Parting Glances
I was fortunate as a gay teenager. When I turned 18 my parents never asked me who I was dating, or if I had a girlfriend. I was on my own. Of age to make my own decisions. And mistakes.
My only concession to being a dutiful son as far as pretending to be straight was to invite four of my newfound gay and lesbian friends – each of whom could pass – to meet my mother and father (and our cocker spaniel Taffy).
My parents seemed content that I was associating with the right company. My friends were articulate, fun, straight acting, complimentary of my mom's cooking. Taffy, as the focus of much of our adoring attention that evening, was quite content.
If I planned to stay out late I would say I was staying at uneventful Gary's place. My parents knew his parents would keep an eye on us both. The evening I was to go to Ann Arbor as Jack Jacob's guest at a gay party I said I'd be doing an overnighter.
Promptly at six-thirty Jack rolled down the window of his borrowed car and greeted me. "Punctuality is the courtesy of kings. Or, queens. In our case." Ignoring his observation about royalty behavior, real and/or fancied, I eagerly hopped in. We were off.
I had never been to Ann Arbor before (though a few years later I would visit a cousin there who was teaching music with her as-yet-undiscovered gay husband; but that's another story). That the party was to be with college profs and grad students was understandably intimidating for unsophisticated me.
One of the guests Jack told me was Harry Hay, a cofounder – and communist sympathizer, it was rumored – of the Mattachine Society. "It's a group for gays who think it's important to organize. I think they should leave well enough alone," said Jack.
Not too long out of high school and about to socialize with academic types I decided the best course of action was to keep quiet, smile at any one who seemed interested in me, appear believably virginal, and observe. I made many mental notes, though being propositioned was not one of them.
I can't remember who our hosts were. Jack said they had been a couple for ten years; that the "nelly" of the two was in danger of losing his history professorship for being seen frequenting a "questionable bar".
V-neck sweaters were much in evidence. They became vogue among gay men after dashing French actor Jean Marais, rumored lover of film director Jean Cocteau, wore one in the 1946 film "Beauty and the Beast". (I wore a blue button-down short-sleeve shirt and white Levi's, then tot-lot outfit among gay teenagers.)
During the evening I saw my first copy of One Magazine. I was not impressed. "It depends too much on reading content with too few art illustrations," I critiqued. "It's a start," said Jack. "Who knows?"
Returning home Jack reached over, squeezed my knee. "May I take liberties?" he giggled. "Not now," I fumbled. ("Or, ever," I said to myself.) But months later Jack would change my young gay life forever.
