for all-the-world to see.
Spotting a few feet of open space in front of Neato Burrito, I leaned against the wall, shoved my hands in my pockets, and tried to look casual. All around, guys were eying each other with a ravenous hunger, flirting, and walking off together. This, I knew (from library research), was the fabled practice of “cruising,” a prelude to instant sex. Through careful observation, I discerned three styles: Some guys stared fixedly at their quarry, as if commanding him to come their way by telekinesis. Others tried to make eye contact with every passerby, their head zipping back and forth like spectators at a tennis match. Still others slyly glanced at their prey then quickly looked away, feigning indifference. Too shy for any of these, I stared heavenward with what I hoped was a winsome look on my face and waited.
After what seemed like forever, one of the many cars slowly circling the block pulled to the curb so its driver could ogle me. I was being cruised! Nerves aflutter, I sauntered up to the car just as its passenger door swung open and the man patted the seat next to him invitingly. Like every child in America, I’d been severely warned against getting into cars with strangers. I got in. The man, middle-aged and thus of no interest to me, drove around the block while asking polite questions. How old was I? (Sixteen.) Was I in high school? (Yup, and the kids all wanted to kill me for being a fag.) Did my parents know I was gay? (Yes, and they’d sent me to a shrink.) When we reached the spot where he’d picked me up, the man let me out with a “Nice to meet you.” Had he noticed my acne-ravaged face was covered in a virtual mask of Clearasil—a shade of tawny pink that does not, I believe, occur in nature—and been turned off? We’ll never know.
My spot in front of Neato Burrito had been taken, so I started walking. The gay part of Polk was six blocks long and after I’d traversed it three times, I decided to try sneaking in somewhere and randomly chose a place called Buzzby’s. The club was humid, dark, and tiny—though it looked larger than it was thanks to mirrorized walls. And it was packed with men. On the miniscule dance floor a throng of sweaty bodies writhed under a set of disco lights elaborate enough to put me in mind of an alien spacecraft while Donna Summer boomed from giant speakers, “I feel love, I feel love, I feel looove!” I wiggled my way through the sea of men to the bar and called out to the shirtless, mustachioed bartender. “Excuse me, could I have a beer, please?”
The bartender’s lips pursed with suspicion as he peered at me. “Got an ID, sweetie?”
My hand flew theatrically to the pocket of my jacket. “Oh, uh, I think I forgot it at home.” The bartender rolled his eyes and turned to help someone else. Humiliated, I fled.
With nothing else to do I walked up the street to Bob’s Diner and ordered a soda. As I sat at the counter, I couldn’t help but stare at a booth by the front door where five handsome teens sat sharing a single order of fries. The acoustics weren’t great, but I was able to eavesdrop just enough to discover they were hustlers! What I knew of gay street life came mostly from John Rechy’s lurid 1963 novel, City of Night, and “All The Young Dudes,” a hyperemotional rock ballad penned by David Bowie for the glam rock band Mott The Hoople. The boys in the booth clearly belonged to the world described in those works: a swirling vortex of petty crime, sexual perversion, illicit drugs, sex-for-sale, and against-all-odds romance.
Despite its glaringly obvious downsides—police harassment, cruel johns, dead-end poverty, and such—I’d have traded that world for my own comfy suburban existence in a heartbeat. Why? The boys! It wasn’t just their sizzling sexiness I coveted (though there was that), but their camaraderie. Boys such as these surely had nicknames, shared secrets, and slept nude next to other boys. Such boys knew what it was to be wanted. As I left the diner I passed right by the hustlers’ table. I would’ve loved to say hello, but years of mockery and bullying at school had left me tongue-tied around strangers. Instead I just flashed a smile that went unnoticed.
Back on the street I resumed my aimless rambles feeling extra-alone and invisible. Night had fallen completely and the street was even more crowded and boisterous than before. Cheerful chatter and flirtatious laughter mingled with traffic noises and the music booming from bars and discos to produce a carnival din. This was no longer just a street, but a raunchy, erotic netherworld, a lusty, boy-packed fever dream lit by the golden glow of street lamps and fueled by yearnings deep and powerful as any holy passion.
* * *
I’D BEEN SPENDING AT LEAST ONE night a week on Polk Street for months and except for the old guy in the car, nobody had so much as glanced my way. I began loitering dolorously outside a place called the The Q.T., not expecting anything but not quite ready for the two long boring bus rides required to get back to my parents’ house in Berkeley. After hearing how predatory gays were toward young boys I hadn’t expected meeting someone to be so difficult! I was just about ready to give up and catch a bus home when a bartender came out for a smoke break and glanced my way.
“Hey, kid. What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I said with a full dose of self-pitying teenage petulance. “Absolutely nothing.”
“No ID?”
I shook my head. He leaned through the open door to the bar and called out. “Can we do something for this little number here?” Another bartender inside cocked his head indicating for me to go in.
Now, the bar was taking a risk by letting me enter, but not a big one. San Francisco was a party town. Discos stayed open all night, people shared joints on the street, Quaaludes were as common as aspirin, everyone smoked, no one wore sunscreen, and teenagers snuck in everywhere all the time. And while it’s true that allowing under-aged boys in a bar was good business if one wanted to attract—ahem—a certain clientele, I believe the bartender let me in out of gay solidarity. I was clearly not having fun on the sidewalk and being gay was all about fun. Fun, fun, fun! Having been cast out of respectable society and subjected to all manner of cruel persecution, gays felt entitled to compensation in the form of wild parties, cocktail guzzling, dry wit, kinky sex, illegal drugs, high fashion, disco dancing, and the erudite appreciation of old movies and art deco. A fair trade? You tell me.
Inside, the Q.T. was relatively quiet, dark, and furnished with tall stools at tiny tables adorned with those glass-encased candles you see in Italian restaurants. Not wanting to push my luck by ordering a drink, I slunk into a corner and surveyed the clientele: a couple dozen men so generically drab they didn’t even look gay. Eventually, a portly fellow in his late twenties wearing business casual clothes and a too-ready smile sidled up to me.
“And what might a little slip of a thing like you be doing in a place like this?”
“Just out for a drink,” I said casually, not mentioning my lips had never before touched alcohol. The man held up his index finger indicating for me to wait, went to the bar, and returned with something dark in a glass. I took a sip of what tasted like Coca-Cola and paint thinner. “Thanks.”
“My name’s Joe. What’s yours?” I told him and without waiting a beat he asked, “Like to go somewhere?”
I found Joe unattractive but was determined to lose my virginity before turning seventeen. At that advanced age, I suspected I would no longer qualify as “chicken” and hence be even less desirable than I already was, presuming such a thing were even possible.
“OK.”
Before I could take a second sip of the horrible drink, Joe took my hand and pulled me out of the bar. He led me to a cheap hotel a couple blocks down the street and checked us into a room furnished with naught but a saggy bed, ugly brown wallpaper, and a miasma of congealed despair. Joe stripped off his clothes to reveal a blubbery physique. I found my own chubby body repulsive, but next to him I was lithe as Adonis. As
