Long, long before The Village People made "YMCA" the unofficial, persistent national anthem of gay men, ice skaters (and retirees), Ys played an important role, second only to bars, as places to meet available others of like-minded, body-mind-and-spirit, triune persuasions.
It was understood in the late '50s that the C in YMCA also stood for Contact (among other gerunds of neo-pagan opportunity). And in the course of my wanderlust years, I've spent many pleasant (and, I'll add, radiantly scrubbed) weekends at Ys in Cleveland, Chicago, Toronto, Montreal and, the subject of this reminiscence, New York City.
I recall only two mishaps. At Chicago's exuberant Lawton Y I decided to take a nap after a gin martini brunch at the nearby, crazy patchwork Haig Bar (leaving my door ajar with every good intention of do-unto-others, 7th-floor hospitality). When I awoke I was chagrined to find someone, in an act of non-Christian self-serving, had taken my new shoes and left me with their floppy clogs. (I have no recollection of what I bartered for the exchange.)
In the Detroit Y, when I was a young "looker" (and by that I mean I was always looking), I happened to be on the wrong floor at the wrong time. A passkey check was demanded. "This is for two floors below," said the security guy. "Why are you here?"
"It's Sunday," said I with a reasonably straight face. "I'm just checking to see if my friends are planning to go to church." As I couldn't remember their room number, their names, or, what's worse, their religious convictions (and I was wearing nothing but a baptismal tea towel), I was told to leave immediately!
My name was placed on a list (rather sizable I learned from an attendant friend) of "transient undesirables." But I remember New York City's Sloan House YMCA, on West 34th Street, with much nostalgic fondness. (Thanks Jerry – whatever nursing home you're now in – for three memorable, if non-air-conditioned, romantic days.)
Thirteen hours, 15 minutes, 35 seconds is a long time to spend on a confining, tepidly ventilated train, and when Gary and I arrived at Grand Central Station we were both in need of a soothing shower (but not together). We took a hectic cab ride to the Sloan House, where Richard, who flew in the day before, had made our reservations.
Our stay during that hot, humid memorable July was for a week, at the cost of $50. (In the '40s, sci-fi author Ray Bradbury, of "Fahrenheit 541" fame, lived at Sloan House for $5 a week.) Richard greeted us in the crowded lobby, eagerly telling us as we registered that he had met this "hot number" who was going to introduce him to his buddy Marlon Brando. Party time!
I hadn't been in my room more than 10 perspiring minutes when there was a knock at my door. "Hey, Alexander! You're wanted on the hall phone." The call was from someone named Jerry. "I saw you check in," he said, quite directly. "If you're available I'd like to buy you coffee."
Jerry – who proved to be a mature guy of 25 in contrast to my tenuous 19 – was pleasant, good-looking, all-around nice. He was from Sandusky, Ohio, staying for a three-day holiday weekend. "If you like, I can show you around. We can hit a few of the tourist spots. Take in the bars. It's up to you. How about it? Please!"
As Brando wasn't a viable option, I said sure.
