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Text:Tom Hathaway - Memoirs of Forbidden Love/Brotherly Love by Jayhawk

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“San Francisco! Want to go?” Don stood in the door of our dorm room, his curly blond hair bobbing with enthusiasm.

“Sure,” I answered. It was 1968, and the news had been full of all the wild times in San Francisco, love‐ins with hordes of people gathering in the parks to dance, get high, and protest the war on Vietnam. The hippies were putting their bare bodies on the barricades for peace. Life magazine had full‐page photos of kids wearing only hair — long and sprouting everywhere, heads, faces, underarms, crotches, letting it all hang out, joyous bouncing tits and impudent asses.

I was a freshman at Kansas University and had grown up a few miles away in Overland Park, a suburb of Kansas City. Iʼd never been east of the Mississippi River or west of Wichita. Hell yes, I wanted to go to San Francisco!

Then I saw our drab dorm room again. The offer was probably too good to be true. “Whatʼs the deal?” I asked cautiously.

Blue eyes glinting, Don straddled his desk chair. “I just got off with phone with Lee. He persuaded his folks to invite us both … Christmas vacation.” Don was my brother, a year older, and also my roommate here in the dorms. Lee was our cousin, a student at Berkeley who lived with his folks near San Francisco.

“Sounds great,” I said. “Think mom and dad will let us go?”

“Just leave that to me, little brother.”

As soon as classes broke, we left our college town of Lawrence, paid an obligatory visit back home, then headed west on Highway 40 in Donʼs red ‘55 Chevy. The wooded hills of eastern Kansas yielded to a broad plain, its harrowed soil newly planted with winter wheat, awaiting the first snow.

“The landʼs not really flat, you know,” said Don. “Itʼs tilted. Weʼre climbing all the time, but so slow you canʼt tell. Itʼs building up towards the Rockies.”

I squinted at the horizon, anxious for a first glimpse of the mountains. The highway widened to four lanes and the speed picked up. Oncoming semis roared by, buffeting us with wind. “Kick it in the ass,” Don said and tromped the gas.

We tried to find a good rock station on the radio, but now we were too far out of Topeka and too far away from Denver. It was either country‐western or gospel. “Shut that crap off,” said Don. “Heard enough of it … thatʼs what weʼre getting away from.”

“Brain rot,” I agreed.

“In San Francisco weʼll go to the Fillmore,” Don said. “Blast all this hokey shit out of our brains.”

The Fillmore — Iʼd read about it, seen pictures of Jimi Hendrix burning his guitar on stage, Janis Joplin screaming her joy at being long gone from Port Arthur, Texas, which was probably worse than Kansas City.

This was the pre‐Interstate era, so the highway plowed through the center of each town on the route, often narrowing to two lanes. We crept past the stores: hardware, feed and grain, auto parts; the restaurants: Veraʼs and A&W Root Beer; the motels: Dew Drop Inn and Bide‐a-Wee on opposite ends of town; the Alibi Bar with a neon cocktail glass; the John Deere dealership, most prosperous place in town, its display windows and lot filled with glistening new tractors.

We cheered as we crossed into Colorado. “Now weʼre running on mountain time,” Don said. “Doesnʼt that sound better than central? Keep time with the mountains!” Donʼs hands left the steering wheel to beat a drum riff on the dashboard. “Plus we get a whole extra hour to live. By the time we get to California, two extra hours.”

Too road weary to be enthused, I reset my watch and the clock on the dashboard. “When we come back, weʼll lose it again.”

Don jutted out his elbow to prod me out of my torpor. “Maybe we wonʼt come back. Weʼll just keep going west, keep gaining time … never die. Maybe thatʼs the secret. If you can keep up with the sun, you go on forever.”

I slugged down some cold coffee. “The only hitch is, then youʼd have to live in a space satellite, wear one of those suits all the time. You never get to screw, and you have to shit into a plastic bag. You think thatʼs worth it?”

Don shook his head. “Nope. For that we couldʼve stayed in Kansas.”

“This looks like Kansas,” said I. “Where the mountains?” I strained my eyes again towards the horizon. “I want to see Pikeʼs Peak.”

Two hours later the land still looked like Kansas, but up ahead ragged blue silhouettes were emerging on the horizon. The sight snapped me out of the caffinated drowse Iʼd been driving in. I looked over to Don, slumped against the door, and decided not to wake him. I enjoyed the sunset in solitude, driving with visor down, squinting at the sinking orange ball, its golden light shooting rays through the haze, shining the mist into glowing velvet clouds, then throbbing them pink and violet, flaring them iridescent. Right before it dropped out of sight, the sun fired the peaks, and I could almost see crags and cliffs all locked in ice. With a last gleam it was gone. I glanced backwards at the eastern sky, already a starry plum.

Air streamed cold and crisp through the open wing, thinner and drier than in Kansas. I breathed it and seemed to expand. Weʼre a mile high … and climbing!

As we neared Denver, Don took over the wheel and switched the radio back on. “Now maybe we can get some decent sounds.” He found a rock station, but it was mainstream bubble‐gum — Hermanʼs Hermits. “See if you can get us something better.”

I turned the dial and stopped when I heard jazz — a tangle of piano notes lurching through a maze of syncopation spun out by a bass. The two musicians halted, backed, and plunged ahead into a dissonance that was both harsh and delicious. “Hey, thatʼs good, keep it!” Don said, sitting up alert. “They donʼt have anything like that in Kansas City.”

Finally the announcerʼs voice came on: “For the past little while weʼve been grooving to the melodious thunk of Thelonius Monk backed up by Charlie Mingus, all coming at you on the Cool Bill Davis Show. Next up, Charlie Parker.”

“The Bird! They play the Bird here!” I said. Charlie Parker, the greatest jazz musician ever, was from Kansas City, but hardly any white people there knew his music. To hear it played on the radio now from Denver was proof weʼd taken a cultural step up and were headed in the right direction — away from KC. The Bird had left, and so had we, even if it was just for two weeks.

Don and I had never quite fit in, had always been weirdos, first in high school, now in college. Alienation, we learned it was called. Except we thought it should be A‐Lie-Nation, because of all the lies the government was telling us to justify drug laws and the war on Vietnam.

Birdʼs alto sax filled the car with the aerial abstractions of be‐bop, and I settled into a happy nod. Highway 40ʼs hurtle through the starry mile‐high night turned into the neon glare of Colfax Avenue, creeping towards downtown Denver.

“Iʼm sick of pushing this metal box across the country,” Don said. “Letʼs have a couple of beers and spend the night here.”

“Solid! A few brews … hit the spot.”

On the next corner a neon jet plane announced The Afterburner — Beer Bar, and Don pulled into the parking lot. After sitting in the car for so long, we walked unsteadily on solid ground, as if we already had a buzz on.

A beefy man at the door checked our IDs. The bar was crowded with thirsty eighteen to twenty year‐olds guzzling beer with only 3.2 percent alcohol. No one older was there because they could go to the regular bars and drink full strength beer and whatever else they wanted. This was like a bar with trainer wheels: not quite the real thing but enough to get you in the habit.

The brew was watery, but that just meant you had to drink more of it. Looking around, we saw it was mostly an air force bar. Thereʼs a big base in Denver. Lots of guys were in blue uniforms, and most of the others had short military haircuts. Don and I felt out of place; we both had long hair and werenʼt the military type. We decided to have one beer and leave.

The aluminum wing of a fighter plane hung on a wall, spotted with bullet holes. “Mustʼve got shot down in Vietnam,” Don said.

I tried to figure why they would send it all the way back here. I looked at the holes closer and saw circular scroll marks where a drill bit had chewed through the aluminum. “Itʼs fake,” I said, pointing out the drill marks to Don.

Don gave a loud, scoffing laugh. “Wouldnʼt you know it!”

“Whatʼs so funny?” The angry voice came from behind.

“Huh?” Don said, startled. We turned to see a heavy‐set guy with an almost shaved head and a hard, round face glaring at us.

“You heard me. You think itʼs funny a plane gets shot down, airmen die — that your idea of funny?”

Don couldnʼt talk; he shrugged and looked away.

“This plane didnʼt get shot down,” I said. “Look, somebody drilled it.”

The guy stared at me and Don, sizing us up. He stepped closer and his voice grew angrier. “That wing thereʼs a monument … itʼs a memorial … to all the planes that did get shot down … are getting shot down right now. Our buddies over in Vietnam are dying so shitbirds like you can stand around and make fun of ‘em.”

Drawn by the hostility, several other GIs gathered around. “Fuckinʼ draft dodgers,” one of them called out, but it was a half‐joking taunt.

The big guy was in earnest, though; he had found a target and pressed the attack. He moved so close that I could smell beer and cigarettes on his breath. “Militaryʼs better off without pussies like you. Chickenshit bastards get your buddies killed in combat.”

Theyʼre going to beat us up, I thought. A bar fight … gouge us with broken beer bottles. My breath felt cut off to a wisp as if a wire were crimping my throat. My stomach contracted to a hard lump and my chest clenched. My upper arms were rigid but my hands shook.

A tall rangy guy with a jutting Adamʼs apple, dark stubbly hair, and anthracite eyes gestured at me. “Look, his hands are shaking. You scared, punk? No wonder youʼre dodging the draft.” He turned to his comrades with a predatory smile. “This guy is scared shitless.”

Our first tormentor reached out and undid the top button of Donʼs shirt. Don flinched back but was too frightened to block him. The guy sensed that instantly, and his small gray eyes almost disappeared in his grinning cheeks. He smirked at the others and pointed to Donʼs immobility. I folded my arms across my chest, hoping I wouldnʼt be next, knowing I would be, dreading it. Pork Chop returned to unbuttoning Donʼs shirt. With each button my brother cringed with deeper humiliation. When he reached the belt, the guy stopped, his face red and breathing hard. “Fuckinʼ cherries … wouldnʼt fight if you killed ‘em. Letʼs give ‘em the bumʼs rush.” He turned to his buddies, eyes glistening. “Should we give ‘em the bumʼs rush?”

“Yeah,” the tall guy said with a cackle.

They lunged at us in a crouch and thrust one hand between each of our legs to grab our belts from behind, then seized our shirt collars in their other hand and stood straight, lifting us off the ground until we were hanging parallel to the floor. I screamed helplessly as the onlookers cheered. They ran with us towards the back door, which they opened using Donʼs head as a battering ram.

Out in the parking lot, two guys who came with them opened the back of a van. One of them stood in front of the license plate so we couldnʼt read it. They tossed us in like sacks of potatoes and got in after us.

“Weʼre gonna give you two cherries a lesson in military justice,” said Pork Chop as the van pulled away. “Scream for help and youʼre dead.” He pulled a knife from a sheath on the side of his hightop boots and pressed the cold blade against my throat. “Youʼre both prisoners of war. Youʼre gonna see whatʼs thatʼs like. First we shake you down for weapons. Spread eagle!” He prodded my arms and legs with the knife point until I spread them.

The tall guy was sitting on Don. He reached down with his hand like a claw and grabbed my brotherʼs crotch. Don screamed but stifled it. “Found a suspicious object, sergeant!” the guy crowed.

“Strip search ‘em then,” the fat guy said. He stuck his knife into the end of my jeans and with a grunting effort slit the denim up the leg. The blade scratched my skin all the way up until it jabbed my rear end. As I jerked and squealed with pain, he pressed a heavy hand against my back to hold me down. He cut across the bottom to the other leg, slicing me in the process, then slit that leg too down to the cuff. He groped my jockey shorts off. I thought he was going to castrate me with the knife.

Instead he pulled his own pants down to the tops of his boots.

The other guy said to Don, “You take ‘em off or I cut ‘em off.” With trembling fingers Don unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down to his knees. “You canʼt spread ‘em that way,” the guy said. “All the way off.” Don took off his shoes and pulled the jeans all the way off. The guy slapped him across the face. “Drawers too.” Don took off his underpants, then rolled onto his stomach to hide his genitals. “You got it, bare‐ass.”

By now the van had stopped. I couldnʼt see any street lights or cars out the windshield. The two guys in front had turned around to watch us.

Pork Chop leaned over me. “On your hands and knees, bitch. Youʼre gonna get fucked doggy style.” His grin showed cigarette stains on his teeth.

What was left of my pants was hanging down like a skirt in front of me with the back open, so as I crouched down, my rump was fully exposed. I saw Pork Chopʼs privates hanging limp below his belly. Maybe he wouldnʼt be able to do it to me. But what would he do instead?

He took the point of his knife and poked my rump, kept doing that, just breaking the skin, watching my winces of pain. He slid the knife over my testicles, smiling at the terror on my face. “You want to keep these, you do what I say. Got it?”

I nodded.

He poked one ball with the blade. “Got it?” he asked louder.

“Yes!”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir!”

“You learn fast, college boy.” He was panting and his organ was getting larger. “Kiss me, bitch.” I kissed him. He tasted like a beer bottle full of cigarette butts. He put his tongue in my mouth. “Now kiss this.” He shoved his cock in my face. “You bite it, you die.” I kissed it. “Now suck it.” I sucked it. It tasted like sweat. It was all the way hard by now.

The other guy was bent over Donʼs rear end, putting his into him, twisting and grunting while Don bit his lip to keep from screaming.

Pork Chop pulled his out of my mouth and got behind me. He spread my cheeks and started ramming it against me. He grabbed my hips in his fat hands and pulled me back against it. He bent and grunted as he rammed, and finally with a sharp pain it slid into me. “Ha!” he moaned with pleasure and pushed it all the way in. I could feel my skin tearing. He loomed up all the way over me, grabbed my chest and bit my shoulder. “Fuckinʼ cherries … fuckinʼ cherries,” he chanted with each thrust into me. It hurt, I knew I was bleeding. Tears were streaming down my face. He brushed them away almost tenderly and pinched my cheek. “Youʼre cute when you cry, you know?”

The two guys in front climbed in the back with us and pulled their pants down. One of them knelt in front of me and stuck his penis in my face. “Suck it, sucker. Suck it good. Or else!” He clinched both hands around my throat. “Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now do it to it.” He shoved it into my mouth.

I knew theyʼd kill us when they were done, but I thought if we obeyed and didnʼt make them too mad, theyʼd just shoot us or stab us and not torture us to death. Knowing I was soon going to die, I clung to every moment of life. These sensations of hard throbbing flesh filling my top and bottom were the last things Iʼd ever feel, so I clung to them too. They were all I had left. My own flesh began standing up out of the tatters of my pants.

Pork Chop was thrusting faster now, groaning and pumping me hard, his thighs banging against my butt; then he went frantic, bellowing and pistoning me as his load spurted into me.

I looked over at Don, who was also on his hands and knees being worked over by two guys, one at his ass and another at his face. He had his eyes shut and he was crying and his organ was hard.

With a blend of humiliation and pleasure I began coming, semen jetting out of my cock like a fountain. I was ashamed but couldnʼt help it. Maybe Don sensed it — he opened his eyes right then to look at me. Our eyes met, and a beam of love and helpless compassion poured between us, stronger than the terror. Then Don orgasmed, spouting juice in long arcs while he moaned. He was beautiful, and I wanted to hold his image as I died.

The guy at my face grabbed my hair and pronged his prick down my throat as he came in surges. Finally he pulled it out. “You better swallow, dickhead.”

I swallowed. How would they kill us?

The two butt guys wiped their dicks on our clothes and pulled up their pants. The two face guys pulled up theirs and got back in front. They started driving away. Pork Chop opened the back of the van and yelled, “Bumʼs rush!” They pushed Don and me half naked out the back. We hit the road on our hands and knees, then rolled into a ball to protect our middles as we slid across the pavement, tearing skin off. The van speeded up, with Pork Chop still holding the door open so we couldnʼt read the license plate, and the other guy kicking our shoes and pants out.

They were gone; we were alive; I wished I was dead.

Crying and quavering, we put our filthy clothes back on. We could see we were in a big park. We walked towards the closest street lights. I tied my shirt around my waist and held my pants up to hide my bleeding rear end. We didnʼt know where we were and were afraid to ask anyone. We saw a motel — get clean, wash them off of us — and I waited in shadows while Don rented a room.

The hot water and soap stung our cuts and scratches. We couldnʼt talk but we needed each other. We huddled together in the bed, two wounded helpless creatures, glad not to be alone in this horrible world.

In the morning we found our way back to the car, now with a parking ticket on it. The bar wasnʼt open yet. We were glad. We drove out of Denver.

Gradually our fear and shame and pain eased enough that we could talk in strained fragments, but not about the rape. Something deep in us had been soiled beyond cleansing. We shared a terrible silent secret, but it brought us closer together.

As we lugged up into the front range of the Rockies, thick clouds blotted out the sun and started pouring snow, small dry pellets unlike the big wet flakes of Kansas, a swarm of white specks dancing in the headlights and trailing in skeins behind us. Numb almost to catatonia, we watched them, glad of distraction, glad some beauty was left in the world.

To avoid thinking about what had happened, we debated the crucial issue of whether it was true that no two snowflakes were ever the same. Imagine from the very first flake until now, no two ever the same? Hard to believe. All through the Ice Ages, through all the ever‐swirling polar snows since then, millions of jillions of flakes, and no two ever the same? Maybe if you counted the molecules on each branch, maybe no two had exactly the same number of molecules in exactly the same place. Other than that it seemed pretty unlikely.

What if the snow kept on and covered the road? We didnʼt have chains … shouldʼve thought of that. But for now at least, the flakes were too dry and small to stick to the road, were blown off by traffic whoosh. In the storm our car became a haven amid the swirling hugeness of eternal snows and endless mountains.

Still unable to confront our violation, we drove through the night listening to Wolfman Jack from XERF, Del Rio, Texas, the transmitter broadcasting from across the border in Mexico because its power was too strong to be legal in the US, the Wolfman beaming all over the west, we used to listen to him in Kansas City, now through the snows of Colorado. The Wolfman obviously a weirdo who didnʼt fit in either but whoʼd found his groove and was good at it, mega‐watting his mad cackle and bizarre music, no mere top-40 payola picks for Wolfman, everything had a bit of a bent edge to it.

Beyond the windshield the mountains were now great humped shadows caught in the stab of headlights. The snow finally stopped, replaced by galaxies of stars in a clear sky.

Oncoming cars were sudden hurtling flashes, passing by on the way to who‐knows-where secret rendezvous. Maybe theyʼre trying to get to Denver while weʼre trying to get away from it. Or theyʼre headed for KC, they could be neighborsʼ kin going for a Christmas visit, and we pass them in the night never knowing, never meeting, all of us tiny and lost.

The Wolfman knew all that, you could hear it in his voice, an ancient crazy wail part Negro, part Pachuco, he had seen it all, done it all, and it had driven him over the brink into mad raps. The Wolfman might have even been raped once, and he was still here.

We drank coffee and ate pie in truckstops. Driving and sleeping in shifts, we piled up the miles, speeding out of the Rockies and through Salt Lake City, staid and quiet compared to Denver, then onto the desert with its white salt flats and wide blue lake reflecting the mountains in a windless tableau, an eerie expanse of emptiness like a Salvador Dali painting with time and gravity suspended.

Finally, both of us dizzy with fatigue, coffee not working anymore, we stopped at a motel with a giant neon cowboy in Winnemucca, Nevada. We hit the showers and hit the bed. The room had two beds, but we got in the same one, needing comfort. In the dark our memories returned, and emotions weʼd repressed for twenty‐four hours flooded over us — terror, rage, disgrace. Holding each other, we cried in great gouts of grief over our defilement, we cursed our attackers, then as that ebbed, we were overwhelmed by a need for love and tenderness. We hugged each other with soothing gentleness, replacing the brutality with affection. Without thinking, we began kissing and caressing, to prove to ourselves that human contact doesnʼt have to be cruel. If we hadnʼt been half out of our minds, we wouldnʼt have done this. Weʼd never even played doctor as kids, let alone had sex together. But now we craved solace too much to stop. Our touches were blotting out the trauma, salving each otherʼs wounds. Our hungry mouths found our brotherly organs and kissed and consoled them in an oral embrace of healing. We gave each other a mutual orgasm of love and fell asleep in each otherʼs arms.

Next day we refused to be sorry. Weʼd endured so much that we were now beyond conventions of propriety. We were glad to have and help each other in every way we could. Weʼd paid our dues and didnʼt need to regret anything or apologize to anyone. We were human beings again. Weʼd proved our rapers wrong: sex can be kind rather than vicious.

Did this mean we were queers, the lowest form of life, and worse yet, incestuous queers, the depths of depravity? If so, so be it. Labels had no meaning to us anymore. Our lovemaking had been the best sexual experience weʼd ever had. Weʼd both had a few girls before but found it no big deal, kind of overrated. This was different.

We drove through Nevadaʼs vast arid emptiness and the tawdry hustle of Reno, then finally reached the Sierras. The Chevyʼs inline six cylinders slowed as we began to climb. Cheering, we crossed the border into California, the state on the salient edge of possibility. Already we felt a new charge in the air. The highway was better, and it seemed we could coast all the way to the coast.

We stopped thirty miles short of the Pacific in Orinda, a suburb of San Francisco where our cousin Lee lived. Both Orinda and Overland Park were enclaves of prosperity, but rather than the stolid conservative cubes of Kansas, people here lived in split levels with redwood balconies, overhanging eaves, cantilevered stairways, glass walls, and kidney‐shaped swimming pools. We nearly wept with relief. The trip had been worth it. Here things were different. This was living!

Lee was a senior at UC Berkeley majoring in art history. He stayed at home with his folks but was going to move into San Francisco as soon as he graduated. We hadnʼt seen each other in about five years. The first thing he said when we were alone together was, “So youʼre gay too. Groovy!”

We didnʼt know what “gay” meant, so he explained. “How could you tell?” I asked.

“Easy, silly.”

I realized weʼd probably always been that way deep down, but it took this trip to bring it out.

Lee taught us a lot, most of it on his water bed. Then he introduced us to his friends in the city. Don and I got sucked and fucked in about eighty different ways. By New Yearʼs weʼd fully come out.

We were a long ways from Kansas and we werenʼt going back. We forgot about college for a while and got jobs — Don as a waiter, me as a florist — and an apartment in the Castro district. Eventually we both got masterʼs degrees from San Francisco State, Donʼs in accounting and mine in poetry writing, but for now there was more to be learned in the streets than from books.

In 1969 — the last two digits were prophetic — San Francisco exploded with gay festivals and parades. We held outdoor orgies at night in Fort Mason, a park at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge. Guys were dropping trou at the drop of a hat. Both gays and lesbians were finally no longer afraid of showing they were queer and could openly celebrate their sexuality.

Two guys bought a Turkish bath and turned it into fairyland. Soon similar places sprang up, bath houses offering free and open gay sex in all its varieties. People could finally live their fantasies. The baths also served as cultural centers. Writers like Allen Ginsberg and Ray Mungo would read their work, musicians like Tim Buckley and Phil Ochs would sing and play, political activists like Rennie Davis and Harvey Milk would speak on stopping the war in Vietnam and creating economic justice in the US. And everybody was nude! It was mind blowing. It seemed to be the nucleus of a revolution. But mostly it was sex, a freaky frolic. All sorts of people came — bikers, artists, businessmen. I once saw Rudolf Nureyev and Johnny Mathis kissing. One night Don, Lee, and I were part of a sixteen‐man daisy chain, a full‐circle cyclotron of male energy doing the bunny hop and singing, “Hang on, Sloopy.”

The US as a whole began to change, as the gay author Charles Reich predicted in The Greening of America. The country became more tolerant, less uptight. Repression gave way to free expression.

But unfortunately it wasnʼt all peace and love — later disease and death crept into the scene. When AIDS first started we had no idea where it came from. All we knew was that we were killing each other.

Now some investigators think it was started by a government experiment in 1978 with hepatitis vaccine in the gay community. The vaccine might have been contaminated with HIV developed at the Fort Detrick Center for Biological Warfare Research. Similarly contaminated smallpox vaccine may have started the virus in Africa. Whether this was the work of a few rogue technicians or an official covert program, we may never know, but itʼs been very effective.

One foggy day Don and I stood on the Golden Gate Bridge and strewed Leeʼs ashes into the bay.

San Francisco became a sad place, a city in mourning. Like many people, Don and I survived the plague by a pledge of fidelity. We were each otherʼs favorite sexual partner, so we decided to end the promiscuity and become each otherʼs only sexual partner. In addition to keeping us alive, this deepened our emotional bond.

Eventually, though, we got tried of going to funerals and decided to leave San Francisco. We moved back to, of all places — Lawrence, Kansas. By then it had changed enormously. It had a gay disco and a lesbian city councilwoman. William Burroughs, the great gay novelist, lived there and presided over a literary salon. But all of it was still imbued with Kansas wholesomeness, which we now found to be refreshing after the dark extremes of San Francisco.

Even our family has come to accept gayness, but they donʼt know weʼre lovers. They think weʼre just roommates and have boy friends. Our type of brotherly love theyʼre definitely not ready for.

So Don and I are back where we started, but we and the place are now so different that it seems like a whole new world. A better one.


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