Castro Street Memories

1

1The phone was ringing when I unlocked the door of my apartment. It was Jeff calling to tell me some friends of his arrived unexpectedly from Ohio, asking if Michael and I would postpone our trip to the Island until another time. Even though he wanted to see us, there was absolutely no room in the house where he was staying.

Of course, I said yes, despite my disappointment at not being able to spend a weekend away from the noise and unbearable summer heat of the city. So instead of he Pines, Michael and I went to Riis Park on Saturday.

We took the IRT subway to the end of the line at Flatbush and Nostrand, then hitched to the beach. By noon we staked our claim to a small patch of sand on the already crowded gay section and after settling in, looked around to see who else was there.

I don’t remember now who we saw that particular day, since we always ran into people we knew, often noticed men we dreamed of meeting and invariably witnessed at least one entertaining spectacle which highlighted the continuous drama being played around us. And during the three years Michael and I were lovers, we may have provided a few public scenes ourselves.

We lay in the sun for a while, went into the water to cool off, swam out to the wooden float and back, later watched ships passing in the distance, and walked along the wet sand. By mid afternoon, people were folding towels and blankets, rolling up mats, packing their belongings for the trip home. As the crowd began to diminish, the beach became quieter, more peaceful.

Michael and I cooked dinner at my apartment that night, using some of the food we bought to take with us to Fire Island. I prepared the main course while he fixed salad and made dessert.

We ate by candlelight and discussed where to go dancing later on. A Mozart sonata played softly in the background. It reminded me of those terribly romantic dinners we shared when we were first in love.

During our student days at NYU even the simplest meal together seemed like a feast, though I don’t think Michael and I fully appreciated what we were eating. We spent so much time staring into each other’s eyes and grinning like two idiots then. The food just an excuse for us to meet before throwing ourselves against each other, tearing off all our clothes and continuing our lovemaking for several more hours.

The doorbell rang unexpectedly as we were finishing dessert. The music stopped a minute or two earlier. I got up from the table to see who it was, leaned out one of the open windows to look down at the street below.

Yes? What is it? I called out.

Telegram for George Pappas.

That’s me. I’ll be right down.

It was from my brother informing me that Father was dead. The news came as a shock because I saw him only two months before. My father came to New York for my graduation on his way to Greece, where he was going to spend the first summer of his retirement.

The doctor reported he died of a stroke in the island port, not far from the village where he was born. Since we didn’t find out about it until after the funeral, my brother wired money to buy flowers for the grave, which is all either of us could do at the time.

I suffered considerable emotional pain in the relationship with my father while he was alive. As much as I wanted his love and approval when I was growing up, it was something I finally had to resign myself to living without. I realized at some point in college that he was incapable of providing the warmth and love I desired.

I felt sad knowing that our separation had become permanent, that there would never be another opportunity for us to talk, to reconcile our differences, to come to a better understanding. Also, with him gone, my own death suddenly seemed that much closer to me.

I sat alone in the living room, not bothering to turn on the light after the candles burned down. I could hear voices of people in the street, a siren wailing in the distance, a dog howling, the diesel roar of a passing bus, a child shouting to a friend.

Michael was in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner. When he finished washing the dishes, he came and sat down next to me on the couch.

Do you want me to stay tonight? he asked, or should I go?

Would you stay?

Of course.

He got up and turned on a lamp, refilled his glass with what was left of the wine, then returned to sit by my side, putting his arm around my shoulders to comfort me.

Michael was one person I could always count on to be there when I needed him and that night was no exception.

I tossed and turned in bed, my own restlessness making it difficult for Michael to get any rest. When I did fall asleep, my dreams seemed to draw me through a tangle of disturbing images. I woke up suddenly during the night. Michael was sitting next to me and I felt the gentle, soothing touch of his hands.

Are you all right? he asked me in the darkness.

What?

You must have been having a nightmare. You cried out in your sleep.

Sorry.

What was it?

I dreamed I was running, trying to escape.

In the morning I was too tired to think clearly what I was fleeing from in my dreams. All I could recall were vague ominous shadows and indistinct shapes.

I called TWA to make a reservation and began packing my clothes for the trip to Los Angeles. I really didn’t own much more except for some books and records, my stereo, kitchenware, and a few pieces of furniture.

Michael promised to look after things while I was gone. I suggested he stay in the apartment since he was planning to move from where he was living anyway. That way he wouldn’t have to pay rent for a month. If I returned, he could stay until he found another place. If I didn’t return, he could have my apartment and whatever furniture was in it.

I’m going to miss you, Michael said, putting his arms around me.

As we held each other I felt sad that I was leaving, not that I would miss New York itself but people like Michael and the other friends I made since my arrival as a college freshman.

Will you come out and visit me on the Coast if I don’t come back? I asked looking into his beautiful green eyes.

I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.

When we kissed I felt some of the s****l excitement of the past and could tell it was mutual. It had been a while since Michael and I had s*x with one another. It would probably be months before we would be together again. So we made love the night before I left.

It was wonderful touching, caressing, and tasting his smooth dark skin, seeing the sexy sparkle in his eyes, that special smile of his, the glow of his face, the halo of black curly hair around his head, feeling his arms around me, his hands, his fingers on my body. Our arms and legs soon entangled, our passion rising, our breathing louder as we sighed and moaned with pleasure moving toward mutual orgasm.