History: Finding My Way

I am back to my personal history today.  Last time, right at the end of November, Mike and I had sex—and he decided he was in love with me…

Thanksgiving happened—and on Sunday November 28, 1976 (I diligently note in my journal) Mike called me.  He wanted to go to Detroit.  I said yes.  We went with Paul, who I remember absolutely nothing about, and Patty—the self-proclaimed Fag Hag of my brother’s friends.  We went to Menjo’s the dance bar. Then on to Gigi’s.  This bar was as grungy as the Flame, but it had a dance floor.  Mike and I danced to the blasting disco.  When the music turned slow and romantic, I opted out.  He was angry, but quickly found an obliging waiter.  They slow danced and pawed each other.  Did he really think this would make me like him more?

That night was also my first drag show.  My 19 year old self didn’t know quite what to make of it.  Occasionally funny—but I hated lip syncing.  Still do.

Since Mike had no privacy at his shared apartment, Paul said we could crash on his couch.  There was just room for the two of us.  Mike gave me a blow job—and it must have been good as it got me off.  I note in my journal ‘that I didn’t have the strength to reciprocate.’  I would love to know now if that was real or feigned.

That night was memorable for one other reason.  In the shower the next day, back at the dorm, I found I had crabs.  Mike, too.  Paul’s couch was the culprit.  A quick call to my brother—and a trip to the drugstore…

I saw Mike again on Saturday night.  He came to see me in a college production.  He’d gotten his shared apartment to himself for the night.  He fucked me—until the phone rang and he totally lost his erection.  As a young man, I really liked the idea of taking another guy inside me.  The issue was, each time I tried, the reality did not meet my fantasy of it.  At all.

It was a struggle to get out of there on Sunday morning—as I had no car and was dependent on him to get me home.  He really wanted a relationship—to be my boyfriend.  I wanted a friend.  A friend with benefits, if the term had been invented back them.  I didn’t want to be just a trick—but his erratic behavior (like the waiter) was not helping me form any kind of bond.

Christmas.  Semester break.  December 30, 1976.  I was now 20.  Theo and I spent the day shopping in Ann Arbor with my brother.  Mostly records and books.  We had lunch and dinner at his apartment.  Theo was entranced with him—as I looked on.  My brother decided, even though it was a Thursday night, we should go to the Rubaiyat, the dance bar.  He dug out a University of Michigan Sweatshirt and put it on underage Theo.  We got in with no issues.  Theo was entranced.  He was the Disco Queen.  In his element.  He rarely left the dance floor—partnered by my brother, or me, or some man of the moment.

I drove my brother’s car back to his apartment while he sat in the back seat with Theo and made out with him.  I expected the rearview mirror to steam up any moment. I then drove Theo back to our hometown in my dad’s car—as he babbled on and on about the night.  I was hurt—but put on a brave face.  I had no claim on Theo, after all…

We were back at my brother’s place the next evening for New Year’s Eve.  It was an uneasy night.  All the men in his circle were there—with a lot of drinking.  I’d met most of them by this point.  The whole night was uneasy (and unrequited) with Theo wanting my brother, me wanting Theo and Mike wanting me.

January 4, 1977.  A Tuesday night and Mike asked me to go to the Rubaiyat.  I agreed.  He was always late when picking me up.  Every time.  But not tonight.  He was right on time and in a great mood.  On the drive from University to disco, he gave me a package.  (I’d given him one the night before.)  There was a leather notebook, a framed picture made of dried flowers and a scroll (all the rage in the 70’s) with some generic ‘words of wisdom’ on it.  I thanked him and he was all a glow.  We parked and, still in a great mood, we went into the disco.  Instantly, he saw three old tricks at a table across the room and left me alone for the rest of the night.  I was dumbfounded.  My brother arrived.  We danced a bit.  He rolled his eyes about Mike and all but said “you can do better…”  I don’t know who got me home that night, but I am guessing my brother.

January 13, a Thursday night.  Mike was later than ever in picking me up.  I was waiting in the freezing parking lot, not knowing what was up in this age before cell phones.  He arrived and turned off his car.  Now it wouldn’t start.  Repeatedly.  Finally, it did.  We drove to the Rubaiyat and it was dead.  My brother arrived.  Angry.  I don’t know what the beef was, but he pulled Mike into a corner and verbally let him have it.   Mike stayed away from me for a good 30 minutes after it.  The only fun moment of the evening was a hot guy Mike and my brother couldn’t stop ogling and talking about.  When the two of them went off to dance (with other men, not together) l was left alone at the table.  The hot guy came to my table and was all over me, asking if I wanted to go home with him.  I considered it—but my insecurity kicked in and I told him no.  He was taken home by Paul.  I wonder if he got crabs…?

January 15, 1977.  Mike called wondering about a trip to Menjo’s and then to the bathhouse in Detroit with my brother.  I panicked.  I mastered it and surprisingly said ‘yes.’  We drove down.  At Menjo’s, my brother and I were ready to dance with Mike off in the restroom.  He came racing back to the table.  Jerry was here.  (Remember him?  Supposedly the love of my brother’s life.)  Jerry joined us then—and all seemed fine.  I knew for a fact my brother was sleeping with other men.  Jerry asked where else we might go tonight.  My brother shrugged.  Jerry said he wanted an early night—and off he went.

We danced.

We had a midnight fast food snack and arrived at the Club Baths just after 1:00am.  My brother got a room.  Mike got a room.  I went to the window—and was given a locker as the rooms were now gone.  Mike told me to leave my clothes in his room.  I wrapped that towel around my thin waist so tightly.  I was surprised by how tiny the rooms were, the age of the mattresses, how thin the sheet was they gave the guys who rented the room.

My brother gave me the tour—and I quote from my journal: “First floor:  entrance, TV room, vending machines.  Down a flight of stairs:  sauna—wet and dry, showers.  Down another flight of stairs, lockers and the whirlpool.  Second floor:  20 rooms and the blacked-out orgy room.  Third floor:  the same.”

We were standing on the second floor.  In the course of our tour, I found almost all the men from the New Year’s Eve party in attendance, each glad to see us.  My brother told me I should make myself comfortable and likely stay out of the orgy room.  I nodded.

At the top of the third-floor landing, who should appear but Jerry.  He came down the stairs, rather regally.  My brother said ‘Hello’ and Jerry kept walking.  It was over.  They never spoke again—and it didn’t dampen his mood one iota.

Mike went off to play.  As did my brother to the second-floor orgy room.  I wandered.  Doors were open.  Men showing off ass or cock.  I erected under my towel, but I didn’t make the first move.  I finally I sat in the television room (it was true TV, not porn back then.)   Art, a friend of my brother’s who I’d met in the autumn of the previous year, found me.  We talked.  He asked if I’d tried out of the facilities?  I whispered a ‘no.’ Then he asked if I’d like to come to his room for a cigarette.  (God, in 1977 they could smoke in those tiny rooms—and with the whole place being a fire trap!!)  I said ok—but that I didn’t smoke.

We went up the stairs.  Towels were shed.  “Fuck, you’re just like your brother.  You need to fuck me.”  I’m sure we sucked each other for a bit first as I knew I could do that.  I fucked him.  And came up his ass.  Very fast.  Another first.  But I hated the shit on my dick.  *

But I liked fucking.  I liked being on top of his hairy chest and rubbing myself on it.   And his hot hole on my dick felt wonderful.

I grabbed my towel, cleaned up and opened the door.  There was my brother, and three of his friends.  They all smiled and chuckled.  Art came out fully naked and told them he loved my dick.  His words were just what I needed.

I spent some time in the whirlpool and tried to sleep in Mike’s cold room under the wafer-thin sheet.  I think we were there for 12 hours—and my brother was going to use every minute of it.

I was given my membership card as we left.  I never went back—but it was a huge step for me…

 

*A small digression here.  Cleaning out your ass in the late 1970’s, in Michigan, was not something guys did.  Not the ones I knew.  I could believe men in bigger gay areas might have figured it out.  My brother, who should know, told me that he saw the change in the very early 1980’s.  Magazines like Torso and In Touch were talking to the brand-new stars of the fledgling porn industry.  They talked about douching their hole for the camera.  And suddenly everyone, comparatively, was doing the same.