I went to the South Florida Gay Pride Festival, held at the Hollywood Sportatorium. Almost immediately, I saw a familiar face: an ex-student of mine whose name I couldn’t remember. Hand in hand with his boyfriend, and wearing an “I’m Proud to Be Gay” button and a huge grin, the kid had dignity.
Todd dropped me off at the subway stop at 14th Street before he and Josh drove back to Brooklyn. I decided to get off at 79th rather than 86th so that I could take one last walk down Broadway. Teresa and Juliana were in their bathrobes, chatting and drinking coffee, when I got home.
He believes sex should be exciting, and he loves the danger of public sex. Elihu’s fantasy is to have sex on top of the Empire State Building, and he told me about his experiences in Brooklyn Heights playgrounds. It’s hard for me to think of him as the same quiet boy I sat next to in social studies class in high school.
One hundred years ago, the Bridge was “the Eighth Wonder of the World,” an amazing achievement by Washington, John and Emily Roebling and the workers who built it. There can be nothing like that today. I watched the fireworks from one of two 110-story towers, but I can’t imagine anyone celebrating the 100th anniversary of the sterile, utilitarian World Trade Center.
We had lunch at Brownie’s. For dessert, we ordered their famous carrot cake, only to find it inferior to our memories of what the cake had been. But Ronna and I go on. I think she’s prettier today than she ever was. All I know is we can still talk and laugh the way we used to ten years ago when we were in love.
10 PM. I just picked up the Sunday Times and a bran muffin on Broadway, made my way past a group of Puerto Rican kids taunting a young Chinese guy walking a poodle, and tried not to look too menacing to an old lady walking in the opposite direction from me on West End Avenue.
No, it wasn’t just sex. Hell, I see a hundred better-looking guys every day. There was something between us; it hit me like a sneak punch when I first looked into his eyes.
Blair is 17, wears four earrings, is being published in his sister’s boyfriend’s Austin punk fanzine, and has been paid for sex. He began the letter “Dear Mr. Grayson,” and ended “Your friend, Blair.” I’m getting old, pardner. Last night one of my students handed in a paper on Jello Biafra and thought he had to explain to me who Jello Biafra was. “I know the Dead Kennedys,” I snapped defensively.
You can’t make anyone love you, and if you could, it wouldn’t be worth it. Still, getting dumped hurts. Yes, yes: intellectually, I know it could never have “worked out” with Sean, and like my breakups with Ronna and Shelli, this will prove a blessing in the long run. But right now I feel like crying.
I’d like to find a new lover, but I believe you can’t go looking for love. At least in my life, it’s always developed naturally out of friendship. I don’t need to try promiscuity, which can be deadly these days, what with AIDS running rampant.