Tom Clark Photography

Five Great Loves

Each of the five great romantic loves of my life, Rosarita, Gianni, Teri, Les and Jed has imbued my life with so much richness. Each in their own way fashioning something new of my soft clay and sculpting at will. It has always been me, willingly giving myself over to each of these sculptor/lovers because I needed to be loved by them, to be held by them and to know myself through their eyes. They only did with me what I allowed them to do, so it is without any regret that I look back to each of them with fondness.

 

Rosarita was the first of my loves and 40 years after that first warm sunny day when we played together on a hill outside of Rome, she is still very much in my life; truly one of the most interesting, gifted, complex and beautiful women I know. One wonders what it is that keeps two people so tightly knit through so many years of lives lived thousands of miles apart. Our friendship could have just faded with time as most do when spouses and lovers come along - but it didn't - it grew stronger, more interesting and more delightful. Whatever it was that we found so attractive in each other as children has stayed with us through the years and continues to draw us together. Not all childhood loves and friendships survive the changing orbs of time and maturity as beautifully as ours has, and for that I feel really blessed.

 

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When I was working in Rome awhile back, Rosarita, who's a concert pianist, was going through a rough patch in both her personal and professional lives. I arrived one night to find her curled up on her bed unable to do anything but cry. I crawled up onto the bed with her and held her in my arms and gently stroked her forehead while pulling her long dark hair from her eyes. There was nothing to say because after nearly a lifetime of loving each other, it was all understood.

 

 

Bullies

They seemed to come out of nowhere sometime in my freshman year. I didn’t know who they were, just that they seemed to be older than me. At first it started out as just heckling. They’d pass me in the halls and snarl at me or call me a sissy. I ignored them at first but that only made them more aggressive. By the time I got to my junior year they would ambush me between classes and shove me around, threatening to strip me down and paint my balls black with shoe polish or run my underwear up the flagpole. 

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I was too embarassed and too scared to tell anybody about it and so I just bit the bullet and put up with them as best I could. But it finally got to be too much so I enlisted my twin brother’s help, (a most unlikely ally at that point in our lives) and had him accompany me after the classes where I seemed to be most vulnerable. 

 

Aurelia Reneè

It's possible that there's been a child more photographed than my daughter Auri, but I'd have to see it to believe it. She was a little over a year old when I first decided to become a photographer and by the time she was two she'd become a full-time muse for my work; sitting patiently for endless photo sessions while allowing me to play with her hair, her clothes and the lighting that fell around her.

 

Even at a very young age Auri had a presence about her that was self-assured and serene and it made taking pictures of her a wonderful experience. As she grew older and watched my clients during photo sessions, she became even more skilled at disassociating herself from the camera and going off into her own quiet little world where we would sometimes work together for several hours. I could always tell when she was tired of the process though and we didn't pushed beyond her threshold. There was no need to really - we were taking pictures for fun.

 

The Greek Sailor

I must have been about 9 when my family and I were making our summer pilgrimage over to the Greek island of Corfu from Italy where we lived. A handsome Greek sailor, probably in his late twenties, asked my parents if he could show me around the ship and there's never been any doubt in my mind that my folks were thrilled to have at least one of us kids out of their hair for awhile. So they sent me off with a smile, feeling confident I'm sure, that I would be well looked after. 

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Taking me by the hand and never letting go of it the entire time we were together, the young sailor showed me around the ship; the captains quarters, the engine room and all those secret little places that you don't get to see just by wandering around on your own. He spoke nothing but Greek to me as if I was understanding every word he said. I probably answered him mostly in Italian since I figured out very young that not too many people in Italy and Greece in the early sixties spoke English. Whatever the nature of our communication was, the fact is, I remember feeling very special and very safe with him.

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Sunset found us standing alone on the bow of the ship, the salt water from the Mediterranean spraying against our cheeks and the chill in the air beginning to be quite noticeable. I remember him pulling the collar of his P-coat up against his neck and then leaning his back against the railing and leaning me back against him, wrapping his arms over my shoulders around my chest and crossing them in front of me, keeping me close and warm. After awhile, he took one of my hands in one of his and pulled it back around and in between us and pushed it gently and firmly against his crotch. It wasn't until years later in remembering the incident that I realized that my hand had been pressed against his erection. I guess you have to know what one is to know what one is. At 9 years old I didn't.

 

Growing Up Gay

It's New Years' Eve 2001. Earlier in the day I had determined that I wasn't going out tonight and would be enjoying a quiet evening at home. But then I got home and realized that I really did have a hankering to go out and be with friends and do some serious dancing and booty shaking. So I shaved and did a mud pack, showered and got all dressed up and walked in here to the living room and realized that all I really wanted to do after all, was stay home. Who knows what will happen in a couple of hours? I may find myself yet in a club in Laguna dancing. 

 

But for now I'm writing and sipping on a glass of really awful white wine. How is it that I find myself home alone on New Year's Eve with not a drop of red wine in the house? I've always felt like white wine was for sissies - or at best something you drink at lunch when you're trying hard not to look like the wino that you are.  Oh well, a couple more glasses and it won't matter anyway.

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Part of me would like to be all somber and contemplative here this evening - writing about all of the amazing experiences and adventures of the past year. And there's another part of me that would really like to pull out all the stops and just talk about my life, such as it is and such as it's been. The difficulty I often face as a fearless observer of my own life, is that I worry too much about who my audience is: "Oh god, I can't write that because what if my mom reads it?" Then I remind myself that I almost never send anything I write on to my mom because even what I've written here so far would scandalize her right into a coronary infarction. 

 

Sitting At The Table of Privilege

It's been one of my great fortunes to have a beautiful daughter who is the light of my life and a source of constant joy and wonder. I delivered her in a birthing room at the UoU Medical Center in Salt Lake City twenty-two years ago at a time when her mother and I were very much in love and thrilled to be having a child together. When Aurelia was 13 hours old we laid on the floor of the living room in our home in the Avenues and took a little nap - Auri lying peacefully on my chest as her mother slept soundly upstairs in our bedroom.

 

It would be the first of many naps that we've taken together over the years.

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On the day of her wedding three years ago, I was taking a nap on the sofa of Auri's apartment when she came in and spooned in next to me, falling soundly asleep in my arms. When I was with Auri this past Christmas, her husband vacated his place in bed and said, "Papa, you take my place for a couple of days. She really is a daddy's girl you know!" He knows and he understands and is so beautifully unthreatened by our love.

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From the time Auri was born, she's always kind of been mine. Oh yes, her mom loved her and was the most amazing mom on earth. And Auri loved her mom without conditions or hestitations. But there's always been something magical in the love we've been sharing all these years. I know that to those looking in, it might seem terribly incestuous and all. But it's not. It's just that there's so much love there and curling up in each other's arms sometimes is a wonderful way for us to express it.

 

 

Rosarita

Rosarita and I met on a warm summer day on the hill where we both lived in the countryside a few miles north of Rome. I was on my way to play in the caves that were about a half mile from my home when I saw what appeared to be a young girl dressed like a nun running around in her yard. Something about her caught my attention and I stopped to look. She snuck behind one of the walls of her house and hid for a few seconds and then slowly peeked out around the corner to see if I was still there.

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The minute she looked around the corner and saw me waiting for her, she disappeared and then poked her head out once more very slowly from around the corner of the house. I was totally amused by now so when she reappeared for the third time, I waved and said ciao. Realizing I was onto her, she made a mad dash for the other side of the house and disappeared for good. I went onto the caves and played for a couple of hours but kept thinking about the girl in the nun's outfit.

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As I walked back home along the dirt road in front of the villa where I'd seen Rosarita playing, I saw a man standing in the yard watering his roses and stopped to have a chat. I introduced myself and asked if that was his daughter I saw earlier and asked if she was she going to become a nun. He laughed and said, "Yes, that's my daughter Rosarita and no, she's not going to become a nun - she just likes to dress up like one."  He asked me if I wanted to meet her and I told him I'd like that very much. So he unlocked the gate and let me in and I followed him into the house where he introduced me to Rosarita who was sitting in the living room still dressed in her nun's outfit.

 

Strange Fruit

 

I wrote these thoughts on the night I learned that Matthew Shepard died. They were read at the candlelight vigil held in Matthew's memory in San Francisco. I was unable to attend but one of the members of The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, a charitable organization, read them for me. The lyrics that follow below, written by Abe Meeropol, are from a song that was sung by Billie Holliday.

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Southern trees bear a strange fruit,

Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,

Black body swinging in the Southern breeze, 

Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

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Pastoral scene of the gallant South,

The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,

Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh,

And the sudden smell of burning flesh!

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Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck,

For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,

For the sun to rot, for a tree to drop,

Here is strange and bitter crop.

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Abe Meeropol (a.k.a. Lewis Allen)

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And so it continues. The long and monstrous tradition of intolerance and hate in this country. What was once directed at Native Americans, soon took its aim at Blacks and ultimately in its demonic sight, included everything that was even slightly different from the shooter. And today, our collective heart mourns the loss of our precious son and brother Matthew, yet another victim of the hate that we as a nation so tacitly encourage.

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We are a tragic, pitiful and deeply flawed culture.  As the body of young Matthew Shepard hung crucified and dying on a fence outside of Laramie, Wyoming this week, our infectious and rotten core was once again ripped from its dark hiding place and laid bare for all the world to see. Never mind that he was gay. It was but an excuse to vent the hatred that has been woven deeply into the fabric of our culture from the beginning. Blacks, Indians, Mexicans, Gays, Jews, Women. What does it matter? As long as you're not a white, Christian, heterosexual man, you're fair game.

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Make no mistake. It was indeed my white, male heterosexual progenitors who scalped the first Indian, hung the first black man and beat to death the first gay brother. And it is in much of their progeny that the hate continues unabated. It is obvious that not all white, Christian, heterosexual men carry this hate. But it is just as obvious that the vast majority of hate crimes in this country are committed by white, Christian, male heterosexuals who cannot abide anyone on earth who is not like unto themselves. We saw our ugliness reflected back to us in Hitler and fought a war to destroy him. We came home victorious but failed to kill the beast within ourselves. And all of us by our silence, bear the burden of each new savage act of hate. We thought the Holocaust could never happen again. But just look at us

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Abraham Lincoln said, "To sin by silence when they should speak, makes cowards of men." And so have we all become cowards by our silence. We have seen the strange fruit hanging  from Southern trees but turned our eyes, hid in the safety or our silence and widened the range of targets. 

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Will my own daughter have to be raped to shake me out of my complacency? Will my own body have to be hanging from a fence, battered, bloodied and dying, before my parents will raise their voices and cry for an end to the intolerance? Will your own son or daughter, brother or sister have to be beaten, raped or tortured to  within an inch of their lives before you raise your voice and demand an end to the evil of bigotry and hate? What deadness in our souls allows us to dismiss this savagery as somebody else's problem? Wasn't it Christ who said,  "Insomuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me."  

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The grief in the hearts of Matthew Shepard's parents tonight is a grief that belongs to all of us. It was our son that was murdered for being gay. It was our brother hanging from the poplar tree because he was black and it  is  our  sisters whose sacred spaces have been torn apart and raped because they could be. It is a lie we tell ourselves when we say that the problem is somebody else's.

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When we sit silent in church and allow the minister to spew his venomous condemnation of gays, we perpetuate the atmosphere in which they are beaten and killed. When we allow a racially demeaning joke to be told in our presence, (or God forbid repeat it,) we are feeding the climate of hate and intolerance that keeps dark skinned corpses swinging from the branches of poplar trees. When we allow rapists to serve fifteen month jail terms, we guarantee that another one of our daughters will be raped. And when we allow judges to mollycoddle the perpetrators of hate crimes, we insure the survival of hate. Our silence in the face of hatred, bigotry and violence is all the permission that's needed for the beast to keep killing.

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God wrench us from our silence and complacency. Give us the courage to write a letter to our political leaders, shout down a bigoted priest or say no to an initiative that would limit any law abiding citizen's right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Help us remember that any time we have done it unto one of the least of these, we have done it unto ourselves. And please, hold young Matthew Shepard and all of our children safe in your arms until we figure out how to do it better than we're doing it now.

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October 12th, 1998

Paying For Sex

Recently a friend of mine, (who I'll call David) upon learning that I have on occasion hired guys for sex, wrote me the following gentle reprimand:

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"...And I would be remiss if I didn't mention to you that you shouldn't hire guys.  You're better than that."

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This was my reply to him:

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My dear sweet David,

And I would be remiss if I didn't tell you that sometimes my body needs to be touched, even if it's by a stranger for whom I have no feelings otherwise. Too much of my life has already been in invested in doing without that which makes me happiest and gives me the greatest comfort. Sometimes my body just needs another man to touch it and take away the rough edges of the loneliness.

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For all my bluster and bravado, the fact is, I'm quite unwilling most of the time to just go out and hustle me up some guy to have sex with. I wished it worked that way still, but it doesn't. It used to be that all I had to do was walk out of the house and there was a line around the block of people ready, able and willing to have sex with me. Those days are gone - not so much because the people aren't there anymore, but because I've changed too much to have the energy to play that game most of the time.

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When I hire somebody to massage me, knowing full well that they'll get me off at some point during the massage, (or more) the game is on my home court. I'm the one calling the shots and the game is played to my advantage. I'm choosing to take comfort in a way that doesn't require me to get involved in the hunting/courting ritual. I don't have to worry about whether I'm dressed right or whether my hair is looking the way I want it to. 

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It's all so very simple when the one touching my body is being paid to do it and there's no risk of rejection because I might be too old or too skinny or too white or too gay or not gay enough. He comes, he does his job and he leaves. No questions, no batting of the eyes in the hopes of a conversation, no pounding of the heart wondering if he's "the one."

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It's a quid pro quo without conditions; I call him, he comes over, he massages me and gets me off. He wipes me down, I pay him, he gathers his stuff and leaves. Sometimes the simplicity of it all is as important to me as the act itself.

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There is no justification for paying for sex. It's a choice that as with all choices, has consequences. The consequences of my paying for a massage and/or sex is that my body & soul are for a moment or two satisfied and I can get on with my life. The hunger to be touched by another man can only be satisfied in one way for me. All of the friends and hobbies and computers in the world can't replace what that touch does for me - and I feel comfortable and happy indulging it.

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It's a personal choice that I've made many times over the past many years. It doesn't reflect my morality - it reflects my willingness to take care of myself in a way that in that moment, nobody else can. In the absence of someone to hold me at night or share in the ups and downs of life, it sometimes takes a lot of effort to make sure that I don't start flailing and go under. I have known the exquisite joy of being loved and loving in return. Paying for sex will never equal that or even come close, but it does sometimes make it easier to be without it.

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I pay for food, I pay for a home to live in, I pay to put gas in my car, I pay for the electricity that keeps this computer humming and yes, sometimes I pay for sex. Doing so seems to me to be just another one of the many things that I do to make sure that my life is what I want it to be. And that's why I have the word Serenity inked across my shoulders - because I know what it is and I know how to insure that it's always mine.

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My serenity isn't defined by another's shoulds and should nots. It's defined by my choices and how well they serve my happiness.

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And that my dear David, is truly from my heart to yours.

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xox

Tom

San Francisco Nights

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Chris returned from a seminar back east waxing eloquent about a guy she'd met there who was perfect for me. Usually when some- body says they have a man for me, I run and hide. I haven't yet figured out why people think I'd be attracted to some bitter old queen. I must be paying off some Karmic debts, I don't know. Anyway, Chris has good taste so I went along with the thing and before the day was out, Brian, the perfect guy for me, had called from San Francisco telling me that Chris had told him she had the perfect man for him. That would be me. 

So Brian and I began our friendship via the telephone and e-mail. I should have known that I was in trouble when his e-mails arrived as one long run-on sentence and appeared to have been written by a dyslexic who'd never heard of a spell check and thought an icon was Madonna. Be all that as it may, Brian seemed charming and interesting on the phone so I allowed my fantasies to unfold.

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By the second day of our phone-affair, Brian had invited Chris and me up to San Francisco and by the third day of our phone-affair, we had purchased our tickets and practically had our bags packed. (OK, so I practically had my bags packed.) Do you have any idea how difficult it is for a homo to decide what to take to a blind date in San Francisco? Let's just say that packing for eight months in Rome was easier. As it turned out, I ended up leaving suddenly, two days earlier than planned and all my favorite clothes were still at the cleaners. 

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You cannot even begin to imagine the epic proportions of this calamity - every homo worth his salt knows that every other homo in the world can look at what you're wearing and know in ten seconds or less whether or not he's willing to spend the rest of his life decorating your homes together. So I'm setting off to San Francisco to meet the perfect guy for me and all of my favorite clothes are hanging on a rack across the street at EuroClean. These are the kind of experiences that can lead gay men to have nervous breakdowns. 

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Brian is having back surgery on Tuesday, three days before our scheduled arrival and swearing that it doesn't matter because he's tough and everything will be OK by the time we get there. Wednesday afternoon I get a desperate phone call from him asking me to come up early because he's in terrible pain and has nobody there to help him and take care of him. By this stage of the game, Brian and I have bared our souls to each other through countless hours of phone conversations and endless e-mail diatribes and I felt that it was safe enough to go up early on my own and be with him. I guess I need to reevaluate my understanding of the word safe. 

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I changed my ticket at ridiculous expense and was on a plane within two hours after his desperate phone call, failing unfortunately, to tell my boss that I was leaving work early and wouldn't be there Thursday morning. Oops. 

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I raced home from work, threw a few unimpressive pieces of clothing in my travel bag and headed to the airport without even so much as a shower or a pee. That wouldn't have been such a problem had I bothered to shave my balls that morning - but I was saving that and the mudpack and other essential beauty routines for Friday morning before our scheduled flight out. I seriously thought about slipping into the lavatory on the plane and shaving the sideburns from my shaft and giving the twins a quick polish before landing in San Francisco. But then I worried that if the plane hit some unexpected turbulence, I might cut myself and have a hard time explaining to Brian why there were fresh slash marks all over my genitals. It didn't seem worth the risk. So I ordered a Bloody Mary instead and reassured myself that sex with Brian was probably out of the question anyway since he'd just had back surgery. Who knew that a handful of Vicodin could wipe away so much pain?

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The limo driver was waiting for me at the gate and I guess I should have known that I was in trouble when his sign said "Mr. Clark" on it and Mr. was misspelled.  He offered to take my bag and I declined saying, "No, it's very heavy. I can handle it." But he wrestled it from my hands and two minutes later, with his left shoulder out of its socket and his arm permanently lengthened and disfigured, he asked me what I had in it. "I told you it was heavy," I said as I shoved both of my hands into my pockets, making it perfectly clear I wasn't taking the goddamn thing back. We got to the limo and I stood patiently next to the door, waiting for him to open it after he'd nearly thrown his back out swinging my bag into the trunk. "I told you it was heavy," I reminded him again, silently to myself. 

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On the drive into the city, I thought I'd be polite and make some conversation with the driver so as to be as proletariat as one can possibly be while sitting alone in the back of a limo. "I noticed you have an accent," I said. "Where are you from?" Dumb question. Dumber answer. "I'm from Sicily," he shot back. At which point I launched into my best Italian, not thinking for a moment he'd lie to me about where he was from. Well, wherever he was from, it wasn't Italy. Judging from the Arabically mispronounced two words of something that he tried to pass off as Italian, I figured he hadn't been gone from his motherland very long. And that his motherland was clearly somewhere due south and east of Sicily - say Morocco or Pakistan, maybe Saudi Arabia. "Sicily? I don't think so dude. So, do you miss driving a camel for a living or is this limo gig keepin' ya happy?" 

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We passed by some big stadium and I thought about moving onto the subject of sports and then realized I'd better just sit back and shut up. The only thing I knew about sports was this catcher in baseball, (or was he an umpire?) who was gay and wrote a book about it and how far could that conversation go with my limo/camel driver? Maybe this would be a good time to get my razor out and get the boys cleaned up before meeting Brian. But what if we slammed into another car and I cut myself and had to explain the cuts on my nuts, not only to Brian but to the cops as well? I sat back and pretended to be asleep.

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So long story longer, we get to Brian's and he's out front waiting for us as we pull up and the first thought that runs through my head as I see him is that he looks like Charles Manson. If this had been a movie, I would have told the limo driver to step on it and get me back to the airport. But it's not a movie and I get out of the limo. Brian signs the ticket for the driver since he'd offered the luxury of the limo and escorts me into his beautiful home above the Castro on a hill overlooking San Francisco. 

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We head straight to the kitchen where he pours us each a glass of wine. "That should feel real good on top of your Vicodin," I quipped, not sure if I should be allowing either of us to be getting drunk at this point but being as incapable as ever of turning down anything that comes out of a bottle with a cork in it. Honest to God, in the first half hour I'm there, Brian has said hi to me about forty seven times. Every time he looks at me, he says hi. "How old did you say you were," I'm thinking to myself. Maybe he's suffering from a mild case of Turrets and can't help himself. Doesn't matter, he's opening a second bottle of wine. I can overlook a mild case of Turrets for the moment. Problem is, I'm starting to say hi back. 

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Brian: "Hi."  

Tom: "Hi." "Didn't I just meet you somewhere a few minutes ago?" 

Brian: "Hi."  

Tom: "Hi." Yes, OK, so now we've thoroughly established the fact that you can say hi. Now, can you say, "Shut the fuck up!"  

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I'm about to ask Brian if I can have a handful of his Vicodin when he comes up from behind me, puts his arms around my waist and starts kissing my neck. OK, so I can wait a few minutes for the Vicodin. Then he unbuckles my belt, unzips my pants and they drop to the floor, revealing the fact that not only wasn't I wearing any underwear but that I wasn't displeased about what was going on. "I knew I should have shaved on the plane," I mumbled. "What?" he asked. "Nothing. Hi."  "Hi," he whispered back.  Whew  now I'm getting the hang of this. He's easily deflected.

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I turned around and asked him what he was doing. (Like I didn't know.) "Didn't you say you wanted to shower?" he asked. "What, here in the kitchen? Do you mind if I use the shower?"  So Brian takes me by the, ahem, well, let's just say he led me into the bathroom, not by the hand, where much to my dismay I discover that like in any good pervert's bathroom, the shower doors are clear glass. He sits on the toilet and watches me shower while the theme from the Twilight Zone keeps running over and over in my head. I'm looking around for a razor but realizing that shaving down under when you have a hard on is just asking for trouble. And what if there was an earthquake while I was shaving and I cut myself and...  

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 "I knew I should have done it on the plane," I thought again as I stepped out of the shower and quickly covered myself with a damp towel. I wanted to ask for a dry one but said "hi" instead. Good god, it's contagious! This would have been a great time to get my clothes back on and run. But instead I say hi and ask for some comfy clothes. "Oh great Tom, that's really putting the brakes on things. Why don't you just ask him for some lube and a condom while you're at it?"

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A couple of glasses of wine later, we're laying in bed and Brian's moaning about his back and I'm thinking this is going to be one hellacious night with his groaning about his back hurting him and stuff and I'm wondering if my ear plugs are still in my shaving kit. But maybe this is perfect - he's hurting so much that sex is totally out of the question and I'm off the hook. Yeh right. The hook suddenly appears in the form of his hand grabbing the back of my hair and shoving my face down towards his crotch. I tried to stop him. I really did. "You can't do this Brian - you're going to hurt your back. Oh well, Oh my, OK, just a little..."

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An hour later, with both my arms aching as a result of the superhuman efforts necessary to get Brian off in spite of the Vicodin and wine, the deed is accomplished. We settle into a momentary position of comfort and I reach over to run my fingers across Brian's brow in a sweet little goodnight gesture and he reaches up and brusquely pushes my hand away from his head, muttering that my hands are hot and not to touch him. And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. I'd just been used. I was nothing more than a trick who was now expected to have the courtesy to get up and get dressed and go home. Turned out to pasture post-orgasm as it were. Except that home was a few hours to the south and there weren't any flights from San Francisco to Southern California at one o'clock in the morning. "Maybe this is just a bad dream," I thought, as I rolled over and buried my head in the pillow.

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Eight o'clock the next morning, I get up, pull on my borrowed boxers since I didn't bring any underwear and wander into the kitchen where Brian is making coffee. 

Brian: "Hi."  

Tom: "Hi. How's your back?" 

Brian: "It hurts. Listen, I just want to be honest with you. I don't feel anything for you and there isn't going to be a weekend here for you and me. Just thought you should know so that you aren't wasting your time sticking around. Oh, and before you go, would you mind going to the pharmacy around the corner and picking up my prescription of Vicodin?"  

Tom: "Sure."

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So there I am, a million miles from the safety of my home, standing in a strangers kitchen in his boxers being told that after having fucked me, he isn't interested in me but would I please run down and get his drugs for him before getting out. Suddenly I'm feeling like I'm in a place that makes the Twilite Zone feel like Mr. Roger's neighborhood. I'm 46, I haven't had sex with anybody in over a year and just like that, I've become somebody's trick de jour on the pretense of spending a weekend with him helping him out. I didn't know what to say, I didn't know what to do. I couldn't cry and I couldn't scream. I just stood there feeling stupid and embarrassed. And pretty damn hurt. But I held onto my poise and asked Brian where the pharmacy was  still feeling too disoriented I guess, to tell him to go to hell.

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Insult was added to injury as I waited over an hour at the pharmacy, only to be told that their printer wasn't working and I'd have to go to another pharmacy at the bottom of the hill. Do you have any idea what the hills are like in San Francisco? I do. They're particularly long and steep when you're wounded and bleeding from rejection at the hands of a man who's asked you climb the stupid hill to get his drugs for him right after he's asked you to get out. No, wait a minute, it isn't the hill that's stupid. It's me that's stupid. Tromp, tromp, tromp. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Tromp, tromp, tromp. Pant, pant, pant. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

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Well anyway, the rhythm of the stupids and the trompings and the pantings kept me from falling down on the sidewalk and bursting into tears. Something which I knew I could get away with because I was in the Castro for god's sake. This is like the queer Mecca of the world. There's probably been thousands of broken hearted boys just like me, falling down into the gutters of grief in the early morning hours of their rejections, publicly and unabashedly carrying on here in the Castro. I guess if you can't do rejection shamelessly and openly here, where could you do it?

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But I couldn't do it. Not there. Not then. As I sat in the lobby of the hospital where the first pharmacy was, I watched as a group of well dressed and well groomed men pulled up in a Mercedes and quietly got out. One of them remained in the front passenger seat. From where I was sitting, he appeared to be an old man. One of the others guys went to the trunk and pulled out a wheelchair and rolled it around to the passenger side of the car. It was apparent that the man in the passenger seat was very sick and very weak. He was hooked up to an oxygen tank that one of the other guys held patiently for him as he struggled slowly and awkwardly to get out of the car and into the wheelchair. He was so weak and moved so slowly that it took several minutes for him just to get out of the car. I couldn't quite figure out why nobody was helping him aside from holding his wheelchair still and holding his oxygen tank for him. "He must have a lot of pride and be very determined," I thought to myself. "Not bad for an old man."

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The large glass doors to the lobby slid silently open and the group of men came straight towards me. It was then, as they walked quietly towards the elevator, that I realized that the man in the wheelchair wasn't an old man after all. In spite of the ravages to his body, his thin and snowy-white hair and the way his head hung weakly to one side, I knew I was looking into the face of someone who was no older than I was, and maybe even younger. Not even AIDS in all of its terrible larceny, can take away the truth of who its victims are. 

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I sat silently for awhile, this young man's face being indelibly etched into my consciousness. Later, as I grumbled my way up and down the steep hills of the Castro on an errand for a man who had so flippantly used and rejected me, I realized how fortunate I was to still be able to get up and down those hills with so little effort. I certainly had nothing to complain about. The man I'd just seen being wheeled into the hospital would probably never leave there again - his friends and brothers surrounding his wheelchair now, in somber rehearsal for the day not so far away, when they would surround his final resting place.

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With my perspective solidly back in place, I delivered Brian his drugs, kissed him defiantly on the mouth and took off for a long walk in the Castro by myself. "Take that you swine - I'll have the last word here," I harrumphed to myself as I turned on my heels and marched away. I called my friend Paige and asked her if I could come over and stay with her and John because I'd just been dumped by the guy I was supposed to be spending the weekend with. She told me to get my butt over there immediately, so I hailed a cab and headed for sanctuary. Chris arrived the next morning and the four of us did San Francisco with great flair, laughter and delight. Brian quickly vanished into the ethers of my memories. I took a deep breath and just let it all go as the weekend continued to deliver one beautiful silver-lining after another. 

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It's funny how things start out going in one direction and then end up going in quite another and it all ends up being so much better for the change. Sunday morning, while Chris was at mass with Brian, (don't ask) Paige and I went to a dance/movement affair called "Sweat Your Prayers." For two wonderful hours we danced around a room with a bunch of other free-spirited people until every last vestige of Brian was danced and sweat right out of me. My body felt so free and light and happy - the prayer and the answer coming all at the same time.

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I never did get the boys shaved over the weekend but it didn't much matter - those who did love me over the weekend were loving other parts of me. Parts of me like my heart and my smile that are just fine the way they are and mostly don't need shaving before a date.

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San Francisco Nights

Copyright 2002 by Tom Clark

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