REMINISCENCES OF 1970s SAN FRANCISCO
Our Passing Moment
He was just a nice gay guy who had seen me naked
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My third and last year in San Francisco was my last in law school, 1978. It was May. School was out. I had my law degree but not yet a license to practice. For that, I would have to pass the California Bar Exam. It was demanding and back-breakingly punishing. It was notorious for its high failure rate. It was coming that July.
I enrolled in a preparatory course — seven grueling weeks, ten hours a day Monday through Friday, six hours on Saturday. Plus, three hours of essays to write each evening. There were perhaps 200 in my section, some of whom were taking the course a second or third time. One fellow was a 27-year-old Boston attorney who had been in practice for two years. This was his third time in the course, having twice failed the exam.
At night after class, I walked home. I needed the time to regain some perspective. Often, I joined an eclectic group of gay and straight men and women headed to the nude, coed hot tub spa in the Tenderloin. Relaxing in a big hot tub was just the ticket. Six or eight of us would discuss anything but law or nothing. We might just sit there, letting the heat and the water jets leach out our tension. Usually, my lover, Curt, joined us.
On the last evening of classes, the group dispersed, leaving only me on my way to the spa to meet Curt. A man asked if he could walk with me. He wasn’t one of the usual group. I knew him casually, having talked with him some mornings while waiting for the instructor, during lunch, or in the hot tub on the few occasions he had joined us. I said yes.
I knew he was gay. I knew he was attracted to me. I wasn’t attracted to him. He was tempting enough physically. He was pleasant to be with. But nothing “clicked.” He was just a nice gay guy who had seen me naked. I considered him a friend, though not a close one.
He desired more, much more. He desired me. Sadly, there wasn’t a chance.
I had Curt. Not that sex with this man, whether with or without Curt, was forbidden. Monogamy was not a condition of our relationship. We didn’t equate monogamy with fidelity. Fidelity is a state of mind and devotion, not a net around the genitalia. Nonetheless, Tyler fulfilled me. Dalliance with another man, however tempting, did not tempt me. The moth no longer flew to the flame. Except, with this man, I was the flame, and he the moth circling round, craving to plunge.
We walked mostly in silence. The couple of times I started a conversation, he didn’t carry it through. He let it die slowly, like the light of a lantern with the wick drying out for want of oil.
We reached the door to the spa. He faced me. Handing me a folded piece of quality letter paper, he just said, “Bye, Alex.” He looked forlorn. He wheeled and walked away. I thought I saw his shoulders droop some.
I opened the tri-fold page. There, in an exquisite calligraphic script written with a fountain pen, was a poem. I read it under the dim light above the door.
Our Passing Moment
Looking up, falling for a shooting star, A Marlboro man with a childhood scar. Is he a dream — Is he real? Reaching out, aching to feel.
See my eyes that carry his reflection, Taking his path in any direction. Am I unconscious — half asleep? His ravenous mouth kissing me deep.
Pulling back covers, lying down, In deep water, ready to drown. Intoxicating with that devilish grin. Losing myself while he touches my skin.
Hungering, I can’t get my fill. Tasting his sweat — we go in for the kill. Thrusting inside me, getting ready to send, Not wanting our passing moment to end.
© 2020 Steve Alexander
Note: I copyrighted it under my name for want of recalling his. Who knows whether that has any meaning in law?
