Back in the 70's and 80's, I was friends with a number of folks who ended up surprising me with the fact that sexuality was not strictly a boy meets girl scenario. In high school in the 70's I discovered that the darling lady PE teachers who drove matching purple cars and lived together were not just "roommates".
My male friend who was the amazing and well loved marching band Drum Major in high school was as swishy as they came. He made me feel butch. The cute actor in the school plays who never seemed to have a girlfriend. My female friend who moved from Denver to Tucson and wore bitching Levi's cords and had a great smile and was on my track team moved in with a female after high school and played college baseball and never seemed to date men, was also "not just a roommate".
Then I went to college and worked as a waitress. Dane was a "pantry chef" who lived with his hairdresser BFF Lois, who was a girl and we all knew they were not lovers, because Lois was female and Dane was obviously not straight. In that same restaurant, I had my "three's company" friends, Debbie, Judy and Albe, who truly were two straight girls and a gay guy. Also in that same restaurant worked the lovely Rocky. Our Rocky was a female bartender who was a beautiful Latina with a small son. Single mom to a little boy. And she was bisexual.
Then I discovered that my "little brother I never had" neighbor across the street, who used to peer in the hot steamy window of the 66 Mustang at my high school boyfriend and I, hadn't been sneaking peeks at me, he had a crush on my boyfriend. I discovered this in a late night gab session years later when he was traversing the country. His foray into drugs and alcoholism had brought him from Massachusetts back through Tucson on his way to California by way of Texas, where his oil rich family had hailed from. Dad was a military veteran with a hot sports car, a nice wife and four kids.
When he was in our neighborhood, Bruce was the oldest of the four kids. When they were in Tucson we could hear him being beaten by his dad from time to time, but nobody ever said anything in the light of day. Bruce didn't find out he was not his mother's son until she divorced his dad when he was 13 years old. He was devastated that he would be forced to live with his father and not his "mother". His dad was not a nice person. Dad's Texas roots and inability to deal with a son who was gay were likely a very large part of that.
Bruce tried to fit in. I remember early on when he told me he'd met the woman he was going to marry. I was very upset that he was going to try to live a charade of a life. Better to leave Texas and risk the wrath of family than to live life inauthentically. He looked up his birth mother and for a time he stayed with her. The family had paid her off to walk away. He found that she'd missed him and loved him. He wound up in New York, then Virginia and at some point hooked up with two amazing men. They formed a family of sorts for awhile. Then one and then the other died of a mysterious illness and Bruce discovered he had it too. It was on the way to California that he stayed with me and shared that news.
We later learned it had a name. AIDS. It sounded like a helpful name but it wasn't helping anyone. Bruce got the right medical help in California, quit the partying ways and found he had a fondness and an aptitude for making events really fun. He lived life full out, and always seemed to find the joy. He had amazing jobs in event planning in Hollywood, a wonderful life, good and loyal friends, and a great dog. And a fabulous car, of course.
He had funny and sad stories about celebrities. Sally Field was his favorite, every bit as nice as she seems on TV. He embraced his sobriety and still celebrated with style. He had friends who had boats and he spent every opportunity on the water, and spent time talking about opening a coffee shop in Palm Springs and having a boat in a dock as his next dream.
I was traveling for work and was able to go visit him in SoCal. He visited my family in Tucson as well, and I could see that he wasn't going to get his boat.
He took up modeling late in life, and was part of a growing group of men who had to protest because in spite of their looks, they were truly sick. "I have AIDS, don't I?", was the lead article in the gay magazine that he was on the cover of. Imagine having to fight to prove you were sick. He died six months after that cover was done. Beautiful but sick.
The last time I saw him, he had had a fresh pedicure. His nails were "kiwi green" and he looked fabulous, and I knew it was the last time I would see him. He was exhausted and emaciated and I could feel all of his bones through his shirt. His partner could not marry him, could not probate his estate and could not even be in the room with him to watch him die. His estranged father and the siblings who had mostly abandoned him were the ones who made the decisions at the time of his death.
I am so grateful that in this country, now and forever into the future, that will never happen again.
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