At some point in our e-mail banter earlier this week, Joe asked me, apropos of none-of-your-damned-business, who the oldest man I'd ever made out with was.
That might have been John Cheever, but I'm not repeating that story here. Suffice to say it may have happened in mid-town many, many years ago and the illuminated Pan-Am logo on the 44th Street elevation of it's name sake tower floated like an errant moon above us.
Actually, I think the oldest man I ever made-out-with-and-more was Robert M., renowned viola da gamba player.
If I'm not mistaken, he was probably not much older than I am now. Well, perhaps a year or two. Maybe. At the time, I described his face in my journal as "a beautiful ruin". Payback's been a bitch.
In the early 70's, gay rights demonstrations occurred at the drop of a hat. You could be walking down the street in the Village, and some rabble-rouser would work his rhetorical magic and off you'd go marching and chanting through the streets, gathering a crowd. I remember an evening that began with dinner at One Potato and ending with us marching from Sheridan Square to Columbus Circle, headed by Bella Abzug, when the city once again refused to pass a gay rights ordinance.
I was passing Washington Square one Saturday afternoon, when a small demonstration appeared, coming down Waverly Place. For the life of me I can't remember what they were protesting, but my friend Mark was among the group, and he called out and waved me over. Mark and I were both 19 and attended the same art school. He had long curly chestnut hair and I had recently cut mine off, adopting the shorn seal pup look that was just beginning to come into vogue. The snide hippies at school would sneer "Lou Reed" when I passed. That didn't bother me at all. Walk on the wild side, indeed. Mark and I threw our arms around each other's shoulders and turned up Fifth Avenue, in a display of youthful pride, daring any on-lookers to comment.
Our scruffy group took to the streets with a police escort, and headed to the north end of Union Square. There we were greeted by a rampaging brigade of Marxists, not at all happy to see us. As the opposing tirades began, I excused myself and went off to chill in the playground that adjoined the open space. I climbed to the top of a small geodesic dome and sprawled there, watching the action unfold.
It was then a nice looking older gentleman approached me, asking what all the yelling was about. I tried to explain, but frankly, I honestly didn't care. It had been fun, and now it was not. This man was bearded, with sandy hair turning silky white, setting off deeply blue eyes. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled up in a most appealing way. He introduced himself, and after a bit of laughter, asked if I wanted to get some coffee. Or something.
We wound up back at his Gramercy Park apartment. Of course.
After much wine and kissing , he explained what really had attracted him to me was my Frye Harness Boots, so prominently displayed as I kicked back on the dome in the park. How would I feel about stripping down for him and leaving the boots on?
I'll pass the question on. Who is the oldest man you've made out with?