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.Certainly my writing would never be the same, from this point on.My breakthrough to my queer self happened to the writer in me as much as it happened to the man.And it would take both sides working overtime—the poet and the cruiser—to break the final bonds of self-hatred so I could begin to love.Returning to Boston, I spent most of the next two months by myself.That is, I made a conscious effort not to fill up the empty space by entertaining my friends and being the perfect weekend guest.Several days a week I'd simply get in the car and drive.To Ipswich, to lie on the beach, reading Proust and working on a poem about Stanley and Livingston, punctuated by forays through the dunes.The latter a hotbed of male carnality, or so I'd always heard, but I must've had the wrong map or the wrong moves, because the few tank-suited beauties I spied seemed to bolt like deer at my approach.On the rare occasions when I did connect—a beachboy kneeling before me in the white glare, servicing my ambivalence—I'd be so terrified of somebody's stumbling upon us that I became my own vice squad, never letting things go too far.The most I'd have to show for one of these quickies was a mess of green-fly bites, the stinging wages of being an outlaw.More often, I'd drive out to Concord and walk around Walden Pond to Thoreau's place.It was usually deserted, enough so I could skinny-dip whenever I liked.Sometimes I'd bring a radio, to follow the final crash-and-burn of Nixon, which I naively assumed would be the end of Republicans for a while.Every now and then an intrepid tourist would wander up to pace the foundations of Thoreau's cabin, and I would be there on the stoop with the book in hand, ready to lecture if they looked puzzled.Was I some sort of park ranger, they must've wondered, in my herder's hat and cutoffs? No—more the genius of the place, the very embodiment of the master's words carved on the plaque in the clearing: I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life.I was nothing if not deliberate as I went about the business of my freedom summer.It was surely the height of self-importance, to identify myself with the sage of the Concord woods.Especially since I only took my leisure there on sunny afternoons, hurrying home by dusk so I could get ready for another night at Spotter's.In any case it wasn't the pantheism of Walden Pond that got to me, but rather the depth of consciousness.My own deliberate search was for a man—a search Thoreau himself had clearly ducked, letting the woodcutter get away with a mouthful of philosophy instead of a kiss.It was only by seeing it as a quest that I got through so many lonely nights in the bars, or the even lonelier nights of tricking with guys who weren't quite right.When July had turned to mid-August and I was still alone, only three weeks of summer to go, I decided to take my quest on the road.I took the Friday ferry to Provincetown, a pilgrimage to Mecca.I had about forty bucks in my backpack and no reservations, determined to shack up with someone who had a room or otherwise sleep on the beach.I drifted about till I stumbled on the Boatslip, then parked myself on the beach below the pool to await a pickup.These are your people, I told myself, but couldn't shake the feel of disorientation, that I didn't fit in.The men all seemed to be in groups, drinking too early and loudly dishing whoever walked by on the beach.I was too self-conscious to go take a swim and thus expose myself to comment.I already had enough self-doubt as to whether I was gay enough or out enough to make it in such a Dionysian environment.But I watched it all hungrily, missing no flex of muscles among the demigods of the Boatslip, peering over my Proust with a longing to be one of them.When night fell, I joined the restless back-and-forth among the bars and dancehalls—not quite the Age of Disco yet.At one point I even hooked up with a hot Italian from New York, jet-black hair, a tan as deep as his bones, and a butt like a couple of melons in a wet paper sack.He didn't quite believe that I was a poet but found me charming in a professorial way.Let's go back to your place, he said, rubbing against me shamelessly.A dream delivered on a silver platter, but alas I had no room.He shrugged, gave me a philosophical kiss, and dove back into the sea.I ended up at last call with a sad, sad boy who looked as lost as I used to look, but at least he had a room.One of seven kids, all the Catholic hangups, lying there rigid with terror as I tried to make love to him.I spent the whole night talking him out of the guilt, realizing just how far I'd come in my own fumbling journey.The sex was at best perfunctory.I was reeling with frustration to have missed my chance with the melon Italian, but felt it a kind of duty to the tribe to take care of this kid and make it all less frightening [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]