flesh in front of the stage. A lot of secretly gay punks got their jollies in such “mosh pits,” but Michael’s intent was to mock their ritualized glorification of masculinity.
As Michael and I swooshed into the On Broadway, an ancient and decrepit theater turned music venue, my body tingled with excitement. The place was jam packed with youngsters, hot, and very, very loud. Faces sneered and scowled as we pushed our way through the crowd looking for some spare space in which to stand. Despite their predilection for radical anti-authoritarian politics, hardcore boys were pretty much all gender troglodytes. Even so, we weren’t being especially brave by showing up cross-dressed. Like the members of any youthful subculture, hardcore boys used clothes to carry on political conversations non-verbally, adopting or avoiding this or that symbolically-loaded fashion. Provided we didn’t do anything provocative (like, say, staring at a cute guy), hardcore boys would likely react to our ball gowns not with primitive outrage, but as people challenged in debate.
Unfortunately, the club contained a danger we hadn’t counted on: among the two hundred or so kids milling around were at least a couple dozen skinheads. Yikes! Meticulously outfitted with steel-toed “bovver” boots, jeans, white tee shirts, and thin suspenders, skinheads consistently managed to create some manner of violent ruckus wherever they went. And, butchest of the butch, they were not kindly disposed toward gender blurring. As panic prickled through my body like a wave of static electricity, I turned to Michael for guidance. His eyebrows wiggled slightly upwards, counseling, “Be ready to bolt, but not yet.” Showing fear is never smart, so I did my best impersonation of Bette Davis from the film Jezebel when she brazens it out after scandalizing everyone at the a big Southern cotillion by wearing a red dress.
Before any skinheads could deliver an ass-kicking, Michael and I saw salvation in the form of Jennifer Blowdryer. Radiating the sort of Blonde Goddess sexiness that jellifies straight men’s spines, she was surrounded by a small band of dudely admirers. We raced over, air-kissed, and spent the rest of the night safely ensconced in her entourage. The story wouldn’t bear repeating except that one week later, Michael and I, dressed as boys, went to another hardcore show at the same venue. (Inexplicably, Michael liked the music.) There, to our utter confoundment, we saw two skinheads—one white and one black, though that explains nothing—both wearing prom dresses. What they meant by this is anyone’s guess, but you couldn’t have asked for better evidence that culture is contagious.
Chapter 8: Rich & Danny
THE WHITE HORSE IN NORTH OAKLAND was a swell old dive with a dark wooden interior, wobbly maroon barstools, and a scuffed linoleum floor. After a few hi-balls you could squint and see 1936—the year it opened—and the ghosts of gays gone by. Despite its attractively vintage interior, the place struck Michael and I as a bit humdrum after the vertiginous glamor of Manhattan. The music wasn’t up-to-date and there was no back room for insta-sex. Still, by late 1982, we became regulars because it was the only gay watering hole within walking distance of my mom’s house and life without boys and cocktails was unthinkable.
The convivial crowd at the White Horse was always up for chatting, but seldom did anyone chat me up. (For reasons unknown, my irresistibility to men had not made the trip from New York back to California.) Consequently, I was highly flattered on those rare occasions when someone bought me a drink. Usually, it was a much older man delusionally hoping I’d say, “Oh, thank you for this watery screwdriver, kind sir! Please allow me to offer you the use of my comely young body as a token of appreciation.” Once, though, a pair of young hotties sent me a Heineken (fancy!) and beckoned me to their table.
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