Sometime that spring Brian asked if I’d join him in Palm Springs for five days, and I was game. He made all of the arrangements, and by flying into Ontario rather Palm Springs (two hours away) the money we saved on the flight paid for a rental car for the duration. So what do you do on a long drive with a good friend?
You converse, but a half hour into the drive Brian told me that we needed to have an hour quiet time … no talking! Um. Well. Okay. This seemed extremely strange to me. There were interesting things and attractive vistas to point out along the way, but my lips were sealed. And you know I didn’t say one word until we got out of the car at the resort. (For the record, this was the first and last trip that I ever took with Brian.)
The clothing optional ‘gay’ resort was not actually in Palm Springs, but at a very secluded locale in Rancho Mirage, and it was fantastic; sort of a desert version of Wildwood Ranch at the Russian River. With the pool, the restaurant, the bar, the disco, and all of the men, there didn’t seem much reason to go anywhere else, but the first couple of nights we did check out the Palm Springs night life, which didn’t actually do it for me.
Early the third evening there was a barbeque at the resort, after which Brian took the car and left for the bars, while I chose to stay at the resort. Went to the bar/disco there and it wasn’t long before a very good-looking fellow and I gravitated towards each other. We talked a little bit and then started making out. It may sound weird, but I find making out at a bar very hot, and I‘m not alone in that.
We soon found our way back to my room, and to make a long wonderful story short, it was the last great sex of my life. We had just finished with what must have been the second encore, when Brian arrived. He was totally pissed off, said he’d be back in an hour, and we had best be done. What was the problem? We weren’t sharing a bed! Suffice it to say, after that tantrum a third encore wasn’t going to happen, so we exchanged phone numbers.
He lived in LaJolla and was going back in the morning. That was, of course, the last we saw or heard of each other. Brian had surprised me though. Over the years I had shared hotel rooms with many a ‘gay’ friend, we always had separate beds, and there had never been an issue or any animosity when one or the other, or both, got lucky and brought a ‘trick’ back to the room. (Did I mention that this was the first and last trip that I ever took with Brian?)
Interestingly enough, during the many hours I spent at the pool, when I wasn’t distracted by all of the naked men, I was working. In my head that is, where I created the future of my business. It had taken me less than six months to realize that there was a lot of money being spent on the projects that I did, yet I was just getting paid for my time, and my designer clients were making the real money from profits on goods sold. I needed to get my hands on that money. Then, out of the blue sky, or the blue pool, a name came into my head (seriously) it was Western Window Design. Although it would be a year or so until I got this retail arm of the business up and running, it was a beginning.
The Palm Springs sojourn also gave me the opportunity to miss Vince a little, and that wasn’t an entirely bad thing. He was a Critical Care RN and worked in the Cardiovascular Special Care unit at U.C.S.F. His schedule was varied twelve hour shifts, so he’d work four days off three, work three days off two, etc. Being self-employed my schedule was to a degree flexible, so that maximized the time that we could spend together. We continued to date (i.e., hang out together), mostly at his place, and sometimes I brought Daffy with me.
One afternoon while there with Daffy, there was a knock at the door. Vince saw through the peephole that it was his landlord. He freaked, but I simply picked up Daffy and walked into the bedroom, and sort of into the walk-in closet. With Daffy’s little pushed in Pekinese face it was difficult to hold her mouth shut, and just as the landlord was about to leave, Daffy did a little “yip!” Needless to say the landlord investigated further, and I had just gotten out of the closet (again?!?!) when he walked into the bedroom.
Admittedly, the scenario didn’t look entirely innocent, and he went into a tirade about no dogs allowed. I assured him that we were just visiting, but you know how people are sometimes, not willing to let a sleeping dog lie, so to speak. He needed to repeat the tirade a few times, and in so many words I said, Yes, I understand, but you can repeat your admonitions as many times as you want, it won’t change the fact that this dog and I don’t live here! We live in Diamond Heights. One of those times when what you really just want to say, “Bite me!”
As my relationship with Vince progressed, I began to notice a definite pattern with which I was quite familiar. For example, one day at the Cala market on Sutter, just a few blocks away, Vince was doing some shopping and kept asking, “What do you want? Get some things that you like, so you’ll have them at my place.” Just one of many little gestures, perhaps innocuous to most, but to me they spoke volumes. This fellow was treating me the way that I had always treated the objects of my affection. Despite the fact that his physicality wasn’t rocking my world, the way he was treating me and caring for me was having a powerful impact.
Vince had a close friend name Phil, originally from Atlanta, who was an alcoholic. The kind of drunk that got right into a person’s face and violated personal space, a serious encroachment with me. At best, I tolerated Phil. It didn’t help that Phil was perpetually broke, so whenever he joined us on any outing, we had to pick up the tab for him.
Phil was friends with a younger fellow named Scott, originally from Saint Louis, whom Phil was lusting over obscenely, but never had a chance. Blue-eyed blond Scott was a racist, in that only went with blacks. As I would discover years later, Scott was also a heroin addict (that explained a lot), administered in nose drops not injections (I had never heard of that).
In addition to those two, there were the sisters Pavia, Elaine and Linda, who shared a flat in Polk Gulch (at first I thought they were a lesbian couple). Elaine was an architect, Linda the executive assistant to a vice-president of Sutro & Co, an investment firm where she ultimately became a V.P. herself. Linda and Vince had been neighbors and classmates through their school years, their lives so intertwined that they were all like family. She and Vince were the best of friends, and was in fact the reason that Vince had ended up in San Francisco. The sisters had moved there a year or so before he did.
One night Vince and I had gone out to his favorite bar, The Stud, located south of Market. Can’t say whether or not I had a favorite bar, but The Stud wasn’t even on the list. The place was too crowded, as usual, and I ran into a ‘friend’ of mine named Kent (not the Kent of prep school and Boston fame). He worked for Decorators’ Walk, a Galleria showroom, where I had created window coverings and fabric walls for a couple of vignettes. Kent and I had gone out a couple of times, but mostly we just had each other on speed dial for booty calls.
Kent was being quite amorous and I was trying to deflect it, but I was uncomfortable, as was Vince was, and I could have written the script for what would transpire. Kent went off to the restroom, and Vince was just antsy. There was something he wanted to say, but was afraid to do so. I knew exactly what it was; I had been there many times. I told him to go ahead and say it, “I doubt that it could be anything that would shock me.”
He went ahead rather nervously, suggesting that we invite Kent to “get together“ with the two of us. I wasn’t shocked. I knew that‘s what he was struggling with. I told him, “First, I am not shocked. Second, that is what I had expected you to say. But third, so far what we have going has been working very nicely for me, and I don’t see any need to change the dynamic.” That was the end of that, and I thought for sure I had jinxed our relationship as well. If so, so be it, I had spent too much time, painful effort, and too many psychotherapy dollars, to start reverting to old behaviors. After that though, I noticed that Vince’s feelings for me were intensified.
It wasn’t long after this that I started to curb my forays into Candyland, and started thinking of our relationship as one with a future. You know what they say about finding what you were looking for, once you have stopped looking. Although we had not yet had any discussions or made any commitments vis-à-vis fidelity, I was pretty much on that track.
Then one day at church I met Casey Jones (his real name). He was a cutie pie, a blue-eyed blond with svelte body and I was very interested. We had a few dates, none of the horizontal variety, and I was keeping him at arm’s length. I told him that I was in the beginning stages of a somewhat committed relationship; therefore our friendship could only be platonic.
That June Ray and Mal from Rhode Island came to visit for a week or so, and the three of us had a blast! During that time, Tom AKA Dr Keller (my ex-shrink) was going to be in town as well. He was staying at The Inn on Castro, a B&B, and I told him that I would pick him up at the airport. That afternoon I had lunch with Ray and Mal in The Castro, and then left them on their own, with plans to rendezvous at The Elephant Walk at a certain time, after I had picked up Dr Keller.
When the good doctor and I made our entrance, Ray and Mal were sitting at the bar with their backs to us. So this is the big moment, I am introducing my psychiatrist to two of my dearest and best friends in the world. As we approached they turned around on cue, and were both sporting those joke glasses, the ones with the thick black rims that have a big funny nose and a big bushy black moustache attached. Now I ask you, that would have been funny in and of itself, but when getting introduced to my shrink?!?!?! (Nice to have memories like that, which bring a smile to my face, rather than the many that bring tears to my eyes.)
Early one evening, shortly after Ray and Mal’s visit, after finishing my dinner and a couple of glasses of wine, the doorbell rang … and there was Casey, what a nice surprise. Returning to the living room I sat back down on the sofa, but Casey didn’t sit down, he just kept standing there in front of me … in tight shorts, and a tight T-shirt, a short one that left his smooth hard midriff exposed. Well … I’m only human. I grabbed his hand and dragged him into the bedroom … he left for work early the next morning.
Later that day I found a lovely basket of fresh flowers at my door, and a nice note. Apparently Casey thought that that interlude had heralded a new beginning for us. But it didn’t, it was just my weak moment (or weak hours). That evening Vince arrived for dinner, one of his few visits to my place, and when he saw the flowers he asked, with trepidation in his voice, “Who are these from?” “Oh those?” I said, “They’re from Safeway, they were half price.” He smiled with a big sigh of relief. (Proving that sometimes telling the truth is not really the best decision.)
One day we went downtown on Vince’s motorcycle. I had always thought it was pretty cool tooling around the city on the back, except when going up some of the steeper hills. We did Union Square like it had never been done before, including Macys, Neiman Marcus, and Saks. At one place Vince picked out a shirt for me, and insisted I had to buy it. It was very nice, that’s for sure, but it was fifty dollars … on sale!
Sale be damned, fifty dollars for a shirt?!?! Guess so, I bought it. Then he picked out some trousers for me, which I had to try on. They fit fine, so I put my own pants back on, and walked out of the changing area. “Where are the pants?” Vince demanded. “Right here, they fit fine.” “No, no, no, go put them on again and show me.” “Really?!” Who was this strange man?
As August approached I started thinking about my return to Rhode Island. All of the stuff in the garage needed to be dispensed with, and I had decided to put the cottage (which was again rented for the summer) on the market. I invited Vince to join me, and when he said he couldn’t afford it, I told him that I’d cover his airfare. The least I could do to compensate for all of the help he would be giving me. He was uncomfortable with that, and reluctant at first, but finally acquiesced.
We were in Rhode Island for two or three weeks, and had a great time. We stayed at Ray and Mal’s, sleeping in their “condo” … a garden shed that Ray had expanded to twice its original size, thus creating a snug guest house. Their house did have a guest room and a den with foldout sofa, but as usual both of those rooms were filled to capacity with stuff. Being antiquers I suppose it would be fair to call them collectors, yet despite loving them dearly, I have to admit that they were not collectors at all … they were hoarders.
They just bought and bought and bought, filling the attic, a shed in the backyard, putting up another shed and filling that, and another, ditto, ditto, ditto. Mal had over 10,000 records, mostly 78s. Once they got into buying exercise equipment (prevalent at yard sales) and put up a big metal barn to use as a gym, but instead they just filled it to the brim with equipment. When I had my antique shop I collected two things, small ceramics “Made in Occupied Japan” and another, blue-on-white, called Firebird or Flying Turkey.
Once those two started collecting it I could find no more. Whatever shop or yard sale or flea market I went to, it was the same thing … oh, there were two guys just here who bought all of it. They bought it and packed it into bushel baskets and stored it away. As for me, my collections were limited by how much room I had to display everything, if I couldn’t show it nicely I wouldn’t buy it. I’d never buy anything just to pack it away.
In Jerusalem Vince and I worked on the garage, trying to make order out of chaos. The weekend that the cottage changed renters we dragged a lot of stuff out of the attic, and added it to the garage. The following weekend when we had a garage sale, it was so crammed full of stuff that we had barely been able to make tiny aisles, and fortunately it didn’t rain because the driveway was loaded. At the end of the weekend the garage was almost empty, and I had taken in over $1,500, more than enough to cover our airfares. But I don’t what to dwell on that anymore, and fret about all of the things that shouldn’t have gone for a song.
In addition to the work, we had a lot of fun romping around southern Rhode Island, and spent some leisurely hours on a very private stretch of beach in Jerusalem on Salt Pond, which Vince loved. We called it “(Our) Own Private Idaho” and he couldn’t imagine why I wanted to leave that area. It wasn’t difficult to explain, there were reasons.
Ray and Mal took us on an excursion one day to Connecticut, where we took a cruise down the Connecticut River and out into Long Island Sound – passing Katherine Hepburn’s estate on the southwest shore at the mouth of the river – and on to Montauk Point on the tip of Long Island, where we had lunch. One day we did the grand tour of Wakefield, all four blocks, where at the old Kenyon’s Department Store, still a relic of the 1940’s, it seemed as though we were reenacting the Woolworths scene from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
We spent a day with Bobby and Debbie Lowney in Swansea and, as Deb told me later, both of them were shocked. True to form Vince dominated conversations, and was obviously the dominate force (although I was the behind the scenes detail man who made all of his plans happen). They had been accustomed to me being the boss, or thinking I was.
Despite flying into and out of JFK, Vince purposely avoided a visit with his family in Schenectady, just three hours north. We spent three days in NYC though, where his sister Cheryl and cousin Tina joined us. I had thought it quite strange, he boycotting his family like that, and it would be some time later before I learnt it was because he had yet to ‘come-out’ to them. He didn’t want to go there with me.
We had a pretty good time with Cheryl and Tina, and got tickets to the painfully slow, macabre and depressing Broadway show, ‘Night, Mother’. Cheryl was a bit of a tomboy, never wearing anything but sweatshirts, jeans, and untied sneakers, but Vince felt the need to dress her up for the show and dinner. So we invested a lot of time at Macys, etc., trying to find something that was dressy enough to meet Vince’s approval, yet plain and simple and unfeminine enough for Cheryl to agree to wear it. It wasn’t easy, and I am certain she only wore it that one time.
Going out to dinner with Vince was never easy. Being a fantastic cook himself, he was only interested in restaurants that promised to offer a fare better than what he could create. He had a list of potential restaurants in New York, but no real clear address or location information or any idea how to get to them (hence me being the detail man).
As much as I enjoy good food, plain or fancy is always fine with me. And, although I rarely get hungry, when I do I must eat immediately or I’ll be a very unhappy camper. After the show, however, Vince was off on his quest for the perfect restaurant. We found an Italian one on his list, but after perusing the menu he wasn’t sure that he would like it. There was a Howard Johnson’s on the same block, and I put my foot down … either we eat here or I‘m going to Ho Jo’s. I need food now! We ate Italian and he hated it.
Once we got back to San Francisco we made the monogamy commitment, and then for me the next step was cohabiting. I approached it slowly. Two of his/Phil’s friends, David and Wayne (a different couple, not the ones in Rhode Island), had moved Rio Nido on the Russian River, and invited us up for a weekend; so the three of us left on a Saturday morning, Phil being the third wheel, of course.
My Datsun pickup had a bench seat, not buckets, so we all sat in front. On the way there that thoughtless Phil starts whispering to Vince. Now I ask you, how rude is that? Needless to say, I blew my top. Don’t be riding in my truck and whispering right in front of me! If you two have secrets to tell, or something to say that you can’t say in front of me, wait till you get out of the friggin’ truck and the go get some privacy. Or … get out now!
Once we got to Rio Nido we were introduced to another couple, Frankie and … Johnny maybe, they
were lovers. Good thing we had brought the futon. The weekend went okay, and a couple of weeks later I had arrived at Vince’s as planned early one evening. He told me that he had spent some time with Frankie that afternoon. They had run into each other on Polk Street, and Frankie had some pot, so they went back to Vince’s place to smoke a joint. Which they did, he said, and listened to music
and … ? He didn’t say it, but he was real antsy and struggling with it. I just breezed on by that and changed the subject.
There was never any question in my mind that the two of them had shagged, he didn’t need to tell me, which he was on the verge of doing. I didn’t need to hear it. Despite the fact that this was after we had made the monogamy commitment (my Casey interlude had been before), much to my surprise I just shrugged it off. I thought to myself, Good for him, I wouldn’t have minded shagging Frankie myself. (Considering how I might have reacted to a similar incident in years passed, this was another of those who-is-it-that-has-taken-over-my-body moments.) Little did any of us know it at the time, but later I would come to fully believe, that it was Vince’s little indiscretion with Frankie that had sealed our destiny.
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