11 ‘Straight’ Things I Did Growing Up That Were Gay Cover-Ups
1) Collect “Playboy” and “Penthouse.” Yep, I gathered them up, usually from the local recycle bins, and kept them under my bed where friends could check them out and think I was one of the boys. But here’s the masturbation rub. If you checked out those publications carefully, they almost always had a section that included a touch of male nudity — usually just the backside of some guy doing a girl. Hey, tough times called for tough measures. I also peeked at “Playgirl” at the local drugstore, but I wouldn’t dare try to buy one or bring it home.
2) Plaster My Bedroom Wall with Male Rock Star Posters. How cool was I to have Robert Plant, Mick Jagger, and (God forgive me) Ted Nugent among my paper-covered room? Cool enough to buy the ones that proved none of these men wore underwear, and always had left or right proclivities. Admittedly, I was probably pushing things by the time I placed Freddie Mercury above my bed. I doubt anyone bought the story that I, too, loved fat-bottomed girls.
3) See “Rocky” Five Times Because Who Doesn’t Love Boxing Movies? Me, for one, but damn did I have the hots for Sly. No one was going to bully me for rooting for a winner, even though I was rooting for him to ditch Adrian and run through those streets in search of me. Fly, Sylvester, fly! Ditto being “hip” for seeing Saturday Night Fever over and over, when all I actually wanted was to see Travolta grind. Admittedly, I was probably pushing it by the time I went to see Staying Alive, because that was the most blatant piece of homoerotic viewing since Starsky met Hutch.
4) Watch “Starsky and Hutch” Because I “Loved” Cop Shows. Yeah, right, and I loved Charlie’s Angels because of the brilliant, intricately woven plotlines and not Farrah Fawcett’s brilliant, intricately woven hair. And anyone who thinks I watched The Wild Wild West because that time period fascinated me has never had a fantasy duel with Robert Conrad’s tight, tight jeans.
5) Convince My Mother to Buy Me a Ken Doll Because He’s Not a Doll, He’s a Man. A brilliant strategy, as it forced my sisters to play Barbie (and Ken) with me, and, when alone, fantasize about the man of my dreams. I fell madly in love with Ken and often think I’ve never found the right guy because, let’s face it, no one could compete with his hair. Except Farrah, of course, and buying her doll probably drowned out any attempts to conceal my true gay self.
6) Skinny-Dip with My Male Friends. Late at night my buds and I would swim at the local pool, and it was my brilliant suggestion to do it in the buff. Sure, it sounded like a manly dare, but it was actually a way to peek at the budding young bodies surrounding me. And to nonchalantly check to see if any of them also had hard choices in front of them.
7) “Help” My Hunky Older Next-Door Neighbor Fix His Car. Tom had a hotrod that he loved almost as much as I loved his slicked-back hair and hairy chest — he never worked on that car with a shirt on. Young buck that I was, I’d volunteer to do something — wash, hand him things, sit in those upholstered seats and imagine him taking me to inspiration point, er, turn the ignition on when he needed a start-up. It would appear that I was learning about mechanics, when I was really discovering the world of my racing heart.
8) Get a Subscription to “GQ” Because I Wanted to Expand My Fashion Choices. I certainly wanted to expand something. Anyone who “read” “GQ” back in the day knows that it was pure homoerotic imagery wrapped up in a mainstream publication. Male models in skimpy swimsuits, male models glistening in the sun next to other male models, male models wrestling with other male models, the occasional photo of Andie MacDowell, who kind of resembled a male model. I don’t remember when the magazine transformed into a publication that actually catered to heterosexual men (gasp!), but it was an unhappy ending to my quarterly gentlemen viewing.
9) Repeatedly Watch “Mandingo” on Channel 100 Because I Was Fascinated by the History of Slavery in America. Do I really need to explain this one?
10) Invite My Macho Photography Partner (Whom I Happened To Be in Love with) to Take Photos in San Francisco. What better way to take get an “A” in photography class than by heading to the city with amazing architecture, stunning views, and men holding hands in the Castro. Mike had a Trans Am, listened to Rush, and loved to down brewskies after baseball practice. I don’t know how we ended up in the same class together (I was a Sophomore and he was a Senior!), but we hit it off so well our budding romance seemed inevitable — by now I’d read Maurice. Mike just needed a push. The city was a bust, since he really did seem fascinated by the Golden Gate (snore) Bridge, so I later got him to take me to a J. Geils concert. He drove, we drank, and I lovingly punched him so many times that we almost fell off the balcony. We drank more, we drove home, we somehow survived alive and out of jail, and then we talked for an hour in front of my house. Despite the booze, the stars, and his “manspreading,” I couldn’t get up the nerve to touch him or tell him. We left each other in the middle of the night, alone. The pictures turned out great, but love really does stink.
11) Volunteer to Build Sets at the Local Community Theater Because That’s What Real Men Do. Real gay men do this if the director/construction worker is 22 and gay, you’re 16, and he’s got a body that deserves a standing ovation. I don’t remember how many hours I spent building that f****** set, but my work paid off at the opening night party, when I made sure we were the only two left and I had no one to drive me home. Whoops! John happily volunteered, he somehow took the long way home past quiet streets and to an abandoned field (I might have misdirected him), and I used every inch of his body to finally become a man. Take a bow, David.
