Lion's Lair - 18. Gay History 101 -- and More!

Roll from the garage into the house. “Honey, I’m home.” Sounding like a cheesy sitcom, but it feels good being back here. In a lot of ways, feeling more comfortable here—and really am beginning to think of this as home, even if it is Clayton’s place.

Guess he didn’t hear me, since music is playing fairly loudly. Some old disco song; can’t make out the words, but the driving beat gives it away.

Roll into the kitchen and Clayton has his back to me at the range. He’s in shorts, t-shirt, barefoot, dancing around as he cooks. Never seen him this relaxed before. He does a quick spin and stops halfway through, realizing he’s been caught.

“Damn, Clayton, you’ve got some moves—guess we need to have ya cook whatever it is you’re cooking more often.” I’m laughing.

Chagrined, he just nods with that embarrassed smile, as he grabs a remote and turns the music down. Gloria Gaynor’s singing “I Will Survive”. “Yeah, I’m having fun. And feeling good, listening to some classic disco. I decided to cook rather than do the leftover burgers. I put them in the freezer, we’ll have ‘em another time.”

“There’s such a thing as ‘classic disco’? And dinner is …. ?”

“Rosemary-lemon baked chicken, green bean casserole, new potatoes. I cheated, and got pound cake, strawberries, and ice cream for dessert. How’s that? And, yes, disco is classic—it’s from a different era, so it qualifies. I can see a history lesson in your future.”

“Dinner sounds great.” Roll to the ‘fridge, grab a beer. “You want one?” “Boogie Wonderland” by Earth, Wind, and Fire fades in. Clayton’s dancing again, holding up his glass of wine, shaking his head “no” to my offer of a beer.

“What is this—a Time-Life compilation of classic disco hits?” I’m sure I smirked a little—not quite the music normally heard in the bars.

Clayton sticks out his tongue at me, smiling, and continues his moves. He really is in a good mood. “Nope, just some old stuff I’d put on CDs years ago, and yes, I still like them. Come on, let’s go sit in the living room; we’ve got time before dinner is ready, and I’ll give you a history lesson.”

Move to the living area; get out of my chair, comfortable on the sofa; Clayton sits next to me. He’s quiet for a moment before he begins speaking. Quietly reminiscing, I guess.

“It really was a different era, you know? Such heady times. After the ‘60’s sexual revolution—‘free love’ and all that—gay liberation became something of a social force. Drag queens and transsexuals fought back against police raiding that little Stonewall bar, and it was really the first time there was a major sense of community among GLBT people. They pushed the cops out into the street, with a small riot of support. Even though there’d been some earlier efforts at gaining recognition of gay rights before then, the national reporting of the ‘Stonewall Riot” became a focus point for the larger movement.”

“Why’d the police raid the bar? Drugs? Gambling? Prostitution?”

“None of that. It was a crime, even in New York City, to be gay—dancing with a same sex partner wasn’t just frowned on, the culture at the time allowed gays to be beaten up, arrested on indecency charges, public intoxication, whatever the police would drum up. In fact, a lot of the clubs were doing payoffs to the cops, and when police would come in, the doorman would flip a switch to turn on a light, and you’d change partners to be dancing with an opposite sex partner, or just sit down, and be talking. Anything more would get you arrested. And you’d be ruined, since most of the papers would print the names of everyone arrested, the indecency charges, the bar name, sometimes even arrest pictures. Lots of folks lost everything—families, careers, everything. But Stonewall changed all that. For the first time, gays said ‘we have a right to be here’.”

I knew a little of all of that, but it’s different hearing someone from that time talk about it.

“After that, things started changing quickly. Gays everywhere seemed to be galvanized to claim the right to be who they were. People became more optimistic about their future. And then disco seemed to rise up overnight to reflect that energy.

“Most people don’t understand why disco became important, but for a lot of folks, it was a reflection of an optimistic time ahead as well as a form of escapism. The war in Viet Nam had ended, the economy was on an up-tick until the Oil Embargo of ’73, when it seemed to barely hang on by its fingernails. Disco came along and reflected the escapism of the times, and yet focused optimism toward the future. It was an exciting time, socially; fashions were changing—sometimes good, sometimes bad—equality between sexes and races became reasonable ideas, and a sense of better days ahead was everywhere.

"Disco picked up on that energy of “we need to move”. Going out became an event; you and your friends got dressed up for a full evening of fun, you’d all go out, dance together, drink together, and it was all done knowing you’d have a great, social time. Yes, some of that was fueled in part by drugs and booze, but the expectation of fun was always consistent. And the gay part of that was that while you were out, no one cared who your dance partner was, or who you made out with, as long as you were having fun with all your might. Gay clubs developed a reputation for the most fun, the best music, the ‘on the edge’ places where almost anything goes, and women could relax without being treated like pieces of meat in other bars. There was a real sense of "we're all in this together."

“It was during that time that the idea developed of a ‘gay sensibility’; a different, creative way of looking at things that most straight people didn’t have, but appreciated. The fun lasted for a few years, before music progressed on, while the economy stayed soft--and then The Plague hit.” Clayton closes his eyes, sighing, remembering that mix of times.

“That’s probably the biggest thing guys of your age and younger don’t understand—when AIDS hit, it was devastating, not only at a personal level, but in terms of the sense of community that had developed within the GLBT tribe. Overnight, it hit all over the country, seemingly simultaneously. All the major cities got nailed with it and then it spread to smaller cities, then towns.

“No one knew what caused it, everyone was afraid simply because nothing was known, there was no cure, no treatment. And it seemed to act so quickly, you never knew who would be gone next. It wasn’t unusual to see people on Tuesday only to find out they’d died on Friday. Hospitals didn’t know how to react, and still had to deal with their own prejudices—a buddy in Dallas had a friend go to Parkland; he had to wait in the Emergency Room for over 48 hours before anyone would see him. If someone lived long enough, and you went to see them in the hospital, you had to put on full isolation gear—gloves, gown, mask—just to get in the door.

“And when they died, no one would take their bodies. Plenty of families left their children to be buried by the state because they didn’t want the embarrassment of claiming the body of a gay dead with AIDS. Only a couple or three funeral directors in each big city would even take the bodies, and they’d take them only on the condition of immediate cremation—no embalming—because the fear of the disease was so great, and perhaps their own prejudices, too.”

Clayton pauses, the horror of that time still appearing fresh on his face after all these years with both anger and sadness visible.

“The GLBT community, to its credit, rapidly developed its own approaches to dealing with the crisis. Educational groups got the word out about safe sex as soon as possible, and far more effectively than government or health systems. Food pantries were set up for people made indigent by the cost of care. Resource centers were set up to get service providers, such as doctors, pharmacists, or plumbers, who weren’t put off by working with someone with AIDS. Buddy projects were created which matched volunteers to people with AIDS to make sure they weren’t socially isolated and had an outlet—sometimes their only outlet—for dealing with the physical and emotional effects of the disease. It was a noble effort that pulled together a battered community.

“But even with the mobilization of the gay community to deal with the Plague, major damage had been done. We’d lost far too many of our best and brightest: the taste-makers; the social leaders; the influences in art, culture, entertainment, business, architecture … hell, in every area of daily life. And the community had been traumatized. Although there were those who railed against AIDS, there were many more who simply went back into the closet. Some married, most pulled in to be with a small circle of friends, never going out again as they did in the disco era. And even worse, too damn many died.

“Here’s an example: When we lived in California before moving here, we were in a dinner club group with twelve of us getting together, going out to explore restaurants or doing dinner in each other’s homes. Within a year after moving here in ‘83 just before the World’s Fair, only Alex and I were still alive—all the others were dead.

“Because of this damned disease, we lost an entire generation of the gay tribe. All those old, beaten lions went back to their lairs to lick their wounds and recover from the far-reaching effects of a disease few even wanted to acknowledge. I guess I’m one of those; Alex and I had a wide circle of friends, and there was a time we were going to two and three funerals a week—and we did that for maybe three years. Do you ever wonder why you look around when you go out to a bar, and you see almost no one my age or older? It’s not just that my age group’s tastes changed, or the need to go out and be social ended; it’s because so many died, and the trauma impacted everything.”

Clayton stops, and gathers his thoughts. He’s obviously in the mood to talk through this, and I’m learning a lot—but don’t want this to be a downer of an evening either ….

“But, thank God, that wasn’t the end of it. With my generation off to one side, a new group of leaders and activists developed, pushing for medical research, pushing for equality, pushing back again for the right to exist. Steps came slowly, but they came, even if the sense of a larger gay community never returned. Laws were overturned by courts, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” for all its flaws helped raise the issue of equal social standing, and now we’re here with marriage legal despite some remaining opposition voices.

“And all that developed because many people, consciously or not, remember the energetic days of equality and progress that existed during disco. Disco became an iconic shorthand for equality as much as excess. So, yes, the music celebrates that even now. Just try singing a couple of lines of “Last Dance” by Donna Summer—everyone will sing along with you! So, yes, it’s classic because of its long-lived influence.”

“Aw, Clayton … you know I can’t sing.” He starts laughing and my humor helped break the mood. And, the timer on the oven went off; dinner’s ready. A saved-by-the-bell moment.

“Well, that’s your ‘Gay History 101’ seminar for the week. Now, let’s do dinner.” The smile in his voice tells me all is good.

We dine on the terrace overlooking the pool, just quietly talking as dusk descends. A relaxed time, and Clayton’s back to his happy self, occasionally humming to whatever’s being piped through to the outside speakers.

“So Clayton … you stay so involved, so socially aware, so relevant. I mean, I know you’re 62, but you’re far more involved and active with your social skills than many guys your age. How do you do it?”

He just smiles. “The internet. It’s the great equalizer these days. I can keep up on the latest song from Beyoncé, review political analysis on any topic, get movie reviews, track any topic of interest, even find the parts for my old T-Bird. I’m a voracious and pretty fast reader, so that helps. And to keep in touch I read a lot of difference sources, including some superb writers on Gay Authors, Fox News, Salon, and plenty of other sites to stay abreast of current attitudes and interests. And if that all sounds like work, well, it’s not—it’s fun, and keeps me on my toes.”

Hmm. No wonder he can talk about almost anything. It all feeds the social skills he’d already developed.

After dinner, we curl up on his bed to watch a movie. Before I know it, we’re making out—and Clayton’s in the lead.

He’s remarkably aggressive.

Before, when we made love, it was slow, gentle. Tonight there’s a fire there, an energy, a drive that’s a lot appealing and a little intimidating.

Lips crash together, tongues battle it out, Clayton moving onto the sensitive spot between jaw and neck. Moving downward, lightly sucking on my traps, moving to first one nipple then the other, licking, sucking, lightly chewing.

I’m losing my mind.

He moves further, lapping his way along my ribs, using one hand to caress my hip and thigh, the other hand playing with my right nipple, sending tingles of low-voltage surging across my chest, down to my cock which is now at heroic proportions, threatening to explode at any moment.

Further south he goes, the scruff on his face sandpapering the skin of my dick as he uses his tongue in swirls and swipes on my belly. He goes past my leaking cock to lift first one ball then the other with his tongue before sucking them one at a time deep in his throat.

Why can’t I speak? Are those sounds coming from me?

He lifts his head and now uses one hand while his mouth swallows my cock in one fell swoop—all the way to the base. He pauses there for a ten-count, then hums something.

My dick is in an electrical socket.

He pulls back up to the ridge of my dickhead, then all the way back down again. More humming. Back up, sucking as he goes. Back down again. Humming again.

He keeps up his rhythm while one hand deliciously tortures my left nipple, and the other hand tugs and lightly squeezes my balls. But there’s another sensation there, too.

The cunning bastard has a wet finger doing curlee-cues around my hole. When did he wet his finger?

The man is an octopus—I’m on sensory overload from his hands everywhere, my chest, jiggling my balls, sucking my cock, the finger worming its way into me, followed by a second when he senses I’m ready for it.

I’m almost at orgasm—and he stops. “Not yet, Ryan.”

He leans over during the pause in the action and grabs lube and a rubber. He has it on himself as if by magic, my nubs bent back to my chest, their ends at his shoulders.

He’s still in that aggressive mode, and leans in to kiss me as he does the initial penetration of my ass. I’m so into it all, there’s no discomfort—and he recognizes it. Never stopping, he slowly, forcefully buries himself in me to the hilt. No pain, nothing but pleasure. He stops, holds position to give me time to get used to it as he props himself on his elbows. “Do you know how much I love you?” His declaration is done as his eyes pin me in place just as much as his dick in my butt. I can only nod “yes”; too overwhelmed by his intensity.

He pulls almost all the way back, then slides back in. Out. In. Out. In. Building a rhythm, building strength, each glide in hitting that magic spot inside that takes me to another place. He’s going faster, swiveling his hips a little with each movement in and out, helping me open up, helping me relax, helping me enjoy this all the more.

My own cock isn’t being ignored; as Clayton moves, his belly is forcing it to rub against my belly, the hair there feeling smooth going one way, rougher going the other. The puddle of pre-cum is helping make the move easier, but all the work Clayton’s done earlier has me at blastoff far quicker than I’d expected. He moves my right stump by his waist, still holding my left one on his shoulder.

“Almost there, Ryan.”

Good. We’re in sync.

“FUCK!” Clayton’s profanity echoes in the room signaling his orgasm—and in a move only seen in craftily-edited porn and badly-written romance novels, it’s the trigger for me, too. Simultaneous orgasms in real life are pretty rare. Never happened to me before.

He kisses me as he fires the first shot, and I kiss back as mine fires, too. We’re breaking the kiss only because we need to breathe. Finally, he pulls away and rests his head on my shoulder, giving tiny kisses to my neck as we both pant like marathoners.

“Wow. Just … wow.” He does a subtle nod in agreement, both of us riding the wave of afterglow.

No other words necessary. Never felt more at peace, at one, with the right one, before. This is it.

He finally pulls out, and pulls away. The practicality of dealing with drying cum gluing us together makes it a requirement, damnit.

Clayton rolls off his side of the bed, mumbles, “Be right back,” then heads to the bathroom to do a quick cleanup. He’s back moments later with two towels; one, very warm and wet to clean off the evidence of our sex, and the second to dry the damp spots. Hate to tell him, but I’m sweating like a pig, probably smell like a farm animal, too, after that workout, and I’m still gonna need a shower, but … I’m not ready to leave this yet.

We lie there for a few minutes, just enjoying the intimacy, trading kisses occasionally. Nice. Really nice. But ….

“Clayton, I gotta know. Is everything ok with us?”

Clayton props himself up on an elbow and looks at me. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, you’ve been kinda ‘off’ lately, like something is on your mind. And then you said that thing the other day about, ‘it’s not you, not really, it’s me,’ and it made me wonder …. And I know it’s not necessarily the best time to ask, but it’s driving me nuts, so…is everything ok with us?”

“Do you have plans for the weekend? Do you have to work?”

“Nope, I’m clear. Whatcha got in mind? And are ya gonna answer my question?”

“I want you here over the weekend. We’ll cook, swim, whatever. And, yes, I’m answering your question—but it’s a two-part answer. I think we’re in great shape, but I want to take this relationship further, so I want you here all weekend to ask any questions you have of me. I guess I’ve been distant trying to decide how much and when to open up to you. I want to be able to share myself with you, no holds barred, but I haven’t been comfortable enough with me to do that. I’m there now, and I know how I feel, and I think I know how you feel.

“I haven’t filled you in on me, my past, all of who I am. I want to be able to do that now. And I want you to be comfortable with all of me. So you see, my hesitancy is all on me, and doesn’t really affect you—not really—unless you learn something you don’t like about me. Make sense?” And he starts laughing again. “I knew I pissed you off with that ‘not really’ thing, but that wasn’t intentional. So I’m sorry about that.”

“Are you trying to tell me you’re an axe murderer? Or a serial killer? Or a spy for the CIA or NSA or one of those alphabet agencies?”

Clayton’s laughing again. “No, I promise, I’m none of those things.”

I grin back at him. “Good. We’re in good shape, then. So I’ll be here Friday after the therapy session, and I’m yours for the weekend.”