By the time I met my husband in 2010, I was 58 and had accepted that I would never be in a long-term relationship. When I met my first healthy boyfriend Mike in 1977, I had already grasped that my attraction to heavy-drinking, bad boys was rooted in my alcoholic family. But I was still unaware of the dysfunctional template of abandonment, abuse and neglect that I carried inside of me for decades. This old pattern prevented me from sustaining intimate relationships with healthy partners because I inevitably blew them up.
When I entered the disco, I went directly to the bar and washed down two Darvon pills with a gin-and-tonic. I had hoarded them since my wisdom teeth were extracted and I was hell-bent on having a good time on my first night out post-surgery.
I turned to the dance floor and noticed a boyish face haloed by a curly mane of blond hair. His lithe body gyrated with graceful self-assurance in tight white pants and a body shirt unbuttoned to the navel.
Normally hyper-self-conscious in gay bars, the mix of booze and drugs both relaxed and emboldened me. I flipped my eyes onto high beams and trained them on the dancer as I floated toward the elevated stage. As soon as Mike Hutchens returned my gaze, I stepped up onto the dance floor and glided right next to him. After his dance partner faded into the crowd, Mike gave me a big smile so I slid my hands behind his hips and fondled his alabaster dancer’s butt.
Looking over Mike’s shoulder, I saw my roommate Barry stomping toward me.
“Come on, let’s get out of here, this place is dead!” he snarled into my ear.
I had to leave because Barry was my ride, so as he stormed toward the exit, I grabbed Mike’s hand and pulled him to the bar. After scribbling my name and number on a cocktail napkin, I stuffed the paper into Mike’s hand and planted a quick kiss on his mouth.
“Call me … PLEASE!” I pleaded, before racing for the door.
I was woozy when Mike called the next morning, but I perked up when he asked me to meet him that night. Over dinner in a quiet restaurant, we realized that we were both twenty-five-year-old college graduates who grew up in upper-middle-class homes. Like me, he had spent his junior year abroad. While I was in France, he was in Germany; so we shared the joy of mastering a second language while living in a different culture. When Mike told me that he had moved to the Bay Area to pursue a career in dance, his commitment to an artistic lifestyle enhanced his already strong appeal.
Our conversation continued to flow as we took the bus to my apartment. Once inside, Mike choreographed a sensual pas-de-deux in the bedroom while I relished every muscle and sinew of his well-toned body.
We saw a lot of each other for the next few months. Mike attended daytime dance classes in Oakland while I worked at a small women’s clothing shop in San Francisco. He waited tables three nights a week at a gay bar in Berkeley near the apartment that he shared with a friend. We talked on the phone every evening before he went to work and he stayed at my place on his nights-off.
Since I liked Mike a lot and the sex was great, I figured that we were made for each other. When he told me that he loved me, I reflexively said that I loved him too. Having never been somebody’s boyfriend, I thought saying these words meant that our relationship would work out on its own. As Mike blended into my life over the next few weeks, I was proud to flaunt him at parties like a glittering accessory.
As I dressed for work one morning, Mike’s mood was dark.
“I have something to tell you,” he whispered.
My stomach clenched while I waited for him to continue.
“Barry made a move on me yesterday while you were at work.”
Oh, is that all? I thought.
I remembered back to when Barry had bedded Willy, my first college crush, while I was taking an exam. When Barry told me about it, I got angry at Willy and broke up with him up because I always put my friendship with Barry first.
“Oh, I wouldn’t take it too seriously,” I said, thinking that Barry was just up to his old tricks.
Mike looked puzzled.
“Don’t you even care that he hit on me?”
“That’s just the way he is,” I shrugged. “Ignore it. It probably won’t happen again.”
When a look of sheer disappointment clouded Mike’s sky-blue eyes, I hightailed it for the kitchen.
“I need coffee!”
I had just sat down with Barry at the kitchen table when I heard the front door slam.
I knew that Mike wanted me to get furious, but I just didn’t feel it. He didn’t know that Barry and I had long ago established a pattern in our friendship: he did as he pleased while I tolerated it.
When Mike didn’t bring up Barry’s indiscretion over the next few weeks, I figured that he had let it go. But he started spending less time at my place, claiming that he needed to put more time in at the bar, and at the barre.
I was surprised when Mike showed up at my place one morning just as I was leaving for work. Looking distraught, he pulled me into the bedroom, shut the door and crumpled onto the bed.
“I was raped last night!” he wailed, bursting into tears.
He choked out how three guys had jumped him in the alley behind the bar after closing time. After bending him over a garbage can, they held him down with a hand over his mouth, pulled down his pants and took turns violating him.
Halfway through his story, my mind went blank and I went numb.
As Mike writhed and wept on the mattress, I knew that he wanted comfort so I laid down beside him. Wrapping him in tentative arms, he sobbed into my shoulder while I stared up at the ceiling waiting for it to pass.
As soon as his tears subsided, I slid out of the embrace and stood up.
“ I’m so sorry but I have to go to work. Are you going to be okay?”
“You go on. I’ll be okay,” he replied wiping his face with the heels of his hands as his desolate eyes begged me to stay.
I couldn’t get out the door fast enough. During the twenty-minute walk to work, I swept his anguish from my mind and focused on the day ahead.
Mike was asleep when I got home at six o’clock. Even in slumber he looked so sad that I turned around and went to a nearby Chinese restaurant to bring him his favorite foods. He was sitting up in bed when I returned with cardboard boxes, chopsticks and two bottles of beer.
He seemed to brighten as we sat on the floor and fished barbecue spare ribs, chow mein and fried rice out of the containers. Afterward, we lay beside each other and held hands until it grew dark. When I turned off the lights and rolled onto my side of the bed, my body stiffened when I heard Mike trying to stifle tears. I lay frozen in place, unable to bridge the six inches between us until his sniffling finally subsided and I fell asleep.
When I awoke the next morning, he was gone. I got up and looked for a note. When I found nothing, I collected the stinky food cartons and headed for the kitchen.
Days passed with no word from Mike. Rather than picking up the phone to check on him, I told myself to leave him alone because he needed time to recover. After a week with no contact, he called and asked me to meet him at a nearby bar that evening.
As I passed by the tavern windows, I saw Mike hunched over an Irish coffee at a table in the corner window. When I entered and waved to him, he put his head down and twirled his glass. After I sat down, he looked up and I saw pain burning in his eyes.
“I’m breaking up with you.”
I was shocked.
“Why?”
“I just don’t feel like there’s enough between us.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I feel like I’m not special in your life!” he said raising his voice.
His words made no sense to me.
“My feelings for you haven’t changed,” I replied.
“Maybe they should,” he shot back with contempt. “I’m really hurt that you didn’t even call this week, knowing all that I’ve been through!”
He lowered his head.
“I’m beginning to wonder if you ever really cared about me,” he muttered staring into his drink.
These words baffled me even more, so I turned and looked out the window as a waiter appeared at the table.
“What’ll it be?”
“An Irish coffee,” I answered.
When the server was out of earshot, Mike spewed out an angry, well-rehearsed monologue. Although he never mentioned Barry’s betrayal or the rape, the agony in his voice said it all.
For the next few minutes, he repeated the “I’m-just not-getting-what-I-need-from-you” mantra as I grew sullen and increasingly irritated.
When I had finally had enough, I decided to end his harangue by telling him what he wanted to hear.
“It’s OK, I understand.” I lied.
He stared at me dumbfounded for a few seconds. After the waiter delivered my drink, I took a swig and broke the silence.
“So, do you want to go back to my place and mess around?”
Mike’s glared at me like I had just spit in his face. He jumped up, tossed a five-dollar bill on the table and stamped out of the bar.
I had no clue why he was so upset. I thought I was being a good sport about the break-up. Since the sex was still good between us, I saw no reason why we couldn’t continue as fuck-buddies.
After I watched Mike walk out of my life, I reached across the table and downed the rest of his drink. No sense letting good booze go to waste.
Sheesh, what’s his problem? We’re gay men for God’s sake, not a couple of schoolgirls. Who needs this drama!
I gulped down the rest of my Irish coffee, summoned the waiter for my third cocktail before 6:00 PM. When he set the glass in front of me, I zeroed in on a cute red-head at the bar.
As soon as I caught his eye, I settled back in my chair and suggestively licked the foam from the rim of the glass as the stimulating caffeine and disinhibiting alcohol took their desired effect.
The last time I saw Mike was at the world premiere of the film “The Times of Harvey Milk’ in the fall of 1984. I was standing at the urinal in the men’s room of the Castro Theater when I heard a familiar voice.
“Ralph?”
I looked over to discover a burly lumberjack in a flannel shirt, jeans and work boots. Sporting a reddish-blond beard, short-cropped hair and an extra twenty pounds, it took me a moment to recognize the dance-club-kid beneath this macho exterior.
“Oh my God, Mike! How are you?”
“I’m good. I just moved here from the East Bay. I’m still working in the bar business.”
“I’m still in retail … at a department store.” I replied.
We finished our business at the same time and walked over to the sinks. As we washed our hands in silence, I stole another look at Mike in the mirror. Now that his slim dancer-body was gone, I realized that no one would ever dare to attack this bulked-up version of him.
As I suddenly remembered the gang-rape, I realized that I could apologize to him for my past callous behavior. After five years in AA, I had done a thorough self-examination and learned that I just couldn’t give Mike what he so desperately needed when we were together. I also understood that this knowledge did not exonerate me from the hurt that I had caused him.
After we dried our hands, we lingered at the paper towel dispenser for a moment.
“Well, it was good seeing you,” he said breezily.
Stepping closer, he put his hand on my upper arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Take good care,” he added.
In the early 1980’s “take good care” was code for “don’t get AIDS.”
He gave me a wistful smile and turned to leave.
As he disappeared out the door, I resisted the urge to go after him. I wanted to tell him that I was sorry, but after so much time I decided not to dredge up old pain.
By the time I returned to my seat, I felt strangely at peace with my past. Although I missed the opportunity to make my amends, it was enough to know that we were both alive and well in those days when so many young men were dying.