MEMOIR | REMINISCENCES OF 1970s D.C.

Outed by The Admiral

San Juan, 1973, A Car Chase, A Six-Shooter, And The Admiral (Part 2/2)

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Arcos Blancos was a gay, coed, clothing optional guest house in San Juan just outside the Old City, with an educated and sophisticated clientele from western Europe and the United States. During the ten days we (me, my two first lovers, Michael and Tommy, and my former boyfriend Mike) spent there in mid-September 1973, there were a gay couple from Tucson, a single gay man from London, and two lesbian couples, one from Berlin, the other from Havre.

There was a large, kidney-shaped pool insufficient for swimming laps but best for lolling, splashing, or doing a slow backstroke. There was a broad sunning deck around it and a hot tub at one end large enough for ten. There were palm trees, birds of paradise, and other lush foliage in the courtyard, together with an unattended bar stocked with a bountiful, quality liquor supply and mixers of all descriptions. The alcohol was $1 per shot; the mixers were gratis. Payment was on the honor system. One put one’s money in the little cash box that sat on the bar top unlocked so one could make change. No one cheated.

Though the guest house was a block from the beach and the Atlantic, we spent our idle time sunning nude and reading around the pool or in the hot tub. Clothing was optional; everyone opted out. There was nothing sexual going on. Everyone reserved that for their rooms, more out of respect for the others than any sense of Puritan propriety. The women were at ease with the men and vice versa. When we weren’t rambling about town, we enjoyed the cool late evenings in the hot tub, chatting with whomever happened to be there.

Arcos Blancos’ patrons were educated and sophisticated. We discussed topics ranging from international relations to climate change (yes, Virginia, it was a topic even then) and from our careers to our cities’ gay nightlife.

We scarcely saw the owner Marcos though he was available at most any hour via the house phone at the bar. We arrived in the middle of an acrimonious taxi strike, but Marcos kindly made alternative transportation arrangements to anywhere we desired to go.

We spent the wee morning hours in bed enjoying sex to the degree and with the fervor that only the young in early relationships manage. I was 25 and counted myself well within the boundaries of youth. Though Michael and Tommy were 34 and 33, they managed sex with a fervor and stamina equal to mine. Mike was 24 and as sexually inclined and eager as we were. He enjoyed the novelty of engaging with a different one of us each night, developing not only a sexual but also an emotive dynamic with each of us. He and I especially developed an empathic experience without threatening my relationship with Michael and Tommy.

I knew that my mother’s former boss, Admiral Gerstner, had retired to San Juan from his stint as civilian head of the Veterans Administration hospital division. She had been first his secretary, then his personal assistant. He knew me from the many Saturdays that she worked overtime, and not having a babysitter, took me along. Although I had not seen him for sixteen years, she suggested looking him up. In his third career, he was the city’s main hospital’s administrator.

When I called him, he was welcoming and gracious. I told him I was in San Juan on vacation with friends. He invited my friends and me to visit him at the hospital. He would give us a personal tour of all the departments from operating rooms to boiler room. Michael was interested. Tommy and Mike preferred a walk into the Old City.

So it was that I found myself in Gerstner’s office introducing my lover as “my friend, Michael.” Ushering us on the detailed tour, Gerstner was as accommodating as he had said he would be. He was easy to talk to, and we found ourselves in a broad-ranging conversation. At one point, he asked where we were staying.

Not wanting him to think anything was unusual, I said without hesitation, “a guest house called Arcos Blancos,” thinking that this seventy-some-year-old retired admiral wouldn’t know it from any other guest house and that Michael and I would thus remain safely tucked away in our temporary closet.

“Oh,” he said, “then you’ve met Marcos. I live in the highrise next door to Arcos Blancos. Marcos and I are good friends. We often play chess by the pool.”

Damn! I thought, having in mind our first-day encounter with the police officer who also knew Arcos Blancos. Serendipitously outed for the second time.

With a slight glint in wise eyes and a little grin on his lips, Gerstner said, “Not to worry. I can be discreet.”

True to his word, that was the last he mentioned it during our tour and the late luncheon to which he insisted on treating us. Thankfully, I did not see him playing chess poolside during our stay. The last thing I wanted or could envision was me walking naked up to him and casually saying hello, however relaxed about it and discreet he might be.

Two years later, when I came out to my mother, I asked whether the admiral had said anything to her.

“You mean he knew before me? How?”

“You remember that trip to San Juan two years ago when you said I should go see him? I asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, he knew the owner of the gay guest house we stayed at, my friends and me. Turned out, he lived right next door.”

“Really?” She asked, dubious.

“Yes. He said he played chess with the owner poolside many times.”

“Was he gay?” She asked with evident disbelief. “I never thought that about him.”

“Well, let’s put it this way; it was a gay, coed, clothing optional guest house. If he weren’t gay, he would be more comfortable around a passel of naked gay people than he had any right to be. For a straight admiral, that would be an incredulous thing.”

“Well! I’ll be damned!” She said, using an expletive I’d scarcely ever heard from her.

Previously

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