I was 21 years old that spring of 1979, a year after moving from my provincial nest in northwest Pennsylvania to the Big Apple in pursuit of adventure and an acting career. It was the end of the sexual revolution; a time when sex was still fun and the only apparent danger was the risk of getting the clap.That same year saw the infancy of Jerry Falwell’s Moral Majority, which helped bring Ronald Reagan into the White House and marked the country’s embrace of more traditional values.
Already lit after a few Dewar’s with water at the now-defunct Ninth Circle on 10th Street in the West Village, I hopped a half block east to Waverly Place and my next bar. Sporting a black AC/DC T-shirt given to me by an executive I was occasionally screwing, I stepped into Julius’, a gay tavern touted as the oldest in Manhattan, once frequented by Tennessee Williams and Truman Capote. Although it also served a decent hamburger, I was hungry for meat that was still breathing.
Tossing my mop of dirty blond hair, I scanned the room, hoping to spot someone interested enough to send me a drink. I leaned against the oak bar and rested my leg on the foot rail made of brass Bassett hounds, positioning myself to order, when a handsome older man of about 35 rushed over and offered to buy. He was wearing a plain T-shirt with the name “Steve” sprawled across his lean but well-muscled chest. His hair and body reminded me of Keith Carradine in Nashville. I was so grate ful for the free drink from such a good-looking source that I hadn’t noticed the girl standing next to him.
Before I took my first sip, Steve presented Shelley, although I beat him in reciting her name, since the letters of it also protruded from her ample bosom. Shelley was young. Eighteen, she claimed—at the time, the legal drinking age in New York. She was blonde, blue-eyed and her body had curves in the right places.
“I like your shirt,” she said in a Southern lilt.
“Thanks,” I replied. “It’s a band.” She giggled.
The two made a sexy couple, despite the age difference. Both had Southern accents, so charming with their “y’all” this and “y’all” that, their smiles as bright as a field of daisies. Steve leaned in as he talked to me, boring his eyes into mine while maintaining a mischievous grin. I liked his assertive but playful way of flirting. He’d sometimes whisper something to Shelley, and she’d look over at me, smiling approvingly. She seemed out of place in this testosterone-filled bar—not at all the faghag type—but didn’t seem aware of it. I got the impression they were judging me, as if I were some prize pig in the county fair.
I was about to order another drink, but Steve suggested we go to his place instead. It was clear that he was interested in me, but I wasn’t sure how Shelley fit in. I figured she was just hip to sharing her man. I found the possibilities curiously enticing, and eager to brand myself cool and sophisticated, I agreed to go home with them.
When we walked into the apartment, Steve tore his shirt off. He had a nice, taut body for a man his age. He grabbed me, kissing me on the mouth. I got excited. He then instructed me to kiss Shelley. I turned to her and put my tongue down her throat.
When it became clear to me what was happening—I was still somewhat sexually naive—I took off my clothes as the pair did the same.
I gave Steve an ardent look, but he prompted me to focus on Shelley. This wasn’t turning out as I had hoped, but I dove into the scene anyway, hoping to earn some man-on-man action.
Shelley had such beautiful skin, immaculate without blemish. She had more than handfuls of breasts, which I held onto as I ran my tongue down her belly, spread her legs and buried my face in her bush. A lesbian once told me the proper cunnilingus technique entailed making like a lap dog. With this, Shelley let out an ambiguous moan.This was my first time going down on a woman, so I couldn’t translate.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“Huh? No, it feels good!” she said, sounding annoyed.
Ever the director, Steve later had me lie on my back as Shelley went down on me. He towered over us, jerking off. I suddenly felt terribly self-conscious. The whole thing seemed like a circus, so contrived. I was going against my grain.
“What am I doing here?” I thought. As beautiful as Shelley was, she didn’t excite me the way I had hoped Steve would. I felt embarrassed as she struggled with inserting my half-erect penis inside her.
“Is he in? Is he in?" Steve asked her fervently.
“Yes,” she said. Hardly. Steve came across my chest and Shelley’s. I thought this was rather selfish of him, but I was glad for any excuse to end the whole thing. It just felt wrong. I was straight-up gay, and I had no business trying to pull off this hip-by-being-bi thing.
I stopped and got up. “I can’t get into it. Sorry.”
They seemed all-too-fine about this, as if I hadn’t been their first failed project. I was relieved to put my clothes back on.
As I drank the water Steve provided, the pair became all friendly and smiley again. Steve turned to Shelley and said, “Honey, why don’t you show your friend a picture of you and your daddy?”
Sex was intimate enough, I thought. Now they wanted to show me family albums? This was getting weirder. I just wanted to leave.
Shelley grabbed a framed picture off the shelf and handed it to me. The photo was one of her and Steve doing what they did best—smiling.
“Wait a minute, that’s you,” I said to Steve, confused.
Steve grinned, showing more teeth than usual. I choked on the words: “You mean…you’re her…real father?”
“Yup,” he said much too proudly.
Stunned, I fell back on my acting training, hiding every emotion that came up, striking the best poker face I could muster, yet knowing I had to be failing miserably. I realized that when Steve had asked Shelley, “Who’s your daddy?” he had really meant it.
“Oh,” I uttered with desperate casualness. “So…do you guys…do this…often?”
“Yeah,” Steve said. “We usually pick up bisexuals.”
“The gay ones don’t work out as well,” Shelley added.
What had I done? I had to get out of there.
“Cool,” I said, lying, and in a mock Southern accent, “Well, I gotta’ get goin’.”
“OK,” Steve said. “Here’s my card. Give us a call sometime.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. I’m pretty busy this week, but I’ll…definitely…”
When I got out the door, I kept repeating, “Be cool. Be cool.” A few blocks away, I let out a scream.
About a year later, I was in an acting class when a beautiful young woman got up on stage and did a monologue. It took me awhile to realize that it was Shelley. I thought she’d gone back to her double-wide trailer from whatever backwater place she’d come from. My mind flashed back to that uncomfortable scene with her and…Steve. If she had recognized me, she didn’t let on. I felt compelled to say something, to connect with her in some way, but I was too flustered. I promised myself to approach her the following week. But she never returned. C
Dean Wrzeszcz is a writer based in Manhattan whose work has appeared in The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Daily News and more.
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