the ladies who gave me that sense of expression, they allowed me to soar, encouraged me to revel in who I was becoming. Never to fear who I was, nor to be ashamed of it. It wasn’t always so easy. Many a night I’d spend listening and dancing to them over and over again, if anything to bolster me up to face another hellish day of high school. By the time I was eighteen I’d had a few summer jobs and my music library had already expanded to well over 300 albums, 12″ disco singles and remixes. It was the beginnings of my DJ days that would dominate my life through the 1980s. So here they are – with the undeniable Queen of them all at the top (samples with BUY LINKS in artist name):
Until next time …
– SA C
There’s been much talk as of late in the blogosphere with queers commenting on when they realized “they knew” … when their bright shiny unicorn buried deep inside of them decided to make itself known.
The funny thing is I think I knew from a very early age. My parents had a lot to deal with when I came along. I was their first, and I was as precocious as all fuck, too. I was speaking full sentences by the age of two. Language came easily to me. By the time I was in the third grade I was testing out with a college level vocabulary.
I mean, how many kids did you know that used facetious in a sentence … (CORRECTLY) while on the playground?! My inner unicorn was LOUD n’ PROUD before there was such a thing. Okay, maybe Stonewall had happened by then. But in my little backwater east county suburb of a conservative Navy town like San Diego, there were no two ways about it – I was odd.
BIG ol’ rainbow shooting out my ass Unicorn odd.
Mom said my dad always knew about me – even before I was born. Now, mind you, this was before they used the term gay, so this had to be a fairly odd conversation to have between my uber Catholic mother and my reservation born n’ bred father. But somehow they got through it.
So I have often pondered, when the subject came up, just when I knew I was that way.
While I don’t think I thought of boys sexually from the time I was six or seven, I knew that boys held a certain fascination for me. I didn’t want to run around and rough house play like they did. No, I wanted to let them do that and then come back to the play house the girls were using so I could make them dinner and stuff. I like taking care of guys – always have. But not mother them … it wasn’t like that. At least not the way I saw it.
So while I can certainly point to moments in my young queer boy life that said I was solidly in the boy-of-the-month card carrying fan club, it didn’t take on any sexual context until puberty hit. Until then it was just very strong feelings I had for the boys around me. Girls were someone you could talk to and connect emotionally about stuff. That was about the extent of my need or use for them. Nice to chat with, laugh with, watch boys with, but beyond that they got a big ol’ shrug out of me. And let’s be honest, they were the competition as far as I was concerned.
But boy howdy did I gush about some of the boys in my school. Vincent, Gregory, Bobby (yes, that Bobby who I grew up with and I’ve written about here on the Quill before), Bob (another Robert in my life – there were many of them – it was a popular name, I guess). There were so many of them over the years. Neil … Jesus, on the fucking mountain … Neil! Junior high crush of the fucking year! And the dude was packing – jussayin. You bet your ass I looked. Okay, I’ll put that memory away for now. It’s probably better for this post that I do.
So yeah, I can definitely say that I knew I was different from other boys (who were interested in girls) from a very early age.
I can recall that as a five year old my gayness factor skyrocketed (even if I didn’t really have a word for it) when I saw Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl. I don’t know why the first line she uttered began to define my fey ways, but it did. Barbra became a goddess to me – even back then. Hell, she still is now. Even as cliche as that sounds.
So when did the sexuality of it all come about? When did I realize that what I wanted from boys could be more than gushy feelings? When did I realize that what I felt was … gay?
That’s simple. I know exactly when it happened.
At around 5:30pm on the Merv Griffin Show and the guest? Donna Summer.
The song? Love to Love You, Baby
It was 1976 and I was twelve. But for a gayboy like me to hear a song that unabashedly sexual in nature sorta reset my queer clock. For some reason the moans Donna poured into that song flipped that switch in me and I knew what those sounds she was making were about. I wouldn’t experience them for myself for another four years but – from her lips to my ears – I got it.
Thus began my love for dance music, Donna Summer (I was an epically huge fan – even met her on a couple of occasions) and my burgeoning gayness.
Side note: yeah, I remember the backlash against her when she supposedly said about gays and the bible. We all make mistakes and the truth of it is I saw for myself that she wasn’t that way. She spent enormous amounts of time speaking with gay men who still loved her but were dealing with HIV/AIDS and it was quite obvious that they were dealing with it. Donna only showed incredible compassion and love for a fan who it meant a great deal that they got to speak with her. So to the gays who kicked her unnecessarily during those dark days, I saw differently for myself. End of story.
I was often asked by straight guys (including my own father) I knew who were aware of my gay ways, why did I have such a fascination for women vocalists and dance (disco, soul, R&B, etc) music when most of them were listening to male rock singers?
Well the dance music thing was fairly simple – being a QoC (Queer of Color) – my Latino blood pretty much dictated that dancing was in the cards for me. I probably came out of my mother’s womb dancing. Soul, R&B, disco, you name it … they were always a part of the musical tapestry in our home. Everyone in my family knew how to dance. I just did it with greater style – or so I was often told.
But the women singer thing … that’s a bit harder for me to nail. I suppose because I never really gave it any thought. I guess it was because they often sang about the men in their lives and those songs spoke to me. When France Joli (a lovely Canadian singer who I discovered that was around my age and had a career at the age of 15 just blew my socks off – God, how I love her) sang “Come To Me” I was right there with her. So much so, that when I wrote my first novel I made damned sure my main character Elliot Donahey heard her song when the love of his life, Marco Sforza, seduces him (in Angels of Mercy – Volume One: Elliot).
These women sang about things that had started to make themselves known to a young gayboy like me. How my feelings for men – often unrequited – only served to make me yearn for them even more.
By the time I was twelve I already had a very large vinyl collection of disco, soul and R&B singers. And yeah, 98% of them were women. Sex sold, and as a hormonally flushed teenage boy, I was an avid buyer. These women gave me my young gayboy voice in those early formative years.
Don’t even bring up the duet between Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer in the Spring of 1979 … I lost my shit over that song for weeks. So much so that by the fourth or fifth week of my playing No More Tears (Enough is Enough) my mother pretty much said the same thing – “Enough already … play something else!” (The link below is a VERY RARE capture of the actual recording session where you can hear all of the harmonies between all of the singers – sans the music – truly an interesting version to listen to).
So, instead of playing something else, as she suggested, I just put the headphones on and danced my ever-loving gayboy ass off.
Yet there was one album that defined how I saw romance as a gayboy. Again, it was Donna Summer who gave it to me: her seminal album, Once Upon A Time …
This concept album (which were all the rage in the late seventies and early eighties) is still on my absolute must haves. It had everything and said everything to me. I know that album backwards and forwards and every little nuance buried in between.
This album is everything to me. It was written by Donna Summer and her production team as a theater piece. There were talks along the way in her career of bringing it to the stage as a play. It would definitely work. While there are definitely dance numbers in this work, the scope of the songs is very broad. Some of the most interesting ballads I’ve ever heard exist on this album. For a young 13 year old this album wasn’t an easy sell for my parents. It was a double-length LP to begin with – which meant that it was EXPENSIVE. Nearly $20. In the late 1970s that was truly asking quite a lot. I had to bust my ass with chores around the house to scrounge up the cash. Lucky for me my birthday came along half way to my goal so I put it out there to anyone in my family who listened (and you can bet your ass I made DAMNED sure they heard me) that all I wanted was THAT ALBUM.
My parents came through for me. I got the album and disappeared from family life for the better part of that summer listening to it. We had a music room in our house and I’d go in there from the time I got up each morning and I’d dance, sing and strut my shit to this album as if I were on Broadway. Eating didn’t even enter my thoughts when I had that album on. I’d start in the morning and by the time I was ready for a breather it was dinner time. My mom always said that room would be steaming up like a sauna.
“Open some damned windows …”
I visualized the whole damned thing. I even invented a story I could weave to tie the songs together. No other album ignited my imagination (back then, or since) than that album. The music slightly dated in that late 1970s way (it was released in 1977) but I think they still hold up today. I hope that Donna’s daughter, Mimi, can realize this collection of songs on the stage at some point.
What I didn’t realize until now (as I write this post), is that this album also sparked my interest in storytelling. My interest in crafting a story around this concept album started it all. That is truly astounding that I didn’t put it together until now, nearly forty years later!
So maybe this whole gay thing was just my way to find my voice. My big gay unicorn voice. And somehow these bold women helped me sort that out when I was just so confused on why I felt what I was feeling. Boys rocked my world. They also were my worst nightmares. Music, escaping into that land of dance and song, is what kept me going. It’s where I licked wounds. It’s where I dreamt of boys to come, imagined love, lamented breakups that hadn’t happened yet but I knew would be coming my way. It’s where I crushed hard, where I sang and danced my ever loving ass off. So yeah, Love to Love You, Baby is where it began for me. That’s when my fascination with boys became real. It’s when it all started to make sense. And that feeling is what kept me dancing.
Even now, I catch myself dancing to a tune from that era … and that little gayboy me still is in there wiggling away – still hopeful, still wanting to find his way in Boytown, USA. Last Dance hasn’t been called. I still got plenty moves in me yet. Dance on, lil gay unicorn, dance on.
Age: 18 to Present
Year(s): 1982 to Present
Location: San Diego, CA USA
“Who me? Why, I’m Josie Nero, and this is my half-sistah, Miss Wilhelmina Wilhamont. She will, but I won’t.”
Let me start off by saying that this entry is pure fluff.
But meaningful fluff in every way that it can be, if there can be such a thing. Because this series of posts deals with one of the dearest and most amazing man I know. My love for him knows no bounds. Mostly, because he and I have explored life’s many places, both good and horribly bad, over the years. To hear him tell it:
“You plopped yourself down next to me at the gay part of Balboa Park (lovingly called the “Fruit Loop”), introduced yourself, and haven’t shut up for the next ## years.”
Those hashtags/pound symbols are part of the gag. You see, I am not allowed to say how long we’ve known each other. Because a true lady never reveals her age. And Miss Nero is nothing if she isn’t a lady, first and foremost.
In case you hadn’t figured it out, Josie Nero and Wilhelmina Wilhamont are our showgirl (drag) personas. Yeah I did a bit of drag back in the day. But Jeffrey was a pro at it. I was complete amateur by comparison. We even invented our complete drag persona lives with those names (we’re gay, we sort of have to do the complete fleshing out of these women’s lives or we’d have to turn in our toaster ovens and gay cards).
Josie was a star of stage and screen. She was cut from the same mold as Judy Garland (Jeffrey’s all time favorite), with a bit of classic Doris Day, and Cyd Charisse thrown into the mix. Willy, on the other hand, was the product of an illicit affair of Josie’s father with a chorus girl from uptown in Harlem. But thankfully, Willy was light skinned enough that she could pass. Josie and Willy went everywhere together. Josie was a respectable, extravagant lady. While Willy was the hard partier. Hence, the “she will, but I won’t” part of the opening quote.
You see, Jeffrey was a classically trained ballet dancer, an accomplished tap dancer, and can belt out the classic American songbook better than most of those old Hollywood types. He even knows the really obscure songs. He could act brilliantly on the stage, too. He was beyond the triple threat. I’ve always admired his talent.
And c’mon, It was the eighties. Queer boys finally had license to wear makeup thanks to Boy George and Adam Ant. And boy howdy, did we ever take advantage of that.
You see, Jeffrey came into my life precisely when I needed him most. I was 18 and he was 15 going on 16 (but with a maturity far beyond my years). From that time, he has always been my rock. He’s been my one constant. We have an ebb and flow between us that is completely undeniable. He is my life long bestie, the person I’ve told my deepest fears to, the one who knows how to emotively cut me faster than anyone alive. As I am sure I do him. We’ve never withheld from each other because we’ve built a trust to speak plainly and not judge. Well, not too much, at any rate.
Ever seen the movie Beaches?
With Barbara Hershey as the respectable lady, and Bette Midler as the brassy and ballsy one? That’s Jeffrey and me in a nutshell. The scene I play below is the best example of how deep our friendship goes. Because we know each other almost better than we know ourselves. We saw this movie together (which I’ll get to later on) when it came out. We bawled like a muthafucker during this film. A chick flick, and two queer boys. What’re the odds that it’d hit home? While the scene I’ve included below is caustic, it completely laid out before Jeffrey and me just how deep we had already dived into each other’s lives by that point.
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But I’m racing ahead. For a bit of fluff, this one is a bit harder to nail down.
Perhaps it is because of the enormity of what Jeffrey and I have shared over the years. Some thought early on that when we would go clubbing (as we invariably always arrived together) that we were together. But Jesus in the nine levels of hell, that would NEVER work. Not that I don’t love him, because I do. And I trust him. Still do. Over the many years (that I am restricted from sharing, but feel free to do the math yourself) we have known each other, we have had any number of years where we lived in different parts of the country, not spoken a word to each other for months at a time but when we reconnect, it is as if the conversation never ended. Do you have one of those friends? A friend that you happened upon in some odd, random way and the universe put something together that was permanent from the moment it started. Maybe even before. Destiny and all that rot. It’s kinda like that.
And I am not being flowery. But you’d have to understand Jeffrey (and by extension, me).
When we met, we didn’t have any mutual friends. At this point in time, I had just started to go to Studio 9 (an underage gay nightclub near the gay part of town). I made a few friends but was still feeling my way in this new big gay world.
I’ve written a tiny bit about this before, but when I found out about Studio 9 via the San Diego Update (a freebie gay paper I found at the F Street Bookstore – don’t let the name fool ya, it was a porn shop), I knew I had to go. It was the summer after I’d graduated from high school. I was an East County boy, out in the big city. Okay, San Diego is a series of bunched up suburbs that run smack up against San Diego downtown proper – so it’s not like I was some country bumpkin.
I remember that night, I didn’t know what to wear. I didn’t even know anyone gay. I mean, I did, back in high school – well, sorta. They weren’t open and out, but I had my suspicions. But they weren’t there on that night. It was just me. By myself. Alone. Standing across the six-lane street (yeah it was a REALLY wide street) watching kids my age going in and out of the club. They were all dressed rather trendy for that time – 1982. New Romance was just starting to make itself known. Culture Club hadn’t hit yet. So androgyny was just starting to make thread its way into mainstream culture. But the kids across that wide street from me, they were really embracing all of that. And there I was. I think I had dark brown corduroy pants, some rather plain button down shirt, a Members Only jacket and some penny loafers – with pennies in them – my dad told me about that part. I was a rube. Nothing short of it. And worse yet, I knew it.
I never went in that first night. I never worked up the courage. But Studio was open every day except Mondays. So, it being a Thursday night, I decided I would push myself and go inside the next night. And if things went well, then I’d go the full weekend. Well, that first night I was there things were lopsided. Very Batman (the vintage Adam West version) villain lair sort of lopsided. Everything was askew for me. I didn’t feel like I had an equal footing. The kids there all seemed to act like they knew one another. I didn’t know anyone. So I ordered a Diet Coke and sort of hung out along one side of the dance floor on a chrome bar stool and just boy watched. It was all so new to me. But the longer I stayed, the more comfortable I became. Mostly because I knew I was in a safe place. There was a muscular bouncer at the door. But he was sweet to talk to. And I had to remind myself that all those boys were just like me. I was home.
I don’t really recall if it was that first night I saw Jeffrey or not. I think it was. My aunt (who had more gay friends than you could count) had told me that the gays liked to congregate at the Fruit Loop by day, cruise, check each other out, get together (what the kids call hooking up now), and whatever. Then at night the kids would hit Studio 9 and the older guys would hit any of the other bars around the downtown area. What I do remember is that Jeffrey was there, and he caught my interest from the moment I saw him. But not in a boyfriend sort of way. He is extremely good looking. I’ve always thought so. But I was rather taken with how he carried himself, how he knew precisely what to wear, how to act, how to chat people up – all of it. There was a magic to him that I wanted to be a part of. I saw that everyone he hung around with laughed an awful lot. I knew he was my link to everything gay.
I needed that link. I needed it desperately.
So I boy watched for the rest of the night. I didn’t dance with anyone, I was too intimidated to do that. Not that I couldn’t dance. I’m half-Latino – it’s sorta in our genes. We come out of our mother’s wombs dancing. I did make a new friend by the name of Robert. He was a latino boy like me, so we sort of connected on that level. He also said he was going to the park the next day. He asked me if I wanted to meet him there. I was beyond elated. But I tried to play it cool, even though inside I was screaming like a teenage girl going to her favorite rock concert and scoring backstage passes! I had a way in. Things were starting to click. We said our goodnights and I remember watching everyone head down to the local Denny’s that was just down the hill from where the club was. But I was tired. I decided to head home and get a good night’s sleep. It wouldn’t take me long to learn that the wind down from the club at Denny’s into the wee-hours of the morning was part of the ritual. That was Jeffrey, too.
The next day, I called in sick to work – I was working for a gift store in a new mall. I really didn’t care if I got fired because going to the park was far more important. I was building my queer boy social life. I had priorities. As a matter of record, I didn’t get fired. They were actually going to release me anyway because things were rather slow that day. So a win-win. I stopped at a deli half-way from my parents house in East County, and, with lunch in hand, I made my way to Balboa Park. The map below gives you a small idea of what that part of the park is like. (You enter on the lower half of that loop and proceed from left to right and circle back around along the top of that map below. Though, in reality, the elevation is reversed. The part you entered of the loop was higher ground than the return trip along the other part of that road.
Personally, on a side note, I love that since the queers took over this section of the park, San Diego Pride has held Pride there for nearly forty years. Seeing how I met one of the most important people in my life there, I kinda love that it’s still our turf.
So I parked somewhere along the loop, got out and spied Jeffrey (I didn’t know his name then) sitting with the same crew he was at the club with the previous night. But I was in luck. Because my friend Robert seemed to know some of the people that Jeffrey knew. He waved at me when he saw me walk up. So I sort of meandered over there like it was all happenstance, when it was nothing of the kind. I’d like to say my nerves didn’t show, but I think they did. In a big old epic way.
I sat down, very near where Jeffrey sat. Ever the gentleman, because Jeffrey is all about doing the polite, right thing, he introduced himself. And true to form, that was all I needed. I pretty much didn’t shut up the rest of the afternoon. Fucking verbal diarrhea, I am sure. But somehow I got them to laugh, to accept me. Eventually, as the afternoon wound down, the topic of going to the club that night came up, he turned to me and asked if I was going. I said yes and he said we should all meet up there that night.
It had begun. I was in for the best damned adventure my young gayboy life was about to begin. I had me a magical friend. Someone who I admired. We talked about so much that afternoon. He kids me about it, but there was an instant connection. Well, at least from me. Funny, how we’ve never really talked about that. It just was, and is.
But we’re just getting started here. And there are just so many stories to tell. But I know which one I’ll impart first. And it colors everything – the first time Jeffrey met my family. No amount of talking could prepare him for that.
Stay tuned … I’ll continue this over the next several nights because this post is a long one, but essential in how I became the man I am today. Jeffrey plays a very vital role in all of that.
Until next time …
Years: 1972, 78, 81, 82 and 84.
Ages: 8, 13, 17, 18, 20.
Place: San Diego, CA USA
I’m gay. I’ve never made bones about it. I remember being fascinated by boys from a very early age. Didn’t know what that meant back then, but yeah, big queer boy me. Boys like Vincent, Gregory, Raymond, Neil (sweet holy Jesus, NEIL – I crushed HARD on that boy) as well as others in my class and at school.
After my year of kindergarten at Highlands, I was able to be relocated from the first grade on at La Presa Elementary which was directly across Jamacha Boulevard from our house (Jamacha, if you’ll recall from my previous posts, is the main four lane thoroughfare that ran perpendicular to our street – the one where people drove 50 mph down that street and kids would still dash across it to short-cut not having to walk an extra couple of blocks further to an actual traffic signal cross-walk). Youth being eight bags of stupid and all.
Anyway, my life at La Presa was a mixed bag. For the most part, I loved going there. The teachers I had were all amazing in their own way – even Mr. Tibbitts in my sixth grade year who had his growly bear (read: brown) suit that when he wore it we were on notice not to fuck with him that day ’cause he was in a baaaaaaaad mood. But yeah, for the most part my years at that school were fairly golden.
I had friends. Well, kids I got along with. I wouldn’t say we were “friends” in the strictest sense. More like agreeable playmates. Because even then I was singled out as being different. I was not only bright and delighted in making my thoughts known (even back then I didn’t hide my opinions) and loved to demonstrate my mental prowess with the teachers and class, but I was always, always, always trying to be nice to everyone. It wasn’t easy. Somehow I broke a rule for boys that I never knew existed. I dunno, maybe I missed a boyhood meeting and that memo never made it to my house with a great big ol’ “where the fuck were you? we had some serious shit to discuss …” attached to it?
Anyway, my über smartypants ways didn’t win me any big awards with the guys at my school. I was an insufferable know-it-all, I suppose. But I think most gayboys are. It’s our defense mechanism that is trying desperately to kick in and somehow send a big ol’ signal that you better not fuck with us. When all it does is say please, fuck with us. [You can insert your eye roll here – ’cause it’s what I’m doing.]
I was also artistic in every sense of the word. I knew every song from all the classic Broadway musicals – like The Sound of Music (I was a snob about it, too – only the Julie Andrews version. Mary Martin’s singing drove me up the fucking wall – even at six or seven). I just couldn’t handle Ms. Martin’s constant sliding into every damned note she sang. It wasn’t a style, it was a sloppy way of singing, is what it was.
But I knew how to sing them all (King and I, Carousel, Flower Drum Song, and My Fair Lady, you name it – I had them ALL memorized).
I got to demonstrate this early on in life when in the third grade, Mrs. Sowers, who I thought was a dead ringer for Barbra Streisand (and she could play the piano REALLY well – an added bonus for a burgeoning gayboy like me!), would have music time and I sang my ever-loving-heart out. I knew passages to songs that no kid in their right mind would ever know. Sore thumb doesn’t begin to describe it. I was a boy soprano of the highest order. Right up there in that vocal register that Julie loved to sing. Lord, it’s a good thing I hadn’t heard Queen of the Night by Mozart at that stage or I’d’ve driven my family bonkers. I could easily assail into that whistle register that some boy sopranos had in spades. I was right there with them. And I sure as hell knew how to use it.
Anyway, Mrs. Sowers loved that I was a precocious little singer and didn’t mind in the least to lead the class on Do-Re-Mi and even sang the introduction that Julie sings before the part everyone else knows so well …
Yeah, the kids hated my ass whenever we got to that song. Me? I loved it. I got to be Julie for fuck sake! I had SUCH a boy crush for Christopher Plummer as the Captain. Still do. I watch that movie for him, don’tcha know. The songs are the icing on the cake (and yeah, even to this day I can’t watch the damned movie without singing along). But when the Captain is on the tube, yowsah – I am on full-on crush mode.
Damn, he is a fuck stud of a man. Beautiful doesn’t begin to describe him.
See what I mean?
Anyway, the overriding point I am trying to make here was that my queerness was set from a very early part of my young gayboy life. I didn’t run from it. I embraced it – once I knew what “it” was.
So where do the girls come into this? And how did they cloud the issue? First off, let me clarify something here that I think is very noteworthy: sexuality is a very sticky wicket (yeah, I went there with the double entendre), in that even when you know who and what you are, there are always exceptions. Recently both Ricky Martin and Jussie Smollett, both self identifying gay men, said that they were definitively gay but wouldn’t rule out a relationship (sexual or otherwise) with a woman. That’s were the queer factor kicks in for we gayboys. Now, admittedly, not every gay boy feels this way.
I’ve had small conversations and FB exchanges with an established gay porn star (and prolific business man), Antonio BIaggi (if you don’t know who he is I recommend you look him up – ’cause uh, yeah, yowsah doesn’t begin to cover him). I’ve followed him on Facebook and follow his twitter and blogs. He’s not only a prolific gay porn star, but he’s a great human being and a champion of animal rights. But even he, a self-identifying gay man in a sex oriented business (he recently branched out into fashion), recently posted he went to a straight strip club and found one of the girls there hotter than shit and he said he’d entertain “doing her.” So see? Not so cut and dry.
The point I am trying to make is that even when you self-identify as something, the lines are often blurred on where gay ends and something else begins. Not for every queer boy, but yeah, it happens. And that’s where I was – er, uh, am. It still is.
That was me in my early queer kid years. Girls, especially tomboy girls, confused the hell out of me. I had two such friends/playmates I’d hang around with at recess: Norma and Silvia. Both were definitely girls in that they didn’t have short hair cuts (they both had long hair – Norma’s was dishwater blond and Silvia’s was a very curly dark brown). They were nice to me and we got along. Oddly enough, they both came from a very strict household and generally wasn’t allowed to see or go over to other school friends houses once school was over. That didn’t mean I didn’t break that rule with them at their parent’s house, we just had to be clever about it – doing so before they came home from work.
Norma wasn’t overly pretty – in fact you might say she was rather non-descript. She had straight eyebrows (literally, they had NO arch to them at all), they were slightly bushy (this was before Brooke Shields made it a thing with Blue Lagoon), and she wore clothes that had been in fashion at least a few years before. Never anything current. I remember when she first came to our school in the third grade she wore a simple dress that definitely had a thrift store look about it that was a drab brown with four pockets on it – each pocket had a word embroidered on it – Handy, Candy, Daddy, Mommy. The kids teased her mercilessly by singing a made up song – “Handy Candy Daddy, Handy Candy Mommy” – I am sure she hated it. She never wore the damned thing again after that day.
Anyway, Norma (and Silvia) were sort of havens of safety for me. I could hang out with them at school and eventually I would go over to their houses and, by the sixth and seventh grades, I’d go there and just do stuff.
But here’s where the other part eked its way into my queer world. Both girls kind of got me excited. And by excited I meant in that way that young boys get excited about being alone around girls. I admit it. I wanted to fuck them both. I’d seen Playboy by this time, I wasn’t so off the fucking mark I didn’t know what went where and why. But here’s the deal that took me a while to sort it: looking back I can see that they both were very boyish in their body types. Neither girl were buxom in the remotest sense. They had very boyish looking bodies. Norma was the friskiest of the two – Silvia was far more prudish as she was a Latina from a very strict Catholic family. I was raised Catholic, too, so I got that. Silvia also had four older brothers that I did NOT want to tangle with. So I kept things cool there. Didn’t mean I didn’t want it, though.
But Norma, yeah, for some odd reason she turned my crank. I’d heard from other guys that she was already having sex. She was thirteen at this point. Her father was a piece of work and her mother was a vicious bitch so I can see where that aggression to do something was probably eating away at her to stick it to her parents. Sex, I guess, was a good way to go. We messed around a bit. She seemed to like me – god only knows why, it was pretty clear I wasn’t into girls in that way. Every kid who knew me sort of knew it. Yet, there I was, with a girl, and we were – close.
To be honest, I don’t think it meant anything to her. Not really. She was already frisky with boys at that point. I think I was just another boy for her to flip the bird to her parents (she got pregnant fairly early in life, too). But she wasn’t the only one.
I even had a girlfriend in high school for about a week (okay, it was a bit longer, but, my point being: it was brief). She was a lovely Italian girl whose entire multi-generational family lived within a one mile radius of her house. Talk about intense. The first time I went to her house they were all there. Yeah, no pressure. Thank God my parents brought me up with some solid good manners. I liked Carolina. I truly did. I just didn’t know how to tell her that my head and heart wasn’t into her sort of plumbing. It was a very awkward time for me. I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. We went to a school dance together – Sadie Hawkins. The pictures are somewhere at my parent’s house and she gifted me with a silver bracelet that was engraved. Jesus, no pressure there, either.
My sister had a friend in high school (this was in my senior year and my sister was a freshman) whose name was Stacy. Stacy was hot for me – again, why, I have no idea – because at this point I was definitely GAY with big bright letters and flashing light bulbs and feathers and sequins. Hell, at that point I was going out to under-aged queer clubs.
She fascinated me. I couldn’t sort it. Why me? I was obviously gay. Now, mind you, this was at the height of the eighties New Romance movement. I was already gender bending it with guyliner and makeup. Boy George, Peter Burns and Adam Ant were my fashion gods. Maybe that was it. She was into my shit because I was already out and proud and had makeup to prove it. Nothing came of it. But it did garner my attention.
So fast-forward it a bit and there was a girl at the nightclub I went to – Studio 9 – that was a definite gay club. Boys would show up there clutching their girlfriends hands so tightly while the rest of us gayboys were placing bets how many days of coming to the club that he’d ditch the bitch and be sucking face with some other boy. It happened – A LOT …
Well, Rebecca was into me in a big way. I liked her. She was extremely pretty and very fun to be around. She’d often snake up to me, we’d dance off and on. She was close. She was cock blocking me with other boys, that’s for sure. I don’t know how or why but one night we decided to go driving around for a bit of a break. I think it was to get some booze because she had a fake ID. She was 20 and I was 18. She had dark blue-black hair that was cut in that Vidal Sassoon cut that was all the rage for girls in that era. She was glam, had a strong fashion sense, and was very forward with her sexuality. Somehow I found that alluring. Anyway, she suggested that we go get something for the gang to drink and I said I’d go with her. In truth, she wanted to have sex. We ended up in the queer section of Balboa Park in downtown San Diego (an area that was a long one-way loop that the fags and dykes called “the fruit loop”). It was a big cruising spot for gay men (and dykes hung out there, too, during the day) to hook up and have sex either in the bushes or in the lone bathroom at the far end of the loop.
Somehow we managed to drive there and park. We made out. She was very aggressive. It sort of turned me on. I don’t know if it was because we were in the gay part of the park and there I was making out with a girl or not, but we never did the actual deed. A lot of heavy petting and foreplay (rubbing through clothes and such) and yeah the windows got steamier than fuck. But no real shit happened. It wasn’t like I didn’t want it. I was bone hard through it all and she was definitely into my junk.
I can’t deny it, she turned my crank. But it didn’t happen. I think I broke it off. She giggled, we kissed some more and then went and got the booze and hooked up with our friends to party the night away in the parking lot behind the nightclub. She stuck by me most of the night. Then she never went back again. I never saw her. I knew she was close to turning 21 so maybe she just gave up the underage thing and moved on. I don’t know. I never told anyone about it. I never have even mentioned it in passing to either of my long term partners (my boyfriend of 10 years or my current husband of 20). This is the first time I’ve put it out there in the universe. But yeah, girls do sometimes eke into a gayboy’s life and muck things up.
The odd thing about it all? Back when I was sixteen and I read the Peter and Charlie series by Gordon Merrick, he introduced a woman into Peter and Charlie’s romance and made it a threesome (there was even a child in the mix later on in the series and both queer men had fucked her that night (Charlie’s perverted idea and he made his boyfriend Peter do it so they wouldn’t know whose kid it really was (the story was set in the early part of the 1900’s when it was not possible to test for paternity)). Anyway, I remember becoming so incensed when Charlie did that to Peter – forced him to have sex with her (he got Peter all hot and bothered and then had him fuck her to climax) that I kept inwardly screaming NO, NO, NO! I hated that she was involved in their lives. I was distraught because it was telling me that via Charlie’s POV that they could ONLY be a happy queer couple if they did the straight thing between Charlie and this woman he’d brought into their lives. To this day I can’t even write or say her name because those emotions were so strong back then that I still get pent up about it.
Funny thing, that, right? I mean, given everything else I’ve put down here.
Yet I find it a bit odd that sex is one thing for me, love is another. You can have both at the same time and it’s fucking fan-tab-u-lous, but I can definitely separate the two (something I’ll address in another post later on in this series). Sex and love are exchangeable and transferable in my world. I don’t require both to get it on. I have it within me to fuck someone or someones (which has happened on multiple occasions – again, for another posting) and not have it mean anything other than the pure hedonistic pleasure of it all.
Anyway, each time I was with a girl after I read that in the Charlie and Peter series – some part of me would think of that woman in those stories fucking up their perfect gay romance that I would put the skids on whatever girl had crossed paths with me. Odd how literature can affect you like that, isn’t it? Books have always done that for me. While I love film (and television), books still rule my world. I’ve always been a lover of words. They were my first boyfriend, really. As a pre-teen, there were moments where sex was definitely eking its way into my world.
Sex and sexuality isn’t so cut and dry. I don’t self-identify as bi or pan. Not that I have anything wrong with those identifications. I just know the only person I could love has to be a man. It’s just deeply entrenched in who I am. But, like Ricky, Jussie and Antonio, I know that there are exceptions to those rules where sex is involved. I rail at the whole “gay for you” trope (even if I have my own story about that – which I’ll detail in another post). But I’ve come close to the opposite, too. There were girls in my past that I could say, with a slight nod to it being fleeting and probably wouldn’t stick in the long run – that I could “go straight for you.”
I watch porn. I watch it regularly. I get off on it. I make no bones about that, either. No shame in it from my perspective. I interact with porn stars from time to time as well. It’s a part of my queer life (hell, it’s no surprise when I say men in general are drawn to porn – I think we’re wired to be very visually stimulated). Testosterone is a very potent thing. I even watch and get off on straight and bisexual porn and have found it very stimulating. Trans porn, too – though that’s a bit harder to find. I am not so rigid where sex is concerned. But love? Now that’s another matter altogether.
But I’ll save that for another time.