Author: David

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Dinner happened at the home of my friends Kevin, Steve, and Todd. These are all expatriate North Carolinians like myself; I actually lived with Steve and Todd for my first month in San Francisco. And i work with Kevin. So it was a homecoming of sorts.

 

The alcohol started flowing about 5:30. The music was a strange mix of the Fifth Dimension, X, and a collection of Coca-Cola commercials from the 60’s sung by Tom Jones, the Supremes, and more. Kevin did most of the cooking. His recommendation to me was to “bring something beige”, so my white trash contribution was a squash casserole heavy on the mayonnaise and cream of mushroom soup.

Dinner came about 9. Suffice to say ’twas a masterpiece. I was pretty staved, having managed to eat nothing but a bowl of cereal and a pack of crackers all day. …

After dinner, things got really strange. Somehow, an unidentified man with a guitar appeared. I’m not really sure if anyone knew him or figured out where he came from. But soon we were all sitting around the living room singing “Dead Puppies” and other Doctor Demento classics. I was frightened to realize that I still know all the words to “I’m Looking over My Dead Dog Rover”.

It was time for another beer…

I Was a Teenage Tearoom Queen

This article was also published using actual ink on actual paper in 1997 in a North Carolina zine called Preparation X. It reflects a time and place in my life that its long past. Although it’s not something I regret, it’s also not a scene I pursue these days.

I was sixteen years old the first time I had sex in a public restroom. Predictably, it was at the mall. The basement of Montgomery Ward’s at Carolina Circle Mall in Greensboro NC to be precise. I later learned that this particular men’s room was a pretty lame cruising ground. Four Seasons Mall was much better, and it also provided a much enhanced shopping experience in between sessions.

There were many rules to this game, the first one being that not calling attention to oneself while entering and leaving the restroom was tremendously important. I never once had a serious brush with the law or with mall security mostly because I was cool enough not to lurk outside the door and keep going in and out, etc. It was also important to flush all those notes written on toilet paper (“Do you suck?”) and clean up the floor after you finished.

Technique and sign language and visual cues became very important as I grew more accomplished. Rule number two was that appropriate footwear was absolutely essential. Nothing pointed out a troll like cheap sneakers from Pic-n-Pay or K-Mart, topped out with dark blue dress socks. This being the pre-Doc Martens era of the early 80’s, any boots other than the cowboy or hiking variety signaled trouble as well.

Timing was important. On Friday and Saturday nights, the high school “hangout” nights, there was never anything much going on. Everyone was afraid of being caught, I guess. I always had my best luck on Sunday afternoons.

Location was an issue too. Penney’s and Sears seemed to be big draws just about everywhere, maybe because they spent less money on security and usually had bigger restrooms with better designs. I’ve heard stories about really active K-mart stores in small towns. Of course I was later to learn that college campuses could be even more fun.

The goal, of course, was to find someone your own age or reasonably close. Strangely enough, this was often not all that difficult; I learned some of my best moves from a 14-year-old I met at Penney’s when I was 17.

Since HIV was not an issue yet, there were tons of guys roaming around, representing every possible point on the old Kinsey scale. Rule number three was that the queers all said they were “bi” and the straight boys never said anything at all. Neither did one of my married teachers when I ran into him. My ethics prevented me from mating with Mr. D, though I sensed he was less concerned than I.

All in all, it was a pretty strange culture. It was usually very anonymous, although my personal rule was never to “do it” unless I’d at least gotten a glimpse of a face. Despite this fact, I did manage to meet some of my partners and I remain friends with a few of them to this day. The sex was adventurous (particularly given that the two individuals involved were separated by a wall) and dangerous. And it was usually pretty damned fun.

Of course, if all else failed, you could still go shopping…

Since I’ve gotten older and moved to San Francisco (where you can pick up guys at the bus stop), I’ve moved away from the tearoom scene. But these were a few of my favorites from my youth in North Carolina:

Four Seasons Mall, Greensboro:

This was where I really learned “the art”. I could be found here a lot as a high school senior, especially since I worked in the mall. My favorite was Ivey’s (now Dillard’s) before it was remodeled. I met lots of my favorites here including a couple of still current friends. Fond memories:

  • Mark: We met and retired to my car for a drive to some nearby woods when I was 17 and he was a year or two younger. I was amazed that he was so accomplished (and such a slut). This was the first time I ever “swallowed”.
  • Darrell: Short kid with a monster dick. We actually carried on an affair of sorts for a while. He was one of the only people who I ever enjoyed being fucked by.
  • Unnamed redneck boy: He worked at McCrory’s. We met after he got off and went to my car. We met again a year or so later and did it in his pickup truck, him feigning heterosexuality at the time. Then a couple of years later when we were both “of age”, we met again in a bar. He’d gotten over his bout with heterosexuality and was now begging to be treated roughly. I accommodated as best I could.

Carolina Circle Mall, Greensboro:

This was the first place I “did it” in a mall at age 16. I’ve never had good luck there since.

University of North Carolina at Greensboro:

Aah the stories I could tell. The basement of Elliott Center. The library. I got together with every kind of people here in combinations of two, three, four, and more, including (I later discovered) with several friends who were in severe denial about their sexuality. A few interesting moments:

  • The shoe guy: He was a severe foot/shoe fetishist, about 22, who liked to lick my hightops and feel the soles of my feet. Then he wanted me to come on him while he did it. He was fun and always came around on Sunday nights. I always went sockless these nights for his benefit
  • The “tell me a story” guy: Little frat-boy guy who liked to be told dirty stories (which he always directed to the subject of dildoes). This was a little scary, as you never knew who was listening.
  • The exhibitionist: This was a really cute guy about 18, who would do damn near anything as long as someone else was watching. He wouldn’t do a damned thing otherwise.
  • The professor: This man defined the term “troll”. He was uglier than sin and about 107 years old. He’d learned the “footwear rule” and tricked a few unsuspecting souls this way, but usually he just grabbed a middle stall and kept anyone else from doing anything by perpetually and consciously getting in the way. I disliked him intensely and told him so on one or two occasions.

Duke University, Durham:

Duke had the most incredible collection of tearooms I’ve ever seen. I engaged in uninterrupted orgies in the basement of the library and Page Auditorium. Dozens of cute little rich boys were there for the taking on Sunday afternoons. These were the only tearooms I even saw where fucking was a major menu item. Some highlights:

  • The trekkie: A very cute little hippie-deadhead boy. I bent him over a toilet and fucked him for all he was worth on a couple of occasions. He gave me his phone number once, warning me never to call between 7 and 8 because he never missed “Star Trek”. Unfortunately, the one time I did call him, there was a marathon going on. He wanted me to call back in two days. I declined.
  • The drunk: Saw him twice. He was pretty unremarkable except for the fact that he always passed notes under the stall which asked “want a beer?”. I always opted against ‘cuz they were always warm.

Other spots:

Had some interesting moments as well at Eastland and South Park Malls in Charlotte, as well as Crabtree Valley in Raleigh and South Square in Durham. It was fun being a teenager with a car…

I sometimes wonder now if this scene has evaporated now, a victim of HIV and savvy restroom designers, or if I’ve just grown out of it.

Frustrated

I think my recent rants about SF may have given the impression that I don’t like it here very much anymore. I may even have said as much somewhere; I can’t recall. I’m now serving notice that it ain’t true. I still love the city, despite all its faults. I will say that I’m concerned about the direction it seems headed in, and that I’m just not sure I like the company it’s keeping lately. I will also admit I am considering leaving Sodom-by-the -Bay for a number of reasons, only some of them related to the city itself.

But I still have an unbelievable love for this place. I care what happens here. Enough so, I might add, that I feel the need to criticize things which are just plain wrong. Maybe my romantic love has turned into a parental sort of love. That said, I will add that I’m trying to look at things with a more balanced eye and to start once again occasionally observing some of the things which I love.

I couldn’t find my wallet for a few minutes yesterday. The frustration almost moved me to tears. Tonight I was cleaning up my room. My impatience with the never-ending pile of stuff actually DID move me to tears. I sat on my bed, looking at piles of paper and dirty clothes and started sobbing. I put my head in my hands and began bawling. It was scary…

So what the fuck is going on here? Dirty clothes don’t usually affect me this way. I’m not the type who spontaneously combusts at the slightest provocation. This is not normal behavior.

What thoughts ran through my head? Well, mostly I kept pondering the fact that I’m a 33 year old chain smoker with a beer gut, living in a tiny little apartment about two steps up from squalor, working part-time at a job I could do in my sleep, and suddenly realizing that at this “ripe old age”, I have absolutely no more idea what I’m going to do with my life than I did when I was ten.

It was not a particularly pleasant state of mind.

Being an aimless slacker may be cute when you’re 25. Jeez, an entire media culture and demographic profile has developed around it. But when you’re reaching your mid 30’s, it becomes damn near pathetic. And scary as hell.

I’ve been in a rotten mood all weekend, Maybe it’ll get better tomorrow. Right now, though, I keep looking around this dark, microscopic little apartment and I think I’m gonna scream. Of course moving out of the apartment would mean moving out of SF, since the only way I can even afford the current hovel is through rent control. I’ve been living here five years and the place has never seemed quite so unpleasant before.

But tonight, as I tried to sort through and rearrange all the physical shit, I kept conjuring up assorted emotional shit at the same time, and the two shits combined were overwhelming. Maybe a little Pepto Bismol…

And I can’t seem to focus on anything lately. Right now, I’m in the process of reading four different books. I’m working on three different big projects for Planet SOMA. I can’t seem to commit completely to any of them, so all the projects and the books (and the email) are just sitting around in various states of completion, waiting patiently for me to give any of them a respectable amount of time.

I won’t even discuss the fact that I almost have to force myself to leave the house lately. Or that I seem to be screamingly impatient with everyone and everything when I do. Or especially the fact that I didn’t even watch “The Simpsons” tonight. If I did that, someone (like me) might get the notion that I’m depressed. Couldn’t have that…

So before I get even whinier, I think I’ll just go to bed. At least I’ve managed to remove all the dirty clothes that were covering it.

Celebrating Our Sexuality

A recent flyer from the Alice B. Toklas Gay and Lesbian Democratic Club informed me how nice it will be to “celebrate our sexuality” in a new GLBT community center. Why does this phrase annoy me so?

“Celebrating our sexuality” brings to mind the image of some pagan sex ritual. I visualize a circle of Radical Faeries dancing around a giant phallic symbol on a pole and then retiring to the bushes. Sounds kind of fun, but sadly, I don’t think this is the image the authors had in mind.

Just what the hell does the phrase “celebrating our sexuality” mean? Should I be celebrating the fact that I have a sexuality or just the fact that I have a specific TYPE of sexuality? Since the goals of the community center — as stated in the article — pretty much suggest that this is supposed to be a sex-free, cruise-free environment, just how am I supposed to celebrate it?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting shagging in the community center. I’m just annoyed by yet another warm and fuzzy — but ultimately meaningless — cliche. I’m balking at the idea that sexuality implies something more than…well…sex. And I’m questioning the idea that people who share a certain sexual orientation must, by definition, share any other particular bond.

“Gay pride” is starting to grate in a similar way; how can I be proud of something I had nothing to do with? I’m quite happy and satisfied that I like sex with boys better than with girls, but I’m not especially proud of this fact. I like the fact that I have brown eyes too, but it’s not an accomplishment which I celebrate on a day-to-day basis.

A large measure of pride can obviously be taken in triumph over adversity and discrimination, but simply being proud of an inborn characteristic itself is a little ridiculous, isn’t it? To me, “celebrating sexuality” sort of implies that we should start throwing orgies to commemorate the onset of puberty. And dammit, I’m really pissed that I missed my party!

Frankly, it could be argued that the idea of a GLBT community center in San Francisco is a little ridiculous from the onset. Just what we need: another “safe space” in which to ghettoize and ignore the outside world and vilify those nasty evil heterosexuals. It might make sense in Des Moines, but in San Francisco? Gimme a break…you can’t walk a block here without seeing another “safe space”.

I used to fantasize that San Francisco was a world where people could move beyond defining themselves solely in terms of who they sleep with. I fantasized about a place where an individual could have a number of interests, one of which might happen to involve screwing members of the same sex. Unfortunately, I now find myself in a place which — in many ways — is even more segregated than my hometown in the south.

Silly me…I didn’t understand that here in the ghetto, people are even MORE self-conscious about sexuality and race and gender, mainly because we’re constantly calling such attention to them. And making such a big, divisive issue of them. And letting these traits define us so completely…

“Celebrating” them, even…

Eventually, it becomes possible to avoid having one’s own identity at all; just adopt a few characteristics of “the culture”, learn to speak in cliches, and you’re all set. In some ways this is even worse than the poor souls whose sole self-definition stems from what they do for a living.

I think I’ll throw my own “celebrating our sexuality” party. Should there be cake? A buffet? Balloons? And how should I explain to my straight friends that they aren’t allowed to come?

Epilogue

I guess it’s officially all over now. I’m home. The bags are unpacked (this alone took a good week). The stories and pictures are posted. I’m back into the San Francisco rut.

Was it worth it?

Of course it was! I met great people, saw incredible things, and have a pretty good feel for what’s “out there” in the USA now. I’ve made new friends, and I got to experience things like a local. I’m forever indebted to the people who put me up along the way, changed their schedules for me, showed me around, took me out, and made the trip such a great thing.

Would I do it again?

Damn right! I’d make the same trip again in an instant. In fact I fully intend to, although a five-week grand tour might be out of the question for a while. If I learned anything on this trip, it is that I love seeing new things as well as seeing old things in a new light.

Was it awful traveling alone?

Actually, there’s no better way to travel. I think I hit just the right balance between my need to set out on my own and the need to have people around. It would’ve been nice to have had a guide in one or two places, but I think I did OK.

Traveling alone allows some big benefits. It’s not always necessary to maintain a rigid schedule. I pretty much chose my own pace. Compromises were limited. There were no fights over the radio station. And boy did I have time to do a lot of thinking. Usually this was great. In Nevada and parts of New Mexico, I must admit that it got a bit oppressive, but I survived.

Any regrets?

If I had it to do over again, I’d spend more time in a few places, of course. I hate that I didn’t hookup with a few people I was supposed to meet. I would definitely spare my dad the kidney stone he developed when I was home. A little more money might have been nice too. But all in all, I’m pretty satisfied.

Was it an absolute religious experience?

Keep in mind that I’m not a particularly religious or “spiritual” person. That said, the answer would be “yes, it was pretty damned close to a religious experience” but a personal one as well. And I’m still not sure exactly how to write about that in this particular context. Maybe I’ll save that for the book…

Anyhow, it’s time to move on. Thanks again to all who provided me with shelter, who sent suggestions, who emailed me on the road (and before and after), and especially to Bob in Indianapolis, who convinced me to do the whole thing.

It’s been fun.

Kingman to Bakersfield

 

Got the tire patched this morning in Kingman for only eight bucks. I seem to remember this operation used to cost like three or five dollars or something. I think I even got it done for free once. Times change, I guess. Anyway, I felt much more secure afterward, I must admit.

  

I stopped by Kingman’s Route 66 Visitor Center, about a week before its “official” grand opening. It’s got potential. And they put me one the right road up the hills. And I mean straight up.

 

Secure enough, even, that I managed to almost completely avoid the interstate all day. I followed the old road through Oatman; the drive to Oatman was great. The road wound and twisted and went up and down just like Lucy and Desi is “The long Long Trailer”. Trudging along even at 30MPH seemed to push things a little. The town was pretty cool too, if somewhat infested with souvenir shops. I managed to have a passable lunch at a decent cafe.

 

Had to rejoin I-40 at the Colorado River to cross into California. I tried to find the spot where the Joads stopped and gazed in “The Grapes of Wrath”, but the road construction required a little too much attention, and soon I was back in my own state, smack dab in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

  

Wow…my last night in the road, and I’m spending it in Bakersfield. Seems a little anti-climactic, I guess. I might have actually driven all the way back tonight, but once I hit Barstow and returned to familiar turf, some of the excitement wore off and I realized just how beat I am. After all, as of today I’ve been on the road for five weeks…

Wish I were more excited to be returning to SF. I am anxious to get home, of course, but the thought of being back in Sodom-by-the-Bay doesn’t fill me with the joy and thrills it used to. But I digress.

After passing through the oasis of Needles, I continued on the old road through Essex and Amboy and Ludlow and a host of other towns which really don’t exist anymore. On one 45-mile stretch I doubt if I passed five cars.

I should have called the return trip from Oklahoma on Route 66 the Joad Memorial Leg. It seems I’m following the route from “The Grapes of Wrath” almost exactly, even as far as the turn north to Bakersfield. Fortunately, thanks to a cold snap, my trek through the desert was less taxing than theirs. Last time I checked, there were no dead grandmas in the trunk. And it’s a good thing I had no problems ‘cuz that’s one severely godforsaken road.

 

Barstow signaled the beginning of the end of the Mojave Desert. Y’know, I never would have guessed that I’d find myself in Barstow three times in 1997. Before this year, I’d never been there; I’m starting to feel at home now.

By the time I hit Bakersfield, I was tired of driving, tired of smoking, tired of wind, and REALLY tired of brown scenery. I’d forgotten how much I missed the greenness of the east coast and the midwest. When I paid $1.48 for a gallon of gas, my attitude about California did not improve.

But anyway, here I am. In Bakersfield. With the heat on. After five weeks of roasting all over the country, it finally got cold today. For that, I must still love California. Tomorrow will bring thrift stores in Fresno, and then the long drive across the Central Valley, through Altamont Pass and the Oakland Hills and across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco. Then it will all be over…

Gallup to Kingman

 

I’m quite excited with my huge 50-plus-year-old room at the Ambassador Motel (and for only $20). The only problem is that the floor slumps about four inches from the back of the room to the front. Good thing I’m not drinking…

Gallup is an odd little town with a colorful history as the “drinking and boozing center” for a whole region with a large Native American population. This is mostly in the past now, although I couldn’t quite figure exactly what it is that people DO here (aside from run motels). There’s an interesting downtown area and several shopping centers and fast food joints. It’s obvious that this is a town which grew primarily because of transportation, first the railroads, then Route 66, and more recently I-40.

 

It’s always a special joy to wake up in a strange motel a thousand miles from home, to smoke that morning cigarette, and begin packing the car. What makes it even more fun is that moment when you notice that you have a tire as flat as a pancake.

  

Fortunately, that trip to Target prior to my departure prepared me for this, as I picked up a can of new “non-explosive formula” Fix-a-Flat. All the same, I was a touch paranoid most of the day, and as it turns out, I’m still losing air. I would not be surprised to be greeted by a similar sight in the morning. Must be my revenge for being so fascinated by those Highway 666 signs…

 

Anyhow, I’m on my way to Arizona.

“Gallup, New Mexico…Flagstaff, Arizona…don’t forget Winona…Kingman…”

 

Despite the questionable tire, it was an entertaining day as I crossed Arizona, through the painted desert. First major stop was Fort Courage, a reservation gift shop and “salute” to F Troop. Then on to Holbrook, home of the original (and still operating) Wigwam Village Motel. It seemed pretty deserted on this particular morning, but fortunately I found a maid who let me go in and see what a regulation sleeping wigwam looks like. I was impressed.

 

I skipped Winslow because I do not break for Eagles references, and I had no desire whatsoever to stand on that damned corner. I did not, however, forget Winona. There’s nothing there, but I visited anyway. It was pretty.

 

A few miles past the intersction known as Winona, back on original Route 66, I started spotting the motels of Flagstaff. Flagstaff turned out to be a pleasant surprise.

 

Like I said, Flagstaff was an unexpected surprise. Not a surprise in that I wasn’t expecting it, but in that I wasn’t expecting to LIKE it so much. I’d never heard much about the place pro or con, but it’s a pretty cool town. Very collegiate, but not annoyingly so. Definite boy-watching haven.

 

I had lunch in the coffee shop of the Hotel Monte Vista downtown, just because I liked its looks as I drove by. As it turns out, this hotel is one of the few “gay-friendly” establishments in town, per Mr. Damron. I THOUGHT that waitress seemed a little butch…

Then I hit a couple of bookstores, looked over the 66 strip, called Deon to apologize about the change in itinerary and headed west, having opted out of the Phoenix/San Diego leg. Why? Because I’m running two-plus days late, because I’m digging this Route 66 tour an didn’t want to stop, and (I admit it) because I’m finally getting a little tired of driving.

 

This didn’t stop me from deciding on the spur of the moment to visit the Grand Canyon. This stroke of genius was thwarted, however, when I learned of the $20 “cover charge” to enter the park. Seemed a bit excessive for a one-hour visit, so I filed the canyon away for a future visit and went to the Flintstones gift shop at Bedrock City instead. The National Park Service, which seems to be charging a lot for its attractions lately, once again got nothing from me.

Back to the highway and on to Seligman, a cute town with a neat Route 66 trading post, where I found a reprint of the 1946 guide to Route 66 which I’ve been seeking for a long time. This was the good part of this stop; the bad part was when I noticed that the tire was still leaking.

 

I decided that (a) I’d skip the winding, old section of road to Kingman and opt for the freeway instead and (b) I’d spend the night in Kingman and get the tire fixed in the morning.

This was a mildly stressful drive, as it was getting dark, the road wound around lots of hills, and I was nervous about the tire. I also got very reflective about various aspects of my life. Remember Nevada? Something about those damn mountains… Anyhow, I’ll spare you those details for now.

Right now, I’m watching “Hawaii Five-O”. Looks like I may not quite make it home tomorrow…

Amarillo to Gallup

 

On the outskirts of Amarillo stands one of the most unusual and most visited art installations in all of Texas. The Cadillac Ranch dates back to the late Route 66 era and is the creation of Stanley Marsh. It’s a very simple piece (or roadside attraction, should you prefer that term): ten 50’s-era Cadillac buried in the sand and left open to the elements as well as the graffiti artists.

 

After leaving Amarillo, my first big and exciting stop was Tucumcari, a motel town like almost no other. “Tucumcari Tonight” signs have flanked Route 66 and I-40 for years. It is most definitely possible to avoid the chains here.

 

A few more loops through small and sometimes almost-deserted towns and I made my way to Albuquerque.

 

It would have been nice to spend the night here; it seems like an interesting, vaguely nonconformist kind of place, and also appears to be a magnet for scruffy long-haired boys AND skaters. Hmmm…my two favorite flavors…

 

Alas, something (I later learned it was some kind of Balloon Expo) was going on in town and jacking up all the room rates. Since I’d now hit Mountain Time, I used the extra hour to get to Gallup, after touring the 66 strip (Central Avenue) a few times and looking around downtown and at a thrift store.

  

There are motel relics from the past everywhere in Albuquerque; I had to do some serious editing to cut down the number of pictures and move this page along. A few other biggies here included lunch at the Route 66 Diner, crossing the Rio Grande, and seeing highway signs which just read “US 66” rather than “Historic Route 66” or whatever. It made the dream just a touch more realistic.

 

About this time, I realized that I was getting sunburned. Not, mind you, the sunburn that comes from hanging the arm out the window. No, it was my INSIDE arm which was turning red. We’re talking serious sunshine here. I hate sunshine. So with my arm slowly getting redder and redder, I headed up Route 66 for Gallup NM.

 

Had dinner at Safeway (don’t ask) and then drove around taking pictures and seeing what was around. I closed out the night watching cable TV at the motel (such a bargain…).