Tales of the City

by Armistead Maupin

  DeDe was nervous. This was her first lunch at The Forum, and she wasn’t sure of protocol. For guidance, she sat next to Binky Gruen.

  “Keep your eye on Prue,” whispered Binky. “When she rings that little silver bell, it means she’s heard enough and you’re supposed to stop talking.”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  Binky patted her hand. “Prue will tell you.”

  DING-A-LING!

  The ladies dropped their forks and leaned forward, a dozen thoughtful faces hovering intently over the asparagus.

  “Good afternoon,” Prue beamed, surveying her guests. “I’m delighted you could be here today to share your personal insights into a subject of grave importance.” Her face fell suddenly, like a jarred soufflé. “Our very special guest today is Velma Runningwater, a Native American who successfully defended herself against an attempted gang rape by sixteen members of the Hell’s Angels in Petaluma.”

  Binky whistled under her breath. “This is better than the day she brought the bull dyke in!”

  “Pass the rolls,” whispered DeDe.

  “But before we hear Ms. Runningwater’s truly remarkable tale, I would like to try a very special experiment with those of us assembled here at The Forum….”

  “Here it comes,” said Binky, nudging DeDe under the tablecloth. “She’s always got a kicker.”

  “Today,” said Prue, pausing dramatically, “we are going to rap about rape….”

  Binky pinched DeDe. “Can you believe this?”

  DeDe gnawed nervously on her roll. Dark circles had begun to form under the arms of her Geoffrey Beane shirtwaist. She hated public speaking. Even at Sacred Heart, it had terrified her.

  “This is going to be difficult,” continued Prue, “but I want each of you to share an experience that you have probably tried to block from your memory … a time when your… person … was violated against your will. This is a time for openness, an opportunity for sharing with your sisters.”

  “Shugie Sussman is not my sister,” whispered Binky. “She puked in my Alfa after the Cotillion.”

  “Shhh,” hissed DeDe. She was counting the seconds until the moment of truth. What could she say? She had never been raped, for Christ’s sake! She had never even been mugged.

  “Perhaps it would help,” purred Prue, sensing the reticence of her guests, “if I began by sharing my own tale with you.”

  Binky giggled.

  DeDe kicked her.

  “This is the first time,” continued Prue, “that I have told this story to a living soul. Not counting Reg, of course. It happened, not in the Tenderloin or the Fillmore or the Mission, as you might think, but in … Atherton!”

  The ladies gasped in unison.

  “And,” said the hostess, aborting a pregnant pause, “it was someone you all know very well….”

  Prue lowered her head. “It serves no purpose to dwell on the morbid details…. Now perhaps someone else would like to share with us. What about you, DeDe?” Shit. It never failed.

  DeDe rose haltingly, folding and refolding her napkin. “I

  … I’m … not sure.” Binky tittered.

  Prue rang the silver bell gently. “Please … DeDe is going to share with us. We’re your sisters, DeDe. You can be up front with us.”

  “It was … awful,” DeDe said at last. “Of course it was,” Prue said sympathetically. “Can you tell us where it happened, DeDe?”

  DeDe swallowed. “At home,” she said feebly.

  Prue clutched the front of her sari. “Not … an intruder?”

  “No,” said DeDe. “A grocery boy.”

  When she got home, she picked up the phone and dialed Jiffy’s, ordering a box of doughnuts and a can of Drano.

  Lionel was up in ten minutes.

  Romance in the Rink

  MONA CELEBRATED HER FIRST DAY OF FREEDOM with a leisurely morning cappuccino at Malvina’s. When she returned to Barbary Lane, Michael was in the shower.

  “Christ! Didn’t you get enough steam at the tubs last night?”

  Michael stuck his head around the curtain. “Oh … sorry. Open a window, O.K.? No, here … I’ll do it.” He climbed out of the stall, dripping wet, and cranked open the window.

  “Uh … Michael, dearheart?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Wearing your Levi’s in the shower.”

  “Oh …” He laughed, hopping back into the stall. “I’m wire-brushing my basket. See?” He picked up a wire brush from the floor of the stall. “Just the thing for achieving that well-worn shading in just the right places.” Scraping the brush gingerly across the crotch of his jeans, he screwed his face into an expression of mock pain. “Arrrggh!”

  Mona was bland. “Do-it-yourself S & M?”

  Michael flicked water at her. “They’ll be devastating when they’re dry.”

  “Where’d you pick that one up? Hints from Heloise?”

  “This is no frivolous matter, woman. These babies have to be perfection by tonight.”

  “Date with Chuck?”

  “Who? … Oh, no. I’m going to the Grand Arena.”

  “New bar?”

  “Nope. A skating rink.”

  “You’re going ice-skating?”

  “Roller-skating. Tuesday is Gay Night.”

  Mona rolled her eyes. “Now I know I’m gonna kill myself.”

  “It’s a scream. You’d love it.”

  “I never even heard of it.”

  Michael climbed out of the shower, shucked the wet jeans and toweled off. “Some fag hag you are.”

  “I didn’t hear that,” said Mona, heading into the hallway.

  He didn’t make it to the Grand Arena until eight o’clock, so he was prepared for the worst.

  It happened, of course.

  They had already run out of men’s skates.

  Small wonder. The giant South San Francisco rink was jammed with flannel-shirted men, circling the floor in predatory delight.

  Michael caught his breath.

  He shed his navy-blue cotton parka, submitted to the indignity of women’s skates (white, with nelly-looking tassels) and clopped his way awkwardly to the edge of the rink.

  He grinned when he recognized the recorded organ music: “I Enjoy Being a Girl.”

  There were half a dozen girls on the rink. Four of them were under twelve. The others were beehived Loretta Lynn lookalikes in sherbet-colored skating costumes. They were welded to sherbet-colored partners of the opposite sex, who propelled them across the floor like Brisbane’s answer to Baryshnikov.

  The other hundred men were less graceful.

  Arms flailing and teeth flashing, they rolled around the rink in a swelling tide of denim. Some were alone; others snaked along merrily in lines of four or five. For Michael, it was a magical sight.

  He waited for a moment, steeling himself.

  When was the last time? Murphey’s Skating Rink … Orlando, 1963.

  He murmured a short, conventional Baptist prayer. Werner was never there when he needed him.

  He wasn’t half bad, actually.

  A little wobbly on the turns, but nothing to snicker at.

  After five minutes, he had gained enough confidence to concentrate on serious cruising.

  So far, his favorite was a blond guy in chinos and a blue Gant shirt. He looked like the vice president of every high school class in northern Florida. He probably still drove a Mustang.

  And he was skating alone.

  Michael moved in the direction of his quarry, overtaking two small black kids in Dyn-O-Mite T-shirts. The only hindrance now was a couple of sherbet straights, doing a very showy Arthur Murray routine less than ten feet away.

  The couple heeled like a yacht in a gale, drifting off to the left, clearing the way for Michael….

  He felt like a roller derby star, moving in for the kill.

  Fixing his sights on the target, he accelerated at the turn
… and realized, too late, what was about to happen. The blond man wasn’t turning.

  He was stopping.

  And Michael had forgotten how to stop.

  Clutching desperately at the air, his hands sought anchorage on the sacred oxford-cloth shirttail. His right leg buckled under him, as he skidded unceremoniously into the iron railing, dragging his Galahad behind him.

  The two black kids backtracked momentarily, studied the carnage with undisguised glee, and skated off again.

  Michael’s face was covered with blood. The blond man helped him to his feet.

  “Jesus. Are you all right?”

  Michael poked his face cautiously with his fingertips. “It’s my nose. It’s O.K. It bleeds if you don’t talk nice to it.”

  “Are you sure? Can I get you a Kleenex?”

  “Thanks. I think I’ll hobble off to the head.”

  When he returned, the blond man was waiting for him. “They just announced ‘couples only,’ “ he grinned. “You man enough for that?”

  Michael grinned back. “Sure. Just tell me when you’re gonna stop.”

  So this time they moved as a unit, hand gripped in hand, under the twirling mirror ball.

  “My name is Jon,” said the blond man.

  “I’m Michael,” said Michael, just as his nose started to bleed again.

  Coed Steam

  VALENCIA STREET, WITH ITS UNION HALLS AND MEXIcan restaurants and motorcycle repair shops, was an oddly squalid setting for the gates of heaven.

  For Brian, though, that was part of the turn-on.

  He basked in the squalor, the teenager-in-Tijuana feeling that came over him whenever he caught sight of that seedy neon sign:

  FOR BETTER HEALTH—STEAM BATHS.

  Behind the façade, in a tiny entrance alcove, he flashed his laminated photo ID card and forked out five dollars to the guy in the admission booth.

  Four dollars for admission.

  One dollar for The Party.

  The Party made Mondays special at the Sutro Bath House. Women were admitted free, and tonight there were at least

  a dozen.

  There were twice as many men, mingling with the women in a space that seemed strangely reminiscent of a rumpus room in Walnut Creek: rosy-shaded lamps, mismatched furniture, and a miniature electric train that chugged noisily along a shelf around the perimeter of the room.

  A television set mounted on the wall offered Phyllis to the partygoers.

  On the opposite wall a movie screen flickered with vintage pornography.

  The partygoers were naked, though some of them chose the shelter of a bath towel.

  And most of them were watching Phyllis.

  Brian stripped in the locker room. Overhead, in a plastic arbor, a mechanical canary twittered incessantly. He smiled at it, then wrapped a towel around his waist and headed back to the television lounge.

  In the hallway, he met one of the hostesses.

  “Hi, Frieda.”

  “How’s it goin’, Brian?”

  “Just got here. Any hassles tonight?” Frieda’s job was to ensure that women at the baths weren’t harassed by the men … unless they wanted to be.

  She shook her head. “Mellow as ever.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Frieda grinned, pinching him on the butt. “Go play with yourself, pig.”

  Then she was off again, walking her rounds in a T-shirt that said: WE DARE YOU.

  Brian decided it was still too early to head for the orgy room. The Party was going full tilt. Most people would chow down on cheese and cold cuts before heading upstairs. And Phyllis wasn’t over.

  Adjusting his towel, he sauntered up to a blond woman with an all-over tan.

  “Can I buy you some salami?”

  “Now that’s a new one.”

  He grinned. “I swear I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I’m a vegetarian.” She smiled back.

  “Me too.” He extended his hand. “Put it there.”

  She studied him for several seconds, then asked flatly: “What kind?”

  “Uh … you know, strict.”

  “With occasional lapses into lacto and ovo, huh?”

  “Yes. Except on weekends and nights when I’m stoned. Then I’m a steako-lacto-ovo … or maybe a porkchopo-lactoovo …”

  She smirked at his fraud. “You’re a turko … that’s what you are!”

  “I knew we’d hit on it.”

  “Actually, I almost never make it with vegetarians.”

  “The woman has taste.”

  “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  “I like my line better.”

  “No … I’m serious. Didn’t we play Earth Ball together at the New Games this year?”

  “No, but I …”

  “You into whales?”

  “What?”

  “Whales. Saving whales.”

  Brian shook his head apologetically, wishing to hell he’d saved a whale or two.

  “Baby seals?”

  “Nope. I used to be into lots of things. Now I’m into this.”

  “That’s up front, anyway.”

  “Thank God for small favors.”

  “Hey … are you making fun of me?”

  “Hell, no. I just feel like I’m … applying for a position, that’s all.”

  She smiled again. “You are.”

  They both laughed. Brian decided it was time to take the initiative. “Look … I don’t have a room, but maybe we could … you know … go upstairs….”

  “I can’t handle the exhibitionism trip.”

  “Then maybe we could …”

  “It’s cool,” she smiled. “I’ve got a room.”

  Hillary’s Room

  BRIAN WAS WRECKED, SHE WAS A GODDESS, A YOUNGER sister of Liv Ullmann, maybe … and Christ almighty, she had a room! The girl meant business!

  “I’m Hillary,” she said, closing the door. The room was no bigger than a walk-in closet.

  “You would be.”

  “Huh?”

  “It fits you. You fit it.”

  “You don’t have to compliment me. I’ve processed through all that.”

  “I meant it.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Brian.”

  She patted a spot next to her on the bed. “Sit down, Brian.” She sounded oddly clinical, despite her nakedness. “Have you done this often?”

  “Come to the baths?” She couldn’t mean fuck.

  “No. I mean got it on with girls … women?”

  He flashed his best Steve McQueen grin. “A fair amount.”

  “How long have you been gay?”

  “What?”

  “It’s cool if you don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Uh … I think you’ve made a mistake.”

  “Fine … whatever.” Her look was professionally compassionate. It irritated the piss out of him.

  “No, Hillary … not fine. I’m not gay, understand?”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I’m losing my mind! What am I doing here, she asks? What the fuck do you think I’m doing here?”

  “A lot of guys who come here are gay … or at least bi.”

  “Well, I’m not, got it? I have a well-rehearsed but limited repertoire.” Gently, he placed his hand on her leg.

  Gently, she removed it.

  “All of us are a little homosexual, Brian. You must not be in touch with your body.”

  “It’s not my body that I want to be in touch with!”

  “You don’t have to be macho all the time, you know.”

  “Who’s trying to be macho? I’m trying to get laid.”

  “Right. A heartless, mechanical exploitation of …”

  “Look …” He adopted a softer tone. “I don’t think you’re being entirely fair when you imply that I’m a male chauvinist or something. I mean, we’re equals, aren’t we? Look at us. You inv
ited me to your room … and I accepted. Right?”

  She stared at the wall. “I thought you needed help.”

  “I do! Oh, God, do I need help!”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Can I help it if I’m weird? I’ve had this perverse craving for women as long as I can remember.”

  “Don’t be so goddamn flip! You’re not any better than a gay person, you know.”

  “Did I say that, Hillary? Did I, huh? I like gay people. I accept gay people. Christ almighty, don’t make me say that some of my best friends are gay!”

  “I wouldn’t believe you if you did.”

  “Hillary, look …”

  “I think you’d better leave, Brian.”

  “Would you please just …”

  “Don’t make me call Frieda.”

  He stood up, retrieving his towel from the floor. He wrapped it around himself. She was at the door now, holding it open for him.

  “Once,” he blurted, “when I was twelve, this guy who was in my scout troop and I took off our …”

  “That doesn’t count,” she said.

  He stood in the doorway and watched wistfully as she pulled the door closed again.

  Venus reentering the clam shell.

  Breakfast in Bed

  MICHAEL WOKE WITH COTTONMOUTH.

  He slipped out of bed as quietly as possible and went to the bathroom, squeezing Aim onto his toothbrush and his sterling Tiffany toothpaste roller. He brushed with the door closed.

  When he tiptoed back to the bedroom, the shape under the sheets spoke to him. “You cheated.”

  Michael crawled back into bed. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Now I’ll have to brush my teeth.”

  “No you won’t. I’m paranoid about my breath, not yours.”

  Jon threw back the covers and headed for the bathroom. “Well, there’s something else we have in common.”

  Mona knocked at the wrong time.

  “Uh … yeah … wait a minute, Mona.” Mona shouted through the door. “Room service, gentlemen. Just pull the covers up.”

  Michael grinned at Jon. “My roommate. Brace yourself.” Seconds later, Mona burst through the doorway with a tray of coffee and croissants.

  “Hi! I’m Nancy Drew! You must be the Hardy Boys!”