Where Has All the Good Sex Gone?

THAT OUGHT TO HOLD IT TOGETHER TIL I HAVE TIME TO SEE A DOCTOR

Stanley Stellar

by Edisol W. Dotson

T

he street people roam about, asking strangers for change. Others huddle, asleep or unconscious, in abandoned doorways. Street vendors gather up their gouds: a signal of nightfall. I sit in a tiny cafe on Connecticut Avenue, alone and bored.

The same people on the street stare at me through the window as they pass. They are safe from me now. The glass has become their guardian angel. I cannot speak to them. I can only smile, or look at them hungrily until they are gone. They dare not return for a second glance, in fear of my coming outside, where we would not have our mutually protective glass. What would we say after, "Hi, how are you? My name is--" If I could only count the ones that I wanted to talk to but didn't or couldn't.

Through the large picture window of the cafe, I can see the local gay bookstore across the street. This is a "legitimate" bookstore-that is, it sells works of literature as opposed to the "illegitimate" works sold in the stores in the more sleazy parts of town. As though it were important to continue the close identification of sex and gays, this bookstore has a section of pornographic

ing to find someone to look at. Though its legitimacy may at times be questionable, at least the store will always serve a purpose, as a place where I can feel equal and welcome.

A few blocks down from the cafe is a bar nudged between a fast food restaurant and an ice cream store. Entering this bar is like walking into a shoe store that sells only one shoe out of two. The men line the walls, from one end to the other: businessmen, punks and new wavers, preppies and yuppies all mesh into one smoldering mound of homosexual flesh. Cocktail in hand, I wedge my way between Mr. IBM and what appears to be a now busted-and-broke former member of the Sex Pistols. Mr. IBM looks nervous. Maybe his palms are sweating and this is why he is rubbing them together, or perhaps he is frightened that someone he knows may spot him. As I turn towards Mr. Sex Pistol, he leans his head against the wall. His eyes are closed and his body rocks to the vintage disco music as he fondles the safety pin that pierces his ear. Across from me, a drag queen poses for her fans. Her hair is teased to resemble a ten-story building. Her head is cocked to one side, purposely or from the weight of the one earring she wears.

After a while, each bar I enter begins to resemble the one I just left. It is only while

I walk through the streets of Dupont Circle that I see, hear, and smell the variety that is Washington. I pass the rows of townhouses and apartment buildings. I find myself look-

magazines and novels. There was a time when I was angered by the sale of porn materials, but nowadays I am relieved that men would rather buy a magazine than going in the windows. Occasionally, a male out and pick someone up. On some days, the body passes inside and I am briefly excited. store is as crowded as any of the bars in town. If the gods are truly on my side, he is shirtThe faces and bodies are as heavenly, even in less, perhaps on his way into or out of the the brighter lighting. I can see individuals shower. I could easily become a Peeping whose sexual preference I was never certain Tom. Through the opened back doors of of before. Perhaps I'd seen them in the cruisy many restaurants creeps the smell of cooking "straight" bookstore down the street, or in food-some gourmet, some most definitely the record store next door, and could only not. People I pass talk in many foreign guess or hope they were gay When I see tongues: Spanish, French, German, Jive. It them in this store, I can be fairly certain that is the tongue of desire I listen and watch for as I walk back towards the bars. they are. (Could they just be curious?) I wonder how many come to the store to actually buy something. It's always humorous to watch someone flip through a book. As they turn the pages, their eyes peer over the top edge of the book, looking at someone or try-

It is the second shift, the after-dinner crowd. Mr. IBM and Mr. Sex Pistol have left-alone, with someone, or with each other (I shall never know, but can vividly imagine). It is rare that I see a friend in a bar,

but often I see those I would like not to: ex-beaus, unreachable objects of desire, blind-date rejects, what-have-you. The music has gotten louder as the night has grown older. The mumbled chatter floats above and is lost in the hovering cloud of smoke, never to be understood by anyone standing more than ten inches from the one who spoke it. There is no space to wedge into this time. I am forced to move about, pushed from one shoetree to the next.

The strip joint around the corner is packed, as usual. Patrons under the age of 21 are as obvious as an erection in a Speedo. JT, my favorite dancer, has left this bar for a better-paying one. I ask myself why I stay. Naked men. Perhaps I have a need to rid myself of the crumpled dollar bills in my pocket (strippers are very friendly when I extend money). I try to let my anger show when they rub their sweaty crotches on my slacks. My head spins at the thought of the dry cleaning costs. A stranger sends me a drink. The waiter points out my admirer. I raise the shooter as a gesture of thanks, gulp it down, and leave. (Why couldn't he have been beautiful and under 65?)

Back to the streets. They have become less busy. The street people have gone to their shelters or grates. The vendors have locked away their wares and are at home counting their money and questioning their move to America. There are not so many lights on in the houses now. I wonder, on any given. night, how much sex is had in this city. How clearly defined are the roles of our sexuality? How many are active? How many are passive? How many are so talented to be both? I laugh aloud as I think of how long it was before I knew what "GR/A" and "GR/P" meant. Was I ever so young and naive? I arrive at my apartment building, but I cannot enter. I am not ready to face its bleakness. I cannot spend another evening listening to Shirley Bassey and staring at my photographs of Misha.

The third time is rumored to be the charm. Somehow this magic doesn't seem to permeate the walls of the bar. The crowd has thinned considerably. Their heads turn as I enter, but they dare not stare for any extended period of time (there is no glass to protect NEW YORK

them). It is customary to look at new arrivals. If interest is stirred, those desires are dealt with in time. The music continues, the chatter is sparse (more of us are alone than not). Easily, we are all the same person, asking ourselves the same questions, searching for the same answers. Why am I constantly searching? I look around at what is available, as if I were shopping for a new sweater. I listen for that little voice inside me, the voice that tells me when to approach. I hear nothing. It is growing late; I am tiring. Why do I hate being alone? Why this constant desire to have a lover?

Home now. I have removed my contacts, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. It is dark and I am in bed. The red glow of my cigarette brightens as I inhale, illuminating my face and that of the sleeping man beside me. Ours was certainly not one of those magical meetings. No fireworks, no violins. It was late and we were the only two left inside the bar. The others had found their magicor, as I had, simply manufactured it. Though I try, I cannot remember his name. After our first kiss, he made it clear that he was not looking for a lover; sex was what I had of fered and what he had accepted. In our passion, we reached but one obstacle. He complained of my "breaking the moment" when insisted upon using a rubber. I explained to him that there are no "moments" in having sex, only in making love.

I

Isn't it funny how something so tiny it can't be seen with the naked eye can have such a drastic impact on our lives? Something so destructive that it forces us to totally change our habits? The sex I took for granted for so many years is so unobtainable now it brings a tear to my eye. One-night stands are more like 30-minute diversions, and the saying "Wham, bam, thank you, Sam" has become as precious as a 1930s Joan Crawford film. The physical act of sex was never terribly important to me, but it was fun. As a child, being careful and safe was never fun. I longed for the day when, as a grown-up, I could stop being careful and safe. Well, here I am all grown up, but not having much fun. NATIVE/DECEMBER 23-29, 1985 25