The boys in Berlin won't soon forget him. He left a trail of broken hearts and shattered could-have-beens. I was almost one of them. It was nice while it lasted. I still visit our spot, in the Tiergarten city park, under the tree where we first caressed.
I was aloof in the beginning. It tweaked his interest to be put off at first. He followed me deeper into the woods. I led him to the bank along the lake, under the linden that's become 'our' tree. (I wonder if he ever thought of it that way. Probably not; I'm the sentimental one.)
Later, getting acquainted we discovered much in common: business acquaintances, similar work experience, literary aspirations -- why I'd even been dealing with somebody in his office. We exchanged numbers and agreed to meet again real soon.
A couple of days later he called.
I suggested a new cafe in the Goltzstrasse. I liked the high ceilings and widely spaced tables, and there was never a crowd in the early evening. He arrived promptly, dashing in bright blue silk tie, tweed jacket, tailored blue jeans and well-buffed cordovan shoes -- a virtual uniform I came to anticipate.
(Maybe I should have asked for something of his. The tie, or better, one of his monogrammed shirts, or some jewelry: cuff links, a stickpin. I'd settle for a handkerchief, anything that was his, something to remember him by.)
That was the first of several dates we squeezed in before I was due to depart. He was so attentive: always arriving promptly, and always entertaining to be with. It was fascinating just watching him charm us into a table at crowded restaurants. Or how strangers at other tables would often try to ingratiate themselves.
We did make an attractive couple, even if I say so myself. His patrician goodlooks and hoch-deutsch inflection when he spoke made his education and breeding easily apparent. I, in suitable contrast, the exotic companion he lavished so much attention on.
My departure was unavoidable. He prepared a special goodbye envelope. Driving to the airport he presented it to me, first making me promise not to open until I was over the Atlantic. Then at the last minute he bought for me in the terminal gift shop a kitschy bottle marked 'Berliner luft'. The air in Berlin is notoriously bad.
In bits and pieces I learned his history. He grew up in Hamburg, after university jobbed in the film business. He moved to Paris, having always wanted to bask in the breath-taking beauty of the City of Light. He studied French, got occasional freelance work, and become a familiar face in the upscale cafes of Mommartre and in the deep shrubbery edging the Tuillerie Gardens. I believe he had a trust fund but it was never discussed with me.
The years in Paris proved hard professionally as he struggled with the language. He'd always been reluctant to even visit Cold War Berlin. He despised the Wall that enclosed and divided the city, and only traveled in and out by air. He couldn't stand the idea of driving through East Germany, or suffer the humiliation of the infamous passport controls at border crossings. Yet unable to get work that suited him in France when an opening in Berlin came his way, he grabbed it.
Compared to Paris, the Berlin night scene was smaller and easily navigated. He quickly insinuated himself with a succession of casual acquaintances, and just as quickly let them fall by the wayside. He seemed perfect partner material -- attractive, thoughtful and generous -- easy to see why so many fell so fast and so hard.
I guess I could have easily fallen into that category but I intuitively cultivated a friendship rather than make romantic demands. Once he said he didn't believe in flaunting his preferences, and of course he would never want to live with a lover.
"Imagine having to see someone every morning before you've brushed your teeth or combed your hair. That's not for me," he said, reaching over to touch my hand after shifting gears. He would sometimes whisper that he loved me. I luxuriated in the glow of his affection.
We never really became lovers in the conventional sense, he wasn't looking to settle down and I wasn't living full time in Europe. But whenever I was in town he was good to me. Then when I finally came for an extended stay he had already decamped back to Paris.
We stayed in touch by letter and the occasional phone call, and planned on spending New Year's together in Paris. I got stuck in New York that winter, but I figured we still had lots of years ahead, and there was time enough for other New Year's Eve celebrations in Paris or wherever we wished.
The phone rang one September morning in New York and it was he. He was in town for a few days on business, would I join him for dinner that evening? Would I!
We had drinks at his hotel and then went on to a restaurant I suggested on the West Side. It proved the perfect choice, just what foreign visitors consider very New York: a French-style bistro featuring live jazz.
We went back to his hotel. I waited in the lobby. He went to his room to freshen up. (Perhaps he'd gone to take medication. I now know he was on AZT.) He came down about fifteen minutes later and we got into his rental car. I wanted to show him my hometown from the standpoint of the places that had meaning for me, and he was game for the whole tour.
I showed him how the city sparkled from Brooklyn Heights promonade and the maze of crowded streets that formed Chinatown, Little Italy and Soho. In the wee hours, we walked arm and arm up, down and around Christopher Street spooning out of cups of Hagen-Dazs ice cream and drawing the appreciative smiles of passersby.
It was past four o'clock in the morning when he dropped me off. He gave me a goodnight kiss, nothing lingering -- that wasn't his style -- but not passionless either. I remembered half-hoping he'd want to come up even as I knew he probably wouldn't. I also knew it was pointless to ask him or suggest we try to meet once again before he left town. If he had time I knew he would call. I watched him drive away.
It wasn't until a year later that we saw each other again, this time in his hometown. He picked me up at friends where I was staying and drove me out to see his parents in the suburbs for afternoon tea. His sisters and their husbands joined us. Somehow I saw fledgling status as a significant other in this domestic picture.
His family had other dinner plans so we went to a favorite Italian ristorante not far from the waterfront. We drove across town chattering away. At a stoplight he turned to me and said, "You are very patient, aren't you?"
I was startled by this out of the blue comment but readily agreed, "Yes, I'm willing to wait for something I really want."
He nodded approvingly.
"Shall we spend our old age on the French Riviera?" he quipped gamely.
"Sounds divine," I said. "We can trade off gigolos over lunch everyday."
He laughed and readily agreed.
How was I to know this was to be the last time I would see him. The only hint of what was to come would be in a letter he sent the following spring from France. It was just a casual mention, almost a metaphor for life in bohemian Paris. He said he was getting over the flu but couldn't seem to get warm.
I was busy that spring and summer and the months flew. I finally managed to dash off a note to him in early September. I probably even alluded to our standing invitation to spend New Year's in Paris together.
A few weeks later I received a letter that immediately struck me as curious. It had a foreign postmark but no return address. I barely had a foot in the door when I tore the envelope open. At first I thought it was some kind of a wedding announcement. His name, some dates, a black border.
Gradually it dawned on me: this was not good news; this was a death notice. He was dead! Even as I thought it I couldn't fully grasp it. I really couldn't believe it. It was just past 7 PM New York time, well after midnight in Central Europe.
Shaking, I retrieved his parents' phone number, and though it was late felt compelled to call. His father answered, obviously in bed, perhaps even asleep. I told him who it was and apologized for calling so late. He said it was okay and not to worry about it. He asked me how I was doing?
"I'm fine, but I wanted to call about the card I received. What's happened?"
"Cancer," his father said quietly. "It was cancer," he repeated more emphatically. "My wife and I are very sad."
"Please give her my condolences. What kind of cancer?" I pressed.
"Cancer," he said and would say no more.
I told him I would stay in touch and asked for their address. "And certainly the next time I'm in Europe, or you're in New York, I hope we can meet." We said goodbye.
At first I was angry that Peik hadn't told me he was sick. That probably had a lot to do with the schoolboy sex we had. On further reflection realized I was better off not knowing while he was still alive. What could I have done except offer to help him anyway I could. There were others more capable and they did for him, as I was later to learn. My memories of him will always be when he was at his best.
A few days later I received another copy of the death notice, this time from Paris with a note from one of his friends who said she had found my last letter to him in the mail, and since it was obvious we cared for each other, it was her sad duty to inform me.
I wrote Michelle back immediately, thanked her, and said that I was hoping to pass through Paris soon and would very much like to meet her. But I didn't get to Paris that winter either and so a few months later she sent me a photograph of him, one that captured him in all his golden glory. He was as I remembered him so vital and disarming.
A year or more passed and finally I had a chance to stop in Paris for two days. As soon as I knew I called and left a message for Michelle. No message for me when I got to Paris. I called her the first morning. She was glad I reached her but unless I could come right then she was afraid there was no other chance to meet.
"If only you'd given me more warning but now I'm afraid its too late to change anything, they're all business appointments and very important." She and Peik were partners in a business venture she was now running alone.
"Why don't we talk now," I suggested.
And we did, for a long time. She sketched in the last eighteen months of his life; beginning with the first time he became seriously ill. She said it began with a case of what appeared to be the flu but it just didn't seem to want to go away. Running a 40 Celsius fever he flew to Germany and was immediately hospitalized. It was then he was diagnosed Positive.
After a hospital stay and home recuperation he was put on regular medication. In a few weeks he felt well enough to return to Paris and did so. The first indication that she had of anything serious was one night they had a date for dinner. As they pulled up to a parking space, he said that he had to go home, that he was too sick to go into the restaurant. She complied immediately, of course.
He was bedridden for several weeks and finally it got so bad his father flew in to bring him home. Once again he recuperated and was soon back in Paris. And then one day in March she returned home late to find a series of desperate messages from him on the answering band. He was at the prefect of police and needed her to come immediately.
As it turned out he'd been picked up wandering the streets barefooted and disoriented. He later explained that he was having an epileptic seizure and afraid of being alone in the apartment rushed out into the street in the hope of finding help. Now it was apparent he was no longer able to take care of himself, so arrangements were made for him to return to Germany.
His health stabilized and in July he accepted an invitation to visit friends in Majorca. They had no idea about his precarious condition. The flight was shaky and it was apparent when the friends came to pick him up at the airport he wasn't well. They insisted he return to Germany. Instead he flew to Paris, his beloved Paris.
Michelle was not prepared for the man she picked up at Orly that sultry summer day. He was thin, emaciated, and his hair, his full dark silky hair was severely thinning. She knew immediately he had to go home. But it was impossible for him to travel alone for at least a few days. His conditioned worsened, and once more his father was summoned to Paris to bring him home.
Last summer I called his parents and his father included me in a family outing. Over the course of the evening I got to see what caring loving people my friend had left behind, leaving a void in their lives that would probably never be filled.
After dinner I asked the sister closest to him in age and expression, where his grave was, and she said she would take me. The next morning we drove to the cemetery, one she'd said they'd chosen because it was small and intimate.
As she led me to the gravesite she talked about his final days. He was hospitalized and the doctors weren't too reassuring. He'd rally for several days and just when it seemed he might be released, he'd relapse and uncertainty would return. And then one afternoon the family gathered at his bedside for the last time.
At the end of a long path beneath shade trees like the ancient linden under which we first encountered each other, stands a imposing grave marker of polished granite carved simply with his full name and dates.
I finally said goodbye.
Had he surviced Peik would be late 50s today.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
TIMOTHY QUINN
Fledging Artist, Gay Activist, Promiscuous Dreamer,
Heroin Addict, O.D. at 24
It is hard to believe that Timothy has been dead nearly four decades. His striking presence remains vivid in memory. Like Rebel Owen, I met Timothy via personal ad he ran in the defunct counter-culture weekly East Village Other. Before the Internet (Hehe!), a way to make connections was placing print classifieds and only certain alternative publications took gay ones--this was pre-Stonewall. He described himself as 19, a college student, artistically inclined, and looking for friends and/or lovers. I had just moved to the East Village starting my Junior year and responded. A few days later he called.
We had our first meeting in my East Second Street walk-up. He was tall, slim, with pleasant facial features, sparkling green eyes, freckles all over and an unruly shock of coarse red hair—classic Irish looks. He was very verbal and very intense. As we got acquainted I discovered he was sixteen, not nineteen and still in high school. Nevertheless we became fast friends, and soon he insisted we become lovers.
I respected his crush on me though I hardly shared the infatuation. He started to visit regularly and began writing poems to me and creating art and sculptures that he gave as gifts. He was a very talented artist in several mediums and I was charmed and impressed. I assumed one day he would fulfill his promise and be hugely successful.
Timothy grew up in Queens, in a large very conservative Irish-Catholic family. His father was extremely strict and Timothy was the only son, the youngest child, growing up with several older sisters. He was always having problems with his father for staying out late, not going to classes, skipping church, and just generally not being a good Catholic boy. They had no use for his artistic aspirations and saw it as a detriment. There was no way he could tell his father about his sexual orientation.
We remained friends though the contact was not as intense as in the first year. Timothy was very sexual and incessantly cruised subway bathrooms and public parks. Though he had an enormous uncircumcised penis he preferred being the passive partner. He was primarily attracted to men of color. After graduation from high school he enrolled in Parsons School of Design.
I clicked with a musician and joined him on an extended trip to San Francisco. When we parted I arranged for him and Timothy to meet; they had a brief affair. Timothy called to tell me first. I was amused. I knew it would never work so it never bothered me. Eventually Timothy met a man, a bus driver on the 14th Street cross-town line, and they became live-in lovers. Ironically, years earlier Timothy had given me a surreal painting dominated by a dark-skinned man with a green bus driving across his open chest. It now seems prophetic: the lover eventually died of a heart condition.
Timothy dropped out of Parsons. The relationship ended. To support himself he took retail sales jobs. He moved to a small studio across from the Kips Bay highrises and was soon receiving overtures from men who could see into his bedroom through the un-curtained windows. The attention amused him and he began purposely walking around in states of undress. Some made offers he couldn’t refuse. I had no idea he had become addicted to heroin.
I left the East Village and moved to the Upper West Side. By then we had fallen out of contact. One day I got a call from Marie, one of his female friends whom he had introduced to me when we first met. She told me that some months earlier Timothy had died of an overdose and long buried. I was sad I had missed the last days of his life, and my first thought was what became of his art.
I called the family home and spoke to one of his sisters. She filled in the details of his passing and when I asked what the family planned to do with his sculptures, paintings and poems, she told me that the father had destroyed it all. He blamed the artistic inclinations as the cause of his son’s destruction. I was shocked and angry but there was little I could do.
I dedicated my first novel A Brother’s Touch (www.amazon.com) to Timothy though I only used his initials out of respect for the family’s feelings. I did send one of his sisters a copy but never heard back from her. When the book was reissued, I changed the dedication to include his full name.
Sometime after learning of the overdose, I was looking through flyers on a bulletin board at the newly opened Gay Center in the West Village when I spotted a protest announcement illustrated with a picture of Timothy, prominent among participants in one of the first gay pride marches. I immediately took it and put it with the art, writings and pictures I kept in a small archive dedicated to his memory.
I always wonder if drugs had not intervened so fatally, if Timothy would have realized the precocious promise he showed so young. It will always be an open consideration. I cherish the pieces of art I retain to this day, including a ceramic rose he made me for Valentine's Day.
Even if he survived the scourge of dope addiction, most likely he would not survive the Plague to come!
Timothy would be approaching his 60th birthday in the coming year.
Heroin Addict, O.D. at 24
It is hard to believe that Timothy has been dead nearly four decades. His striking presence remains vivid in memory. Like Rebel Owen, I met Timothy via personal ad he ran in the defunct counter-culture weekly East Village Other. Before the Internet (Hehe!), a way to make connections was placing print classifieds and only certain alternative publications took gay ones--this was pre-Stonewall. He described himself as 19, a college student, artistically inclined, and looking for friends and/or lovers. I had just moved to the East Village starting my Junior year and responded. A few days later he called.
We had our first meeting in my East Second Street walk-up. He was tall, slim, with pleasant facial features, sparkling green eyes, freckles all over and an unruly shock of coarse red hair—classic Irish looks. He was very verbal and very intense. As we got acquainted I discovered he was sixteen, not nineteen and still in high school. Nevertheless we became fast friends, and soon he insisted we become lovers.
I respected his crush on me though I hardly shared the infatuation. He started to visit regularly and began writing poems to me and creating art and sculptures that he gave as gifts. He was a very talented artist in several mediums and I was charmed and impressed. I assumed one day he would fulfill his promise and be hugely successful.
Timothy grew up in Queens, in a large very conservative Irish-Catholic family. His father was extremely strict and Timothy was the only son, the youngest child, growing up with several older sisters. He was always having problems with his father for staying out late, not going to classes, skipping church, and just generally not being a good Catholic boy. They had no use for his artistic aspirations and saw it as a detriment. There was no way he could tell his father about his sexual orientation.
We remained friends though the contact was not as intense as in the first year. Timothy was very sexual and incessantly cruised subway bathrooms and public parks. Though he had an enormous uncircumcised penis he preferred being the passive partner. He was primarily attracted to men of color. After graduation from high school he enrolled in Parsons School of Design.
I clicked with a musician and joined him on an extended trip to San Francisco. When we parted I arranged for him and Timothy to meet; they had a brief affair. Timothy called to tell me first. I was amused. I knew it would never work so it never bothered me. Eventually Timothy met a man, a bus driver on the 14th Street cross-town line, and they became live-in lovers. Ironically, years earlier Timothy had given me a surreal painting dominated by a dark-skinned man with a green bus driving across his open chest. It now seems prophetic: the lover eventually died of a heart condition.
Timothy dropped out of Parsons. The relationship ended. To support himself he took retail sales jobs. He moved to a small studio across from the Kips Bay highrises and was soon receiving overtures from men who could see into his bedroom through the un-curtained windows. The attention amused him and he began purposely walking around in states of undress. Some made offers he couldn’t refuse. I had no idea he had become addicted to heroin.
I left the East Village and moved to the Upper West Side. By then we had fallen out of contact. One day I got a call from Marie, one of his female friends whom he had introduced to me when we first met. She told me that some months earlier Timothy had died of an overdose and long buried. I was sad I had missed the last days of his life, and my first thought was what became of his art.
I called the family home and spoke to one of his sisters. She filled in the details of his passing and when I asked what the family planned to do with his sculptures, paintings and poems, she told me that the father had destroyed it all. He blamed the artistic inclinations as the cause of his son’s destruction. I was shocked and angry but there was little I could do.
I dedicated my first novel A Brother’s Touch (www.amazon.com) to Timothy though I only used his initials out of respect for the family’s feelings. I did send one of his sisters a copy but never heard back from her. When the book was reissued, I changed the dedication to include his full name.
Sometime after learning of the overdose, I was looking through flyers on a bulletin board at the newly opened Gay Center in the West Village when I spotted a protest announcement illustrated with a picture of Timothy, prominent among participants in one of the first gay pride marches. I immediately took it and put it with the art, writings and pictures I kept in a small archive dedicated to his memory.
I always wonder if drugs had not intervened so fatally, if Timothy would have realized the precocious promise he showed so young. It will always be an open consideration. I cherish the pieces of art I retain to this day, including a ceramic rose he made me for Valentine's Day.
Even if he survived the scourge of dope addiction, most likely he would not survive the Plague to come!
Timothy would be approaching his 60th birthday in the coming year.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Rebel Owen: Dreamer, Late Bloomer, Bondage Sub, Aspiring Writer, Early Victim
Rebel is the only man with whom I had sustained sexual history lasting more than a decade, though we never had an official relationship. I met him in the fall of 1972 and we had sex well into the 1980's. In the beginning, I had something of a romantic crush on him even though he was muted emotionally but always willing to service me, especially since we shared a quasi-master-slave fantasy.
I was the second man with whom Rebel physically connected; but technically his first since the first encounter was brief and tentative; he was already age 28. His lack of sexual experience was doubly amazing considering he had grown up in the pre-chichi Chelsea neighborhood, no less. Fearful of family attitudes and painfully shy, he had lived seriously repressed since his teens when he first recognized his sexual preferences.
In desperation, he posted a “male-seeks-male” ad in the East Village Other, a long-gone alternative paper that flourished in the Lower East Side in the late 1960s and early 1970s. I was drawn by his physical description—six foot two, blond, inexperienced. He listed his phone number and a post office box. Naturally, I called and got him on the second or third try. He was eager to come right over. We made a date.
I recall standing in the window watching him approach my building. He was not a great beauty but had a wholesome masculine quality. He rang the bell and came upstairs. At the time of our first encounter, I had no idea that I was literally the first man he was with sexually. His only other encounter tied up and masturbated him but not to orgasm. We got naked and we jumped into bed. He was eager to try everything, and anything I wanted him to do sexually. We had a very satisfying afternoon that first time. I was eager to see him again.
In the coming weeks, we started seeing each other regularly and he began to express his sexual fantasies about submission and bondage. We were soon assembling a toy box of handcuffs, ropes, gags, whips and other leather accessories--all of which he bought or made per my instructions. He was extremely submissive and worked very hard to please me sexually. When we were together, he was in a state of constant arousal. Sex with Rebel was always satisfying.
At the time we met he was living in a studio apartment in the soon to be fashionable Soho. It was a crummy walkup, so bug infested he bought a gecko to feed on the roaches. He had built a loft bed and we used the posts to create places to restrain him. We did the same at my apartment with him screwing large bolts into a doorframe to restrain him spread eagle. Our sexual experimentation got more serious and we were seeing each other at least once a week. At the time, he was driving a cab and had a pretty irregular schedule. Like myself, he aspired to write; he kept journals and tried his hand at short fiction, poetry and essays.
Rebel had very few friends, and his closest friend was straight. We soon discovered that I not only knew that friend Thom—we ran in the same high school circles-- but I also knew Rebel's older brother Greg. He had married a friend of mine from high school days. I was amazed at the coincidence, since there had been the potential for me to meet Rebel a lot earlier. Over Christmas Rebel drove up to Maine to meet with a guy he had been corresponding with from his ad. I was a bit jealous but there was nothing I could do about it, so didn't say anything. When he returned, he was still mine sexually.
As summer approached, Rebel expressed interest in having his “pen pal” from Maine come to New York for the summer. I, on the other hand, wanted to spend the summer in Maine, where I had in previous years work at one of the beach resorts. We made a trade off. Since there would be more room for him and Todd at my place, he would take my apartment for the summer and in exchange, I use his car for the same period in Ogunquit.
Nonetheless, I had mixed feelings about leaving for the summer, especially feeling insecure because of his keen interest in Todd. Rebel drove to Maine to pick Todd up, and on the night they were to return, I stayed with an old boyfriend Jon S. (his remembrance to come). He lived in a nearby ground floor apt on East Ninth Street.
The next morning I returned to the apt to find Rebel and Todd comfortably ensconced in my bed. My stuff already packed, he gave me the car keys, helped me load the car and I was gone. Still not feeling good leaving Rebel with someone I felt he was more attracted to than me, there was nothing I could do about it. Best to pretend I was all in favor of him seeing other people, as long as the special relationship we shared was unaffected. And to that end, I tasked him to write me regularly describing the kinds of bondage and S & M activity we might try upon my return.
As usual, summer in Maine was a prefect break. Hanging with friends from earlier summers and making new ones. I got a weekend wait job at one of the high-end restaurants in Ogunquit. It gave me enough spending money to get by. And since the beach in Ogunquit is very cruisy, I managed occasional moon lit trysts.
When I got back to New York in the fall, it soon became clear that nothing with Rebel had changed. As agreed, he had sent me periodic letters describing fantasies of bondage and submission. He drove Todd back up to Maine, and when he came back, we resumed our intense sexual relations. I eventually learned that he and Todd had not hit it off physically.
The affair with Rebel went on and off for years. He eventually moved to Brooklyn to share a place with his friend Thom. We didn't see each other as much as when he lived closer, we still got together every few weeks. Even after we took other life partners-- I moved to the Upper West Side with mine, he met a Daddy Dom in Chelsea-- we still periodically met for primal encounters.
Eventually Rebel met a Puerto Rican leather twink and he became his first real lover. They moved into a tenement on East 17th Street. We tried a threesome, but I was ultimately not attracted to his friend. I made a point of coming by to see Rebel when his friend wasn't home. They were very much into the leather lifestyle, and I think Rebel was content with the relationship though we continued to have sex intermittently. After all I was his initial partner, so there was a strong attachment there.
On the night of the 1977 NYC Blackout I ran into them in the Far West Village. We went back to a friend’s apartment nearby I was house-sitting and had sex. The boys left. I fell asleep, instead of returning to the streets, where later I learned I missed one of the all time great street orgies at the end of Christopher Street.
By the late 1970s my Upper Westside partnership was floundering. We broke up. I eventually found my own apt and moved. Rebel and I reconnected. He started coming over. We continued as if it was the first time. But by the mid-1980s, things between us waned. The last few encounters had not been particularly satisfying. We finally stopped seeing each other.
I ran into him on the street a couple of years later. The AIDS epidemic was accelerating. He told me he had been sick but was doing okay. At the time, I made no direct connection between his remarks and the AIDS plague. He said he was living somewhere in the Village. We didn't exchange numbers. As far as I could tell he was still driving a cab.
The summer of 1988, the famous AIDS memorial quilt was on display in Central Park. I had a visitor from Germany. We spent an afternoon walking amidst the handmade squares reading the names of those who had succumb to the illness. I was shocked to discover two quilts laid side by side embroidered with the name of Rebel Owen indicating he had died in 1987.
I got tested and my results were negative.
This past August he would have turned 65 years old.
I was the second man with whom Rebel physically connected; but technically his first since the first encounter was brief and tentative; he was already age 28. His lack of sexual experience was doubly amazing considering he had grown up in the pre-chichi Chelsea neighborhood, no less. Fearful of family attitudes and painfully shy, he had lived seriously repressed since his teens when he first recognized his sexual preferences.
In desperation, he posted a “male-seeks-male” ad in the East Village Other, a long-gone alternative paper that flourished in the Lower East Side in the late 1960s and early 1970s. I was drawn by his physical description—six foot two, blond, inexperienced. He listed his phone number and a post office box. Naturally, I called and got him on the second or third try. He was eager to come right over. We made a date.
I recall standing in the window watching him approach my building. He was not a great beauty but had a wholesome masculine quality. He rang the bell and came upstairs. At the time of our first encounter, I had no idea that I was literally the first man he was with sexually. His only other encounter tied up and masturbated him but not to orgasm. We got naked and we jumped into bed. He was eager to try everything, and anything I wanted him to do sexually. We had a very satisfying afternoon that first time. I was eager to see him again.
In the coming weeks, we started seeing each other regularly and he began to express his sexual fantasies about submission and bondage. We were soon assembling a toy box of handcuffs, ropes, gags, whips and other leather accessories--all of which he bought or made per my instructions. He was extremely submissive and worked very hard to please me sexually. When we were together, he was in a state of constant arousal. Sex with Rebel was always satisfying.
At the time we met he was living in a studio apartment in the soon to be fashionable Soho. It was a crummy walkup, so bug infested he bought a gecko to feed on the roaches. He had built a loft bed and we used the posts to create places to restrain him. We did the same at my apartment with him screwing large bolts into a doorframe to restrain him spread eagle. Our sexual experimentation got more serious and we were seeing each other at least once a week. At the time, he was driving a cab and had a pretty irregular schedule. Like myself, he aspired to write; he kept journals and tried his hand at short fiction, poetry and essays.
Rebel had very few friends, and his closest friend was straight. We soon discovered that I not only knew that friend Thom—we ran in the same high school circles-- but I also knew Rebel's older brother Greg. He had married a friend of mine from high school days. I was amazed at the coincidence, since there had been the potential for me to meet Rebel a lot earlier. Over Christmas Rebel drove up to Maine to meet with a guy he had been corresponding with from his ad. I was a bit jealous but there was nothing I could do about it, so didn't say anything. When he returned, he was still mine sexually.
As summer approached, Rebel expressed interest in having his “pen pal” from Maine come to New York for the summer. I, on the other hand, wanted to spend the summer in Maine, where I had in previous years work at one of the beach resorts. We made a trade off. Since there would be more room for him and Todd at my place, he would take my apartment for the summer and in exchange, I use his car for the same period in Ogunquit.
Nonetheless, I had mixed feelings about leaving for the summer, especially feeling insecure because of his keen interest in Todd. Rebel drove to Maine to pick Todd up, and on the night they were to return, I stayed with an old boyfriend Jon S. (his remembrance to come). He lived in a nearby ground floor apt on East Ninth Street.
The next morning I returned to the apt to find Rebel and Todd comfortably ensconced in my bed. My stuff already packed, he gave me the car keys, helped me load the car and I was gone. Still not feeling good leaving Rebel with someone I felt he was more attracted to than me, there was nothing I could do about it. Best to pretend I was all in favor of him seeing other people, as long as the special relationship we shared was unaffected. And to that end, I tasked him to write me regularly describing the kinds of bondage and S & M activity we might try upon my return.
As usual, summer in Maine was a prefect break. Hanging with friends from earlier summers and making new ones. I got a weekend wait job at one of the high-end restaurants in Ogunquit. It gave me enough spending money to get by. And since the beach in Ogunquit is very cruisy, I managed occasional moon lit trysts.
When I got back to New York in the fall, it soon became clear that nothing with Rebel had changed. As agreed, he had sent me periodic letters describing fantasies of bondage and submission. He drove Todd back up to Maine, and when he came back, we resumed our intense sexual relations. I eventually learned that he and Todd had not hit it off physically.
The affair with Rebel went on and off for years. He eventually moved to Brooklyn to share a place with his friend Thom. We didn't see each other as much as when he lived closer, we still got together every few weeks. Even after we took other life partners-- I moved to the Upper West Side with mine, he met a Daddy Dom in Chelsea-- we still periodically met for primal encounters.
Eventually Rebel met a Puerto Rican leather twink and he became his first real lover. They moved into a tenement on East 17th Street. We tried a threesome, but I was ultimately not attracted to his friend. I made a point of coming by to see Rebel when his friend wasn't home. They were very much into the leather lifestyle, and I think Rebel was content with the relationship though we continued to have sex intermittently. After all I was his initial partner, so there was a strong attachment there.
On the night of the 1977 NYC Blackout I ran into them in the Far West Village. We went back to a friend’s apartment nearby I was house-sitting and had sex. The boys left. I fell asleep, instead of returning to the streets, where later I learned I missed one of the all time great street orgies at the end of Christopher Street.
By the late 1970s my Upper Westside partnership was floundering. We broke up. I eventually found my own apt and moved. Rebel and I reconnected. He started coming over. We continued as if it was the first time. But by the mid-1980s, things between us waned. The last few encounters had not been particularly satisfying. We finally stopped seeing each other.
I ran into him on the street a couple of years later. The AIDS epidemic was accelerating. He told me he had been sick but was doing okay. At the time, I made no direct connection between his remarks and the AIDS plague. He said he was living somewhere in the Village. We didn't exchange numbers. As far as I could tell he was still driving a cab.
The summer of 1988, the famous AIDS memorial quilt was on display in Central Park. I had a visitor from Germany. We spent an afternoon walking amidst the handmade squares reading the names of those who had succumb to the illness. I was shocked to discover two quilts laid side by side embroidered with the name of Rebel Owen indicating he had died in 1987.
I got tested and my results were negative.
This past August he would have turned 65 years old.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Thurman Hedgepeth, Artist, Fashionista, Dealer, Traveler, Networker
The first time I laid eyes on Thurman he was working behind the books and prints concession at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, hired specifically to work at the groundbreaking 1968 photo exhibition Harlem on My Mind. Thurman definitely stood out. Tall, maybe 6' 3”, and rail thin, with an elegant aristocratic manner. He had the brightest smile and biggest brown eyes that when they zeroed in on you made you feel like you were his entire focus. His fashionably baggy outfit of carefully edited secondhand finds emphasized his willowy figure.
I approached the counter to look over the offerings. We quickly fell into easy conversation. We talked about the exhibition, the museum and the fact that he was a visual artist recently arrived in the city. A few days later, I ran into him on the street in the East Village and discovered we were neighbors. I lived on East Second Street; he on East Third.
The first time I dropped by to visit Thurman unannounced almost got me mugged. Coming from a nearby supermarket with groceries and passing his building, I thought I would stop in and see if he was home. When I opened the street door, a hulking Hispanic man lingered in the vestibule. He eyed me and moved aside. I took about three steps through the doorway but something told me to turn around and leave.
Following my instincts, I did exactly that: my abrupt about-face caught the would-be mugger off guard. He recovered quickly and came toward me. I managed to clear the door and walk quickly away. I wasn't a hundred percent sure of what had happened until I was well up the street.
At any rate, Thurman and I eventually got into contact. After the Met exhibition closed, Thurman worked as assistant to several established artists, and as such had keys to some spectacular lofts in the neighborhood. He was always moving around, going from one incredible space to another. Once he took me to a building on Lafayette Street where he was staying owned by wealthy artist Robert Rauschenberg.
I followed Thurman up to the third floor where the living quarters were. There was no one else home. He showed me a deck of homemade playing cards that Rauschenberg had quickly created for them to use. They were out at his beach place in the Hamptons the previous weekend and it rained. Behind the building was a small private chapel. Somehow, Thurman had swiftly ingratiated himself with the New York art scene. He was always going to gallery openings or loft parties.
Eventually Thurman got his own loft on East 12th Street off Fourth Avenue. It was the top floor of a four-story walkup and from the rear windows an impressive view of the top of the Empire State Building. At the time, Thurman both painted and made custom clothing. He briefly strutted down catwalks for top designers’ runway shows in Paris.
At his new loft, he had taken a lover. I vaguely remember a striking black hunk who didn’t say much. Thurman showed me a series of oversized abstracts canvases he was getting ready to show to gallery owners and art collectors like Henry Van Zeldgelder, who at the time was a MOMA curator and later city cultural commissioner. Henry was famous for finding his way to obscure lofts and apartments to ferret out promising artists.
Thurman originally came from North Carolina, a small farming town where his extended family was prominent. Their local history went back several generations. His father or grandfather was in the clergy I believe. He was the family black sheep being both an artist and gay. I once shot some 8mm film of Thurman trekking around the East Village but never did have it developed.
My mother gave me some lambskin fabric. I asked Thurman to make me a jacket. He cut, styled, fitted and sewed a high concept jacket I still have in the closet though it no longer fits, I hold on to for sentimental reasons.
One day I learned Thurman was falling behind on his rent and soon evicted for non-payment. That didn't stop Thurman. A few weeks later, he invited me over to new digs: a white shingled cottage sitting atop a commercial building in midtown. Literally, a small two-bedroom unit built on the roof. There was a generous terrace but not great views: surrounding buildings were taller.
Around this time, Thurman began dealing vintage photographs. He was going to Europe to find buyers. I moved uptown and from time to time let Thurman stay with my partner and me when he was between apartments, which seemed to be happening more and more. I noticed after one visit my piggy bank was considerably lighter and realized Thurman was pilfering the small change. I put the bank in a more secure location for his next stay.
Clearly, Thurman had a gift as an artist and art world hustler. He was always creating new work, or discovering work that he could exploit for financial gain. We both moved in the gay scene in the East and West Villages, and knew many of the same people. We both gradually gravitated uptown.
When I moved to a flat in Harlem Thurman became a frequent visitor. I stored some of his belongings, including a huge partners’ desk that I used for a while. He had new lovers all the time, one in particular that he brought by was a medical doctor from Munich, who in later years I met up with briefly in Germany.
Thurman started spending more time in Europe, and his international lifestyle inspired me to go abroad for extended stays, something I had been plotting to do for years. The first time I went to Europe, I let Thurman stay in the apt. When I came back, I discovered irregularities, which educated me about letting people use the apt while I was traveling especially when it pertained to personal bedding, etc. A good set of sheets disappeared after one of Thurman's visits, as well as cutlery and other small items. I finally had to accept the fact that Thurman was in the habit of adopting people's belongings, so I needed to be more vigilant if I were going to let him use the apartment while I traveled.
Thurman stayed in contact as he moved around the city. At one point, he was living nearby in Harlem. He eventually moved all of his belongings from my apt into a place he shared with a cousin.
One day as we chatted, I noticed how foul his breath smelled. It seemed to be more than just rotting teeth but I never suspected for a moment he was infected. He was fairly promiscuous--but weren't we all in the 1970s--though he and I were never intimate.
I found some vintage fashion photos left behind in a Harlem apt my super let me have. I gave them to Thurman on consignment. I started going off to Europe myself with more frequency. Thurman gave me a nice list of people to look up in London, Amsterdam, Paris and Berlin--all of whom were gracious and hospitable.
Thurman began going back down to North Carolina to see his family. We lost track of each other for a few months. One spring day the phone rang--for some reason I was sitting at the dining room table. It was a woman who introduced herself as Thurman's sister.
She told me that in the previous weeks he passed away, the cause, unspoken, but clearly HIV related. She said that she was calling all the people listed in his phone book. I thanked her for the acknowledgement. The unexpected news floored me. It seemed like everything happened much too quickly.
What became of Thurman’s art or belongings remains a mystery. We had no real mutual friends, and I forget to get his sister’s number. I imagine that wherever he last left his possessions was inheritor by default.
Thurman would be in his early 60’s today.
I approached the counter to look over the offerings. We quickly fell into easy conversation. We talked about the exhibition, the museum and the fact that he was a visual artist recently arrived in the city. A few days later, I ran into him on the street in the East Village and discovered we were neighbors. I lived on East Second Street; he on East Third.
The first time I dropped by to visit Thurman unannounced almost got me mugged. Coming from a nearby supermarket with groceries and passing his building, I thought I would stop in and see if he was home. When I opened the street door, a hulking Hispanic man lingered in the vestibule. He eyed me and moved aside. I took about three steps through the doorway but something told me to turn around and leave.
Following my instincts, I did exactly that: my abrupt about-face caught the would-be mugger off guard. He recovered quickly and came toward me. I managed to clear the door and walk quickly away. I wasn't a hundred percent sure of what had happened until I was well up the street.
At any rate, Thurman and I eventually got into contact. After the Met exhibition closed, Thurman worked as assistant to several established artists, and as such had keys to some spectacular lofts in the neighborhood. He was always moving around, going from one incredible space to another. Once he took me to a building on Lafayette Street where he was staying owned by wealthy artist Robert Rauschenberg.
I followed Thurman up to the third floor where the living quarters were. There was no one else home. He showed me a deck of homemade playing cards that Rauschenberg had quickly created for them to use. They were out at his beach place in the Hamptons the previous weekend and it rained. Behind the building was a small private chapel. Somehow, Thurman had swiftly ingratiated himself with the New York art scene. He was always going to gallery openings or loft parties.
Eventually Thurman got his own loft on East 12th Street off Fourth Avenue. It was the top floor of a four-story walkup and from the rear windows an impressive view of the top of the Empire State Building. At the time, Thurman both painted and made custom clothing. He briefly strutted down catwalks for top designers’ runway shows in Paris.
At his new loft, he had taken a lover. I vaguely remember a striking black hunk who didn’t say much. Thurman showed me a series of oversized abstracts canvases he was getting ready to show to gallery owners and art collectors like Henry Van Zeldgelder, who at the time was a MOMA curator and later city cultural commissioner. Henry was famous for finding his way to obscure lofts and apartments to ferret out promising artists.
Thurman originally came from North Carolina, a small farming town where his extended family was prominent. Their local history went back several generations. His father or grandfather was in the clergy I believe. He was the family black sheep being both an artist and gay. I once shot some 8mm film of Thurman trekking around the East Village but never did have it developed.
My mother gave me some lambskin fabric. I asked Thurman to make me a jacket. He cut, styled, fitted and sewed a high concept jacket I still have in the closet though it no longer fits, I hold on to for sentimental reasons.
One day I learned Thurman was falling behind on his rent and soon evicted for non-payment. That didn't stop Thurman. A few weeks later, he invited me over to new digs: a white shingled cottage sitting atop a commercial building in midtown. Literally, a small two-bedroom unit built on the roof. There was a generous terrace but not great views: surrounding buildings were taller.
Around this time, Thurman began dealing vintage photographs. He was going to Europe to find buyers. I moved uptown and from time to time let Thurman stay with my partner and me when he was between apartments, which seemed to be happening more and more. I noticed after one visit my piggy bank was considerably lighter and realized Thurman was pilfering the small change. I put the bank in a more secure location for his next stay.
Clearly, Thurman had a gift as an artist and art world hustler. He was always creating new work, or discovering work that he could exploit for financial gain. We both moved in the gay scene in the East and West Villages, and knew many of the same people. We both gradually gravitated uptown.
When I moved to a flat in Harlem Thurman became a frequent visitor. I stored some of his belongings, including a huge partners’ desk that I used for a while. He had new lovers all the time, one in particular that he brought by was a medical doctor from Munich, who in later years I met up with briefly in Germany.
Thurman started spending more time in Europe, and his international lifestyle inspired me to go abroad for extended stays, something I had been plotting to do for years. The first time I went to Europe, I let Thurman stay in the apt. When I came back, I discovered irregularities, which educated me about letting people use the apt while I was traveling especially when it pertained to personal bedding, etc. A good set of sheets disappeared after one of Thurman's visits, as well as cutlery and other small items. I finally had to accept the fact that Thurman was in the habit of adopting people's belongings, so I needed to be more vigilant if I were going to let him use the apartment while I traveled.
Thurman stayed in contact as he moved around the city. At one point, he was living nearby in Harlem. He eventually moved all of his belongings from my apt into a place he shared with a cousin.
One day as we chatted, I noticed how foul his breath smelled. It seemed to be more than just rotting teeth but I never suspected for a moment he was infected. He was fairly promiscuous--but weren't we all in the 1970s--though he and I were never intimate.
I found some vintage fashion photos left behind in a Harlem apt my super let me have. I gave them to Thurman on consignment. I started going off to Europe myself with more frequency. Thurman gave me a nice list of people to look up in London, Amsterdam, Paris and Berlin--all of whom were gracious and hospitable.
Thurman began going back down to North Carolina to see his family. We lost track of each other for a few months. One spring day the phone rang--for some reason I was sitting at the dining room table. It was a woman who introduced herself as Thurman's sister.
She told me that in the previous weeks he passed away, the cause, unspoken, but clearly HIV related. She said that she was calling all the people listed in his phone book. I thanked her for the acknowledgement. The unexpected news floored me. It seemed like everything happened much too quickly.
What became of Thurman’s art or belongings remains a mystery. We had no real mutual friends, and I forget to get his sister’s number. I imagine that wherever he last left his possessions was inheritor by default.
Thurman would be in his early 60’s today.
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