In 1971 I drove taxi to pay for my college education. The Boston Cab Company had its garage on 72 Kilmarnock St. The split was 50/50 for booking over $100 in a night. Tips added another $10 to the equation. Average income for a family of four was $10,000. I wasn’t rich, but I had buying power and one summer night I picked up a drunk man at Fenway Park.
“$10 if you drive me to the 1270.”
“That’s a gay bar.” I was a radical. We didn’t call anyone ‘fags’ or ‘queers’.
“And?” He introduced himself as Bruce. His mustache was thicker than the shaved tail of a Lipizzaner stallion.
“And nothing.” I had seen his type around Boston. 1971 was the height of the Sexual Revolution. All that mattered was getting off.
“Nothing. I know your type. You think you’re straight, but you look at the girls in this town and think that there’s nothing you want to fuck.”
“Wrong.” I was a stud.
“Then you have no problem coming into the bar. I’ll get you a girl as long as you don’t say you’re straight. The fag hags love men on the razor’s edge. Drinks are on me. The Red Sox won in the 9th.”
I parked the taxi in front of the bar. Bruce and I entered without paying the $2 cover. Beers were a dollar. The DJ was playing Sly’s SEX MACHINE. A black boy came up to me.
“I’ve never seen you before.” He was the handsomest man in the world.
“I’m new.”
“You ever dance with a man?”
“No.”
“I won’t bite.”
And he never did.
Donnie Ward was a good friend and so was Bruce.
They respected straights who respected gays.
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