Jack Tripper, Charlie Brown, The Paper Rose & me - pt. 4

by Eric F. Crow

In the nine months it took to graduate from business college (Legal Word Processor was my major), I'd had experienes with men of varying ages, colors and shapes, and it was pretty obvious what I liked, but the physical was still as far as it went for me. I liked the GL Times, but I was too busy looking at the models and reading the personal ads to read any of the articles. As for influences, I had Liberace, Wayland Flowers and Madam, Jack Tripper, Monroe Ficus and Prince, so I knew what camp and kitsch was, at least implicitly, but I didn't have any regard of the kinds of things Romanovsky and Phillips would be proud of, like Torch Song Trilogy, Divine, etc. I had read those few books in the library, but I knew nothing of LGBTQ culture or history. I knew about ACT UP (the AIDS Coalition To Unleash Power) because of the die-ins they had to get the government to release more funding and create treatments. That was about it in the references department, and I still haven't punched every hole in my pink card.

A Friday night in June, 1989 would be the place where all this would all start to change.

I was on my way home from a temp assignment, paycheck cashed and in my pocket, and on a whim I decided to get off the bus in Hillcrest, at 5th & University. I wanted to find out more information about a place called “Club San Diego.” I crossed over to 4th and walked into a corner stationary store called “The Paper Rose.” There at the counter was this nellie old queen of about fifty waiting on customers. Eddie was his name, and he seemed friendly and safe to approach; I figured that if that if anyone knew about this place, it would be him. I threw caution to the wind and began my “queery-ing." 

We struck up a conversation, and he was easy to open up to. About five minutes in, he stopped me mid-question and flat-out asked, “So are you gay?” 

It stopped me cold. Why would he ask me this question? I mean, I was asking about a gay bathhouse, but why did that necessarily make him want to ask if I was gay? I now know that I was thrown off guard by the question because it was always asked of me in an accusatory manner. Is it any wonder I didn't think of myself in that way? But that's the kind of question only 30 years of hindsight can produce (yes, I've been out 30 years).

Back to the moment. I was stunned. Speechless for a moment. In a panic, I quickly blurted out, “No...I'm bi!” I remember feeling myself wince a tiny bit. Eddie didn't bat an eyelash, probably because he had me clocked before I could answer. We kept talking and he described Club San Diego, to me--turns out it was just down the street. 

He continued, “Say, after I get off work, I'm going downtown to another place like Club San Diego. It's called “The Vulcan” (Vulcan Steam and Sauna), and I think you'll like that place better. The guys are friendlier and it's easier on the purse. Do you want to come along?" For some reason, I was quick to throw caution to the wind, and I consented. He locked the door at 9, getting ready to close up shop for the night, and we continued getting to know each other. He told me about the types of guys who came in to the store, guys that sounded a lot like me. 4th & University is right in the heart of Hillcrest, so you would expect it to be a magnet for guys like me.

We caught the #11 downtown at 3rd & University, getting off at PCH & Cedar. He pointed to the address numbers on the building across the street (805), and then pointed at the County Administration Building on PCH. Across the street from 805 was a Jack-In-the-Box, and we got a bite before going in. While we were eating, I suddenly became very nervous at what I was about to do. I was fidgeting in my seat and I felt my face growing flush. He sensed this in me immediately and asked what was up. I hemed and hawed and started to back out. He stopped me mid-sentence, squeezed my hand a quick second second, looked me right in the eye, and in a soft, calming voice said, “No one is going to make you do anything you don't want to.” These words managed to cut through the static in my head and almost instantly, I felt secure. We finished our meal and went across the street to 805--this was in a time when the bars and baths didn't have names listed, only numbers, primarily to protect the patrons from gay bashers and Vice cops.

To say that I was like a kid in a candy store was an understatement. 

We each got a locker for $6 and and I got a one-month membership for an extra buck (in 18 years of patronage, I never got a regular membership). I signed my membership card and a consent card, and put my wallet and keys in a lock box. They gave me the key, a towel and a condom and buzzed me in. On the other side of the door were two rows of lockers on each side of the wall. We undressed (for some reason, the easiest part of the night so far), wrapped towels around our waist (a requirement of all patrons, re vice cops potentially undercover)

Eddie gave me the grand tour, upstairs and downstairs, before we went to the outdoor hot tub. This was my first time in a hot tub, and as I stepped in to the water, I let out a yelp. The water was 108 degrees. I eased into the water over a couple minutes, but then fit myself in between Eddie and another friend. There were about six of us in there, and once I was good, Eddie took his new 20-year old prodigy onto his lap. I could have stayed there and let myself be passed around (they were waiting to do this), but I wanted to explore. 

We went upstairs and took a seat, looking at the eye candy there that night. This dark-haired, muscular Daddy about 45 years old was cruising me from the door to his room. Eddie nudged me to go to him. "Remember what I said earlier." I closed the door and was with this man who wanted the same thing I did. There was no danger of being caught, no one there to tell us we were sinners, and for that matter, no one on the outside world would know we were there (25 years before smart phones). A sense of permission was in the air and I let my guard down. I think I was there in the room with him all of ten minutes, but it marked a turning point I would never forget. We went out for several more dips in the hot tub and became fast friends. 

I lost all track of time and before I knew it, I missed the last bus home. But I didn't want to leave. Lockers were rented out for 12 hours, and that wouldn't be until 9:30 am Saturday. I didn't want to leave. I shrugged my shoulders and prepared to spend the night there. Eddie said good night just before leaving and told me to stop by again next Friday. I spent most of that time in the downstairs video lounge. HBO movies played on the big screen, and men would come and sit down, either before leaving, or after hooking up with someone to get their number. Sitting amidst the company of so many like-minded men, no anxiety or fear in the air, was the most liberating feeling.

Surprisingly, when I walked through the door the next morning, not much of an explanation was needed. I just told Mom I stayed overnight with a friend and she accepted it.

Over the course of the next month, I would go to the Vulcan four times. I would pick up my paycheck, take the bus to Hillcrest, go to the Paper Rose and have a kiki with Mother Eddie. And each time, we added one or two to the caravan, and by the fourth time, there were 8 of us. It became my mission to increase my number of tricks by one. Obviously, I had no way to keep up the pace, but it would have been fun trying.

Going to the baths is where I first learned the art of cruising. Cruising is like flirting with a little octane. The object is two-fold: a) to be able to let a man you are interested in know that you are into him, and b) to let him know what you are into, which you can do by flagging hankies, keys or objects. If you want to give, you flag on the left, and if you want to receive, you flag right--on the West Coast, at least. There are Hanky Codes for gay men, lesbians, transpeople, twinks, Leatherfolk, etc., and each code is different. Non-verbal communication is something the LGBTQ community and its subcultures used to have to use to survive in the days when being out might mean your ass, and though its time of being in vogue has passed, save for those niche nights at gay bars or what have you, it's symbolic value is mostly historical and cultural. (We now return you to your regularly scheduled broadcast.)

My trips to Vulcan were not without their failed/aborted attempts. This is simply by virtue of the fact that I was a young gay man with hormones racing, and I was going into an open or private room with a man I'd never met before. Eye candy and a hot body don't always translate into a satisfying sexual encounter. 

Sometimes, the other man turns into a "do me" boy (just there to get off himself, with no concern for the pleasure of the other); other times, the other man just is newly out himself or just not skilled, and it falls flat. One of the gang that would be in the hot tub when Eddie and I slipped in took me up to his room for whatI thought it would be just another good time, but it turned into an hour-long episode of teeth that he didn't know how to keep out of the way, if you catch my drift. Oh and don't ask me (or any other bathhouse rat) to give accurate descriptions of the other person. Alcohol or drugs might be involved, or it might be hormones, or bad lighting. Bathhouses are mostly about quantity over quality, at least for gay men who have been starved for affection and release. 


One night, about a month later (before that fourth trip), the conversation came around to the first time I walked in the store. Mother Eddie had taken to letting me sit behind the counter with him, and we were all having our pre-baths klatch, chatty as ever. I started to feel this urge from somewhere inside me (I'll call it intestinal fortitude), that said, "Speak up now." I wasn't fooling anyone in the room, myself included. I couldn't be any safer than I was in the moment, surrounded by other men who had been through the same struggle as me. The words and deeds of others as well as the self-inflicted emotional pain no longer controlled me, and I no longer feared who I was. It was okay. It was time. I waited for the right time in the conversation and I blurted out the words just as quickly as when Mother Eddie first asked me.

"Oh, by the way, I've decided to just be gay."

It took about a second for my realization to register, and they all nodded in affirmation. Eddie was the only one who spoke. "I knew you were the night you first walked in, but I know you had to do this when the time was right for you." 

And just like that, at about 8:30 on July 14, 1989, my closet door came crumbling down.

Eddie turned the entrance sign to closed, cashed out the register, and we all followed him out the back entrance, heading down in two cars. Friday night frolic was about to commence. I left at about 9 am Saturday, and I had caught enough rest (loud disco music doesn't really allow anyone a chance to sleep), and I wasn't ready to go home. I spent the morning in Hillcrest and Mission Hills, walking around with a small boom box on my left shoulder, Prince's Batman soundtrack in the cassette deck (this was 1989), singing along to the seductive ballad “Scandalous" without a care in the world and just feeling myself. I'd listened to that song many nights in room, lip syncing along and feeling my 20-year-old oats, not knowing my life was about to change forever.

I found myself walking in the doors of the Mission Hills Library. I sat down at a table with a couple random books, and as I was thumbing through them absent-mindedly, I looked up and across the room. There he was. A man in his late 20s/early 30s, with piercing green eyes, blonde flat-top, with broad shoulders and a stocky frame (slightly v-shaped. Picture Jonathan Fried from the movie B.A.P.S. and you've got the man I was cruising. He caught me mid-gaze and didn't turn his eyes away. I could feel my heart racing.

We danced around each other visually for a few minutes. I couldn't let this moment pass. I had to let him know I was interested in him, but how. I got paper and pen from a librarian's desk, went to my seat and wrote him a simple note: “I'm warm for your form and I want to get to know you. Come on over and talk to me.” I made sure he was watching me as I got up, went to a bookshelf, hid the note in a book and went back to my seat. He waited a couple minutes before getting up. When he read the note, he bent backward, look of excitement plain on his face. He picked up his things and came over to my table to introduce himself, complimenting me on my moxy. Chuck was his name, and I quickly began to feel his charm. About five minutes in, we both knew where this was going. “Would you like to go for a ride?” I nodded quickly, we got up and went to his car. 

I thought we were headed to his place, but we spent the next hour just driving around, getting to know each other. It wasn't long before he was holding my hand. My state of being was nervous yet calm, and up for anything he wanted to do. Anything.

It was Chuck who didn't want to move too fast, and he took me to Presidio Park, where we went on a nice, long walk through the trees and hills. I remember a trail that led to a bridge, where we stopped smack dab in the middle of the bridge and held hands and hugged in front of passers by, which led a long hug and a first kiss. His lips were warm and inviting, setting off a reaction inside that I'd never felt with another man. Even with everyone walking by, soon enough, it was just the two of us. Being this free to be affectionate with someone out in the open was new to me, and I was nervous about being too demonstrative, but to my surprise, no one said a word. They might have given us a second look as they walked by, but that was about it. Before either of us knew it, late afternoon had arrived, and we left the park for more driving. I mentioned that Ocean Beach was my favorite beach, and he had an idea. "I know a place just South of there, called Sunset Cliffs, and I like to go out there to think now and then. Let's go there. We headed out, this gone man and I, in a seeming mad daze to know more and more about each other. The temptation was too great for either of us to ignore, and there, in the backseat of his Buick, we had our first time together. It took all the energy I had in me, having been up for over 36 hours, and I collapsed into Chuck's arms in a heap, my head resting against his chest as we both drifted off.

We woke up early the next morning and rode away from the secluded spot we'd found for the night, heading first to a convenience store to get food for breakfast, before heading back to Sunset Cliffs, where we spent the day, still in a mad dash of conversation. When we parked, he went to his glove box and pulled out a mirror and a baggie full of white powder—meth, he said, and offered me a line. I looked at it for a good, long second, before refusing, but I didn't have any problem with him partaking. I'd heard all the horror stories about drugs of any kind all through my life, and maybe my growing infatuation with him was blinding me to any behaviors I should have seen, but at that point in time, he was busting every myth implanted in my mind about drug use.

We kept talking and talking, and I felt free to share a lot more with him than anyone I'd ever known. We were in a really good place, when our focus was broken by argument breaking out around the car, from the people in the car to our left. At one point, one of the men arguing slammed his fist down on Chuck's car, I'd never seen a man move so fast, more out of a sense of protection than anything. I watched Chuck from my seat as he opened his door, let it fly open just a bit, went right up to the guy and backed him down. All parties in the argument left shortly after that. That was impressive. He didn't raise a hand to anyone, but they knew he meant business. 

Sensations started building inside me, going beyond the sparks of chemistry. I knew what the feeling was and I knew its name the minute I felt it. I guess the heart just knows. I was falling for him. HARD. The words stayed on the tip of my tongue for several minutes, once he got back in the car, and I mustered up the nerve to work them into the conversation, this time sliding them in there as “effortlessly” as I did when I told Mother (Eddie) I was “just gay.” 

“In the short time I've known you, I've grown closer to you than anyone else I have ever known...you know, I think I love you.” He held my hand tight as I continued. “Tomorrow morning's gonna be hard. I've spent all this time with you since yesterday morning, what seems like forever. I've never had anyone be this interested in me, listening to me, be with me. I don't think I love you, I know it. I lo--...” Before I could finish, he reached over and planted a kiss on me that would have made me go weak if I was standing. When I asked if we would go back to his place that night, he told me he was mad at his father for something, and was out of the house for the whole weekend. I didn't think twice of that. “Anyway,” he said, “I don't want to think about that right now. I just want to be with you. I love you, too.” Here, I reached over and kissed him. We spent the rest of that night together, nothing else on our minds but each other.

And so, I fell in love right there at the Cliffs. Head over heels in love. Madly in love. When he dropped me off Monday morning, we exchanged numbers, and he told me to call him during the week so we could plan our next get together. We shared one last kiss before he drove off. As I was walking up the stairs to my place, I didn't know what would come out of my mouth when I walked through the door. It ended up being a quick explanation of, “I met a new friend and we got along so well, he let me sleep over.” I don't know if either Mom or Dad bought it, but they didn't ask any questions. I didn't care. I had fallen in love and I couldn't get him off my mind. I didn't want him off my mind. I hoped he would keep his word.