really.
San Francisco has an odd way of making you feel like it is the centre of the universe, and I can remember how shocked I was, when I phoned my mother to reassure her that I wasn’t dead, to discover that our earth-moving experience hadn’t even made it on to the news there. Back at work when I told my new best friend Elizabeth about our global snub, she too gasped in disbelief. It must have been especially hard for her to understand because her family were firmly entrenched in the ‘old money’ part of the city. They were involved with the opera and ballet, and if what went on in San Francisco didn’t matter then their lives were meaningless.
Perhaps it was because of my experience with Obo that I was so drawn to this woman who inhabited such a different world from Stardance. Blonde and beautiful in that waspishAmerican way, Elizabeth lived with her grandparents in a huge house near the Presidio, an area that was effortlessly tasteful – the sort of place that families in TV movies live in until someone kills the babysitter.
Elizabeth, too, was effortlessly tasteful. Although only in her early twenties, she had strict rules for life. At nineteen, a young woman should choose a hairstyle that would serve her for life – she had opted for a short bob. One should never order a drink that had a name – the one exception being a Bloody Mary. These are just the ones I remember, but there were many more. I don’t want to give the wrong impression about her because she was also very bright and funny and fiercely independent. She had been doing a degree in English at Berkeley for what seemed to me a very long time and supporting herself by doing various restaurant jobs.
I can’t quite explain what happened with Elizabeth. What began as simple meetings as friends – a picnic in the park, an art house movie, coffee and cake in some trendy café – slowly became dates. I think some of it stemmed from the stupid badge I had bought that had the slogan about too little nerve. Elizabeth seemed to see it as some sort of challenge, a way of me asking her to make the first move, and so late one night I found myself standing outside her house kissing her. I’m sure a few curtains twitched, but they only saw a nice young white couple making out before the gentleman headed home. Given that this was San Francisco, it is extraordinary that no one looked out of their window and saw the reality of the situation: a young gay man in denial clinging to the deluded desires of a love-hungry girl.
It seems incredible to me now that not only did I have a relationship with this woman, but also that it lasted for a littleover a year. The Esther affair can be explained or understood because I’d loved the drama of it all, and although it hadn’t involved hairy chests and cocks at least it had had the frisson of forbidden love attached to it. This was entirely different. A young woman my own age, a perfectly pleasant, pretty woman going out with me – me! If the gay world gave out prizes I was in with a very good shot of getting ‘Most promising newcomer’. For me I suppose it was my last-chance dance with acceptability and a simple straightforward life with the Sunday papers, corduroy trousers and a dog.
More than that, though, I did love her. Of course we should have just remained very close friends, but my cock was not the brightest beast on the block and, as I’ve discovered many times since, it sometimes finds it hard to get a grasp on the concept of friendship when it can stick itself into people. The real question is what was going through Elizabeth’s head? Why did she do this? Well, as my friend Carrie Fisher explains when people ask her why she didn’t spot that she had married a gay man, we were having sex, lots of sex.
I don’t spend a great deal of time thinking or talking about my straight experiences, but if people find out about them they always want to know about the difference in the sex – is it better with
San Francisco has an odd way of making you feel like it is the centre of the universe, and I can remember how shocked I was, when I phoned my mother to reassure her that I wasn’t dead, to discover that our earth-moving experience hadn’t even made it on to the news there. Back at work when I told my new best friend Elizabeth about our global snub, she too gasped in disbelief. It must have been especially hard for her to understand because her family were firmly entrenched in the ‘old money’ part of the city. They were involved with the opera and ballet, and if what went on in San Francisco didn’t matter then their lives were meaningless.
Perhaps it was because of my experience with Obo that I was so drawn to this woman who inhabited such a different world from Stardance. Blonde and beautiful in that waspishAmerican way, Elizabeth lived with her grandparents in a huge house near the Presidio, an area that was effortlessly tasteful – the sort of place that families in TV movies live in until someone kills the babysitter.
Elizabeth, too, was effortlessly tasteful. Although only in her early twenties, she had strict rules for life. At nineteen, a young woman should choose a hairstyle that would serve her for life – she had opted for a short bob. One should never order a drink that had a name – the one exception being a Bloody Mary. These are just the ones I remember, but there were many more. I don’t want to give the wrong impression about her because she was also very bright and funny and fiercely independent. She had been doing a degree in English at Berkeley for what seemed to me a very long time and supporting herself by doing various restaurant jobs.
I can’t quite explain what happened with Elizabeth. What began as simple meetings as friends – a picnic in the park, an art house movie, coffee and cake in some trendy café – slowly became dates. I think some of it stemmed from the stupid badge I had bought that had the slogan about too little nerve. Elizabeth seemed to see it as some sort of challenge, a way of me asking her to make the first move, and so late one night I found myself standing outside her house kissing her. I’m sure a few curtains twitched, but they only saw a nice young white couple making out before the gentleman headed home. Given that this was San Francisco, it is extraordinary that no one looked out of their window and saw the reality of the situation: a young gay man in denial clinging to the deluded desires of a love-hungry girl.
It seems incredible to me now that not only did I have a relationship with this woman, but also that it lasted for a littleover a year. The Esther affair can be explained or understood because I’d loved the drama of it all, and although it hadn’t involved hairy chests and cocks at least it had had the frisson of forbidden love attached to it. This was entirely different. A young woman my own age, a perfectly pleasant, pretty woman going out with me – me! If the gay world gave out prizes I was in with a very good shot of getting ‘Most promising newcomer’. For me I suppose it was my last-chance dance with acceptability and a simple straightforward life with the Sunday papers, corduroy trousers and a dog.
More than that, though, I did love her. Of course we should have just remained very close friends, but my cock was not the brightest beast on the block and, as I’ve discovered many times since, it sometimes finds it hard to get a grasp on the concept of friendship when it can stick itself into people. The real question is what was going through Elizabeth’s head? Why did she do this? Well, as my friend Carrie Fisher explains when people ask her why she didn’t spot that she had married a gay man, we were having sex, lots of sex.
I don’t spend a great deal of time thinking or talking about my straight experiences, but if people find out about them they always want to know about the difference in the sex – is it better with
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