The Single, Gay Life

Divorces are messy affairs, especially when you can't reveal the real reason. When a straight man leaves a marriage for another woman, everybody understands, even though they don't approve on moral grounds. But, when a heretofore closeted man leaves because he is gay, most people simply shut him off from further contact. On balance, my divorce was reasonably amicable.

For one thing I made sure that Karen was well off. I agreed to pay her $900.00 a month as alimony and child support. At the beginning of every year, I would give her 12 checks each in the amount of $900.00, one for each month of the ensuing year. Thus, there would be no problems with back alimony or child support, and there were none. I also gave her the house and both cars. I promised, and in fact did, pay off all our mutual debts except for the home mortgage. I promised, and did, pay all costs of the kid's prep school and college educations. Few are the women divorced from straight men who receive such a ''sweet heart'' deal.

I had to tell the kids about the divorce, but they were too young to tell them the real story -- Jamie was only six; Steve and Stu just eight. The year was 1976. I don't recall what I told them, probably just that their mom and I were getting a divorce. I remember one poignant scene. I was loading up my Datsun with my clothes when little Stu came running up to me, tears in his eyes, to say, ''Where are you going Dad?'' I don't recall what I said in response, but the scene haunted me for years. I assumed for years that my departure would have a traumatic effect on the child. Many years later when he was grown, I asked Stu about it. By this time he had no memory of the incident, not the slightest recollection that it had happened. Funny how some things can seem so traumatic when they occur but in fact have no impact at all.

After separating, I moved into a one room studio on East 85Th Street. It was tiny, only about 200 sq. feet, but only $200 a month. At first I had only a cot, but I went to a thrift store and bought a sleeper sofa, a Dining Room table, and a coffee table. I then had the wood floor sanded and re-stained. I bought a faux oriental area rug to apply over this wood floor, and then I applied polyurethane to the brick walls to make them shine. I painted the bathroom with what must have been the forty fifth layer of paint and hired a handsome carpenter, Ken Lebarre, to make two bookcases with cabinets underneath to be used as my dresser. I hired Ken because he was so handsome, but his work was good. Ten years later, I still had, and was using the book-cases.

The only problem with the apartment was that a Fire House was located down East 85th Street. When there was alarm, the engines came up East 85th, and at a red light on the corner of 85th and Lexington, they would hit their sirens, waking me up along with the dead. The first time that it happened the combination of the siren sounds and the truck's red lights which filled my apartment with their illumination caused me to think war had been declared.

I spent my nights at Uncle Charlie's North cruising, but I was very lonely. I missed the kids. Karen initially refused to let me bring them into the City. She claimed that it was too dangerous. I gave her time, though, and soon they were allowed to come to see me. I believe it was because she realized sons need to see their Dads, and I am eternally grateful to her for this. 1976 was a crossroads for me to say the least, and had I went down the road without my children there would have been no turning back.

The first weekend that they visited, I took them on a Saturday to see Star Wars at the Loews on East 86th Street. On Sunday, we did the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and all those tourist things that kids love. I was happy, enjoying my role as a Father again. It was on this trip that I took the picture of Jamie in the red-hat; it was cold, but the picture was taken at the Statue of Liberty, not at the Empire State Building.

Sometime in the summer of '76, I met a man named Bruce at Uncle Charlies. Bruce was a quality Gay. A young doctor at Sloan Kettering, he was about my height, blond with blue eyes. He was from North Carolina. We dated for most of the rest of the year. For a time, I thought that he was the 'Right Man' for me, but eventually we grew apart on amicable terms.

On Labor Day weekend, I went to Fire Island Pines. To those not aware, Fire Island is often referred to as "The Gay Hamptons." There I met Don who was a municipal employee in some sort of accounting department. He was much shorter than me but well built. We soon began to date. Don loved me dearly, but the feelings weren't reciprocal. The sex was good, but Don just wasn't my intellectual equal.

One day, Don mentioned to me a friend of his who lived in his apartment building. He said that the guy was named Bert, and that he was an architect. I had a strange feeling. In retrospective, I know now that the feeling was that of manifest destiny. In the fall of '76 Don had inherited some money so he used it to buy a condo in the central Village. He held a 'going away' party on September the 29th. I was invited, but I had had a hectic day at work and didn't feel like going to the party or fooling around with Don on that evening. I came home and threw on some old clothes fully intending to have a drink and drift off into unconsciousness. After being home, though, I remembered that I had promised to bring two bags of ice. The stench of work had worn off by now, so I decided to go. Never has two bags of ice had such dramatic consequences.

I arrived early and went to work in the kitchen by helping Don prepare Swedish Meatballs. Then there came a knock at the door and a divine apparition entered, at least to me. Don introduced him as Bert. I shook his hand like I was being introduced to Adonis himself. His entrance to the apartment was like Elizabeth Taylor's entrance to Rome in Cleopatra. All that I could think was, "Why in the hell did I wear these damn old clothes?"

Not since the night that I met Henry in my Phi Tau fraternity days had I met a man like this, a veritable God-like figure. He was wearing black jeans, and a black t-shirt with his college's name, Syracuse, printed in Orange about the right nipple. He was slim with jet black curly hair combed back from the forehead over the rest of his head, very Italian and chic in style. His face was thin and angular. He was of Northern Italian and British extraction.

At the party, I spent most of the time talking or dancing with Bert. From our conversation I could tell that he was very intelligent and well read. He had a cute ass, made prominent by his tight jeans. About halfway through the party, the pile of the guest's fall and early winter coats that had been placed on Don's double bed began to assume mountainous proportions. Bert offered to take some up to this apartment on the fifth floor. Don agreed. I quickly ''volunteered'' to help. You can surmise what happened. Don was out, and I began to have the most important relationship with a man of my life.

Bert proved to be a loving and caring man. He was like a younger brother to me. He was bright and a good conversationalist. As I saw it my role was to support, protect and defend him. The defense part was occasionally physical. One time on Fire Island, we were walking on the boardwalk when a Long Island teenager called Bert a fag. I punched the kid in the stomach, sending him flying off the boardwalk into the sand and brambles below. Another time, we were in Penn Station waiting in a line for a taxi home. A checker cab pulled up, but as Bert reached for the rear door handle, some guy pushed him aside and made a derogatory remark of which I do not remember. As the guy got into the cab, I grabbed him by the collar and sent him flying into the gutter. There were some women in the line -- real feminist types -- who cried out at me ''You Animal!'' What they didn't understand was that this was precisely the image that I wanted to create. If you can't respect me and my lover, then you will learn to fear me.

Call me barbaric if you will, but like all children of the 40's, I was taught that aggression can never be appeased but must be met with quick and overwhelming force --- whether that aggression is the Confederacy firing on Fort Sumter or Hitler' occupation of the Rhineland in 1935. After all, if the French hadn't have been so cowardly (Hitler had given orders that German forces were to retreat at the first signs of allied resistance), 6 million Jews might have been saved.

Bert had spectacular talent as an interior designer. He could make a seemingly modest apartment come to life and make those that lived in it look like celebrities. After our encounter in his apartment, I got his home and work phone numbers. We began to date. I could tell from the events at the party that Bert was not superficial. My clothes didn't matter to him; he liked me for what I was. He once described my face as "having character."

His face was like a figure in a beautiful Botticelli painting. Bert grew up in Northport, Long Island with his mother, Linda, his sister, Christine, and his Father, Bert, Sr. Bert, Jr. was 27 when I met him; I was 34. Bert' s family all knew that he was gay, but only his sister was understanding and accepting. He didn't get along well with his Mother; she just didn't like his lifestyle. He was Roman Catholic, but certainly not a practicing one, as was his family. They were practicing, though, hence some of the division. He would later convert to Episcopalian on his death bed so that he could be buried with me.

Bert's favorite hobby was photography. One of our first dates was a walking and picture taking tour of the cast Iron buildings in Soho and Lower Manhattan. Bert indulged my craving for history; those majestic old buildings were more photographic sites than history to him. Bert's other hobby was drawing. Somewhere there are several drawings of me in my 'Bert Memorabilia' file case. One of my favorites was of me lounging by a stream. Bert called it ''The River God'.' It, like so many of my other things, lies buried somewhere in Stuart's basement.

Bert also had a witty sense of humor. No matter what the incident, Bert had a funny quip to make it immortal. Then in November,1976, a disaster occurred. I had spent Thanksgiving weekend in New Jersey with the kids. We went to the Morris County Museum and Jockey Hollow. Many people don't know it, but Morristown played a major role in the American Revolution. It was Washington's headquarters after his retreat from Manhattan. He stayed in a colonial mansion, while the troops lived in wooden and canvas huts in Jockey Hollow.

When I got back into the City, all the lights in my apartment building were out. Then as I opened the lobby door, the acrid smell of smoke from an electrical fire overwhelmed me. My apartment was literally soaked with the water resulting from the Fire Department extinguishing the blaze. With no place to go, I spent the night in my health club. Bert, when he heard of the fire was quick to invite me to stay with him. As my whole building had been affected by the fire, my landlord offered me, and the other tenants, the option of cancelling the lease or staying. I choose to cancel.

My clothes and books littered Bert's apartment in boxes covered with sheets. I remember, with amusement, Bert quipping that, ''Your wool suits smell like smoked hams!" He was also amused that when one day Don stopped by Bert's apartment, and apparently didn't notice the boxes covered with sheets, but, then, Don was anything but observant.

Bert was also a great cook. He learned the skill by watching his Mother at home. He was the only person that I have ever met who could cook fish and have it come out like meat, not a gelatinous mass. His best dish was Fettuccine Alfredo. I used to say that, ''On Mount Olympus they don't serve ambrosia to the Gods; they serve Bert's Fettuccine Alfredo.''

Bert's apartment was smaller than mine had been, but living in such cramped quarters cemented our growing relationship. He helped me find another apartment. We did it the way that it was done in those days on the Upper West side: You simply walked the streets, looking for ''For Rent'' signs. We found a nice one bedroom with bath and kitchenette plus a back yard at 54 West 84th Street. It was ideal for me as Bert lived on West 87Th Street. My two next door neighbors with whom I shared the back yard were gay, Gordon and Dan.

The kids loved the apartment, especially the back yard. They were fascinated by its presence here in the city of skyscrapers. I explained to them that the building had once been a private residence in Victorian times, that my living and bed rooms had been the downstairs kitchen and that the backyard had been a playground for the family's children. My kids were enthralled at this living look of domestic life when Victoria sat on the throne of the British Empire.

I976 marked the first Christmas with the kids after I adopted the single, gay lifestyle. Bert and I bought a small tree. I drove the kids in for Christmas Eve. I think that it was the first time that they met Bert. He and a college friend, Barbara, and another girl whose name I forget, came over to the apartment. Jamie was so shy that he hid behind me! That year, I bought Bert recordings of all of Beethoven's symphonies from Rizzolli's, a crystal sugar bowl from Tiffany's, and a cashmere sweater from Bloomingdale's. Bert loved Christmas. That Christmas he bought the kids brass ornaments with their first first names engraved on each ornament. Although never to have children himself, Bert enjoyed giving especially to children that liked so much to receive as all children do.

In the Spring of '77, we fixed up the back yard by turning it into a patio. It was the very first of many projects that Bert and I undertook. As usual, he supplied the design while I provided the labor. I planted ivy around the square space of the yard. Bert then installed four crate flats in the inner square. We purchased a table and several outdoor chairs.

Fast forward to 1978. By this time Bert was living with me on West 84th Street. One day, Bert noticed an advertisement in the Village Voice for a group called the Gay Fathers. He encouraged me to call. There are gay groups for almost everything imaginable -- gay doctors, dentists and lawyers; gay accountants and businessmen, gay Jews and rabbis, gay Roman Catholics and Episcopals, and on and on. Perhaps because gays have spent so much of their lives in isolation that they have a natural tendency to reach out and help their brothers and sisters. And help they did. The Gay Men's Health Crisis and Act-Up, for example, probably did more to stem AIDS in the Gay community than the army of fat, overpaid federal bureaucrats at the National Institutes of Health, the Center for Disease Control and, certainly, the Food and Drug Administration.

I made the call to the number listed in the Ad and poke with a fellow named Bob who was to become my nearest and dearest best friend. He said that the group met once a week for informal discussion of issues concerning gay fathers -- divorce, custody, coming out to the kids. The only qualifications for membership were being gay and having full custody or visitation rights with your kids. The group also held social functions for members and their lovers and outings with the kids. The next meeting was in Bob's apartment. The group sounded interesting, so I joined. Actually what I said to Bob was that I was interested and would come to the next meeting, but I inquired if I could bring Bert. My old bugaboo, a lack of self-confidence, was still showing. Bob discouraged me. He said that although lovers were encouraged to attend social functions and kid's outings, the meetings were for Gay Fathers only. Not wanting to be politically incorrect, I accepted Bob's advice, and said that I would attend the next meeting alone.

History of the Group
Much of this is based on my personal knowledge as an active member of Gay Fathers from 1978 to 1986, and on bits and snip its picked up from conversations with members over those years.

The Gay Fathers developed from a group of Upper Westside gay men who had apparently met in bars. Meeting in bars was not conducive to informal discussion, so they decided to meet in individual apartments apparently beginning around 1975. By the time that I started attending meetings, the group had about nine members:

• Bob was a Dentist. He had originally had two sons, but one died at 5 from leukemia. His other son Billy became Jamie's best friend in the group. Bob had a lover named Fred.
• Gene S was a Professor of Art History first at Columbia and then Brooklyn College. He had two daughters, Bianca and Nichole, and a lover named Terry
• Joel was a lawyer. Joel had two sons, John and Daniel, and a lover named Richard.
• Paul was a businessman engaged in the sale of party goods and supplies. He had two daughters whose names I don't recall and a lover named Marc.
• Henry was a lawyer and had two daughters, Helen and Alicia. In later years, Henry had a lover named Jim.
• Albie was a computer programmer and had two sons, Bert and another whose name I forget. Albie was the Corresponding Secretary of the group, a position that I subsequently inherited. He had no lover
• Al, whose occupation I don't remember, had a son Paulie. He had no lover
• Mike, whose occupation I don't remember, had a son, Danny, who became Stuart's best friend in the group. Mike had no lover
• Steve, who was a therapist in private practice, had a son, Todd, and a lover named Edgy.
  

REWIND TO 1978: At my first meeting, most members were there. Bob had a lovely and ample apartment with a large living room, a separate den, a master bedroom and a full bath. There was another newcomer at the meeting -- a burly Jewish guy named Gene. Most of the evening was occupied with Gene's war stories of his not-so-amicable divorce. He had come out and announced his intention to seek a divorce simultaneously to his wife, Miriam, and his two sons, Andrew and Peter. Miriam apparently referred to him as the Fat Fag in front of his boys. One day, when he was leaving the garage in his Pontiac Grand Prix with the boys, Miriam objected by throwing herself over the hood of the car. The police were called and allegedly had to physically remove Miriam from the hood. I can still imagine her clinging to the hood ornament, kicking and screaming as Great Neck's finest hauled her back to the driveway. As another of these perhaps one-sided stories, Gene, who had been a boyhood friend of Bob's, once went shopping with him and bought a natty new fedora. One night while wearing it Gene ran into Miriam who, in a fit of rage, tore the hat off his head and threw it into a muddy gutter. Thank Heavens I was not subjected to such indignities.

The history continued during my membership as the group took on a distinctly social character. The social events involved Annual events, Special Events, and Kid's outings. The annual events consisted of The Gay Father's Halloween Party and The kid's Christmas Party. The Halloween Party started as a kid's party in 1978, although some of the Fathers also came in costume. The party was such a success that The Gay Fathers decided to make the 1979 party for Fathers and lovers. Fathers without lovers could bring a date. Costumes were mandatory. The party was held at Gene S's spacious and chic apartment at 104Th Street and West End Avenue. The party was another success. Bert and I came as Alladin and Genie, costunes duplicated by Gene and Terry. Bob and Fred came as a Leather couple, even though Bob and Fred were not into Leather. Joel and his date cane as Batman and Robin, Henry as a witch, and Paul and Marc in drag. These later two were the hit of the party.

The next year the party was held at Bob and Fred's. Bob came as a female nurse, the immortal ''Nurse Boxer.'' Fred came as a surgeon, all dressed in scrubs. Bert came as Marlene Deitrich. I came as Gary Cooper, dressed in a French Foreigh Legion costume, complete with kepi cap. I remember as Bert and I were standing and talking to ''Nurse Boxer'' when suddenly Bob said, ''I think that I'm having my period. We both replied, ''That's impossible, Bob!'' But Nurse Boxer insisted that something was running down her leg underneath her panty hose. Nurse Boxer retreated to the Master Bedroom to investigate. There it was determined that what was running down her leg was her keys and key chain that she had put in her panty hose for safekeeping.

The party was such a triumph that it became an annual event. In future years it was consistently held at Paul and Marc's. Every year, it drew more and more drag costumes. The guest list grew and grew until the party was well known in the Gay Community as the place to be on Halloween.

The kid's Christmas Party started in 1979. It was held at Steve's multi-room apartment. The lovers attended to the food and amusement of the kids. It too was a great success, and became an annual event. Many of my fondest memories of the group center on the Christmas party. Somewhere there are pictures, especially a picture of Stu playing pool with Billy and Danny, two of the boys mentioned above.

Special events included Theater Parties. One of the Fathers knew someone who could get blocks of off Broadway tickets. The theaters gave these out to fill up the house. We saw Bebt and The Entertaining Mr. Soan with Maxwell Caulfield along with many other plays. Perhaps our most prominant special event was the Gay Father's Symposium held in 1981. It took, place at the Judson Memorial Methodist Church. Open to the public, it featured panels discussing matters of concern to gay fathers. There was a lover's panel, a kid's panel, a divorce panel headed by an attorney, and so on. The keynote speaker was a prominent psychiatrist, Gerald E. Dabbs. We drew almost 250 people in attendance.

After the Symposiun, our group grew larger and larger. Because the members apartments were not large enough to accommodate the crowd, a spin-off group, Gay Fathers 2, was formed mainly for the Village crowd.