Truths Universally Acknowledged

A St. Louis Story of the 1970s

It is a truth universally acknowledged – at least it was when I was young - that a single gay man in possession of a good basket (and a shapely butt), must be in want of a lover – and that I was the lover he was looking for; and that the basket (and butt) would be good indeed. Thus went the first line of the story I was forever trying to convince myself back then was true.

But basket and buns alone (that is to say, SEX) wouldn’t have been enough to get me out to the gay bars night after night. Sex, even when great, has it’s “best by” date, which often could (truth tellers might say it really should read, “would”) be short.

However, for years there had been a gay urban myth abroad in the community that a young gay man of average looks, with an average body (notable only, if notable at all, for a lingering hint of youth), and with a wit that occasionally (very occasionally) sparkled, but mostly didn’t – that such a young gay man had found a lover in a gay bar – and that the improbable attachment had lasted longer than a month. No one really believed the myth in their heart – certainly I didn’t – but so many, including me, wanted to.

Hope springs eternal.

It was that hope, that hope of love, that got me out even on cold winter weeknights when the chance that hope fulfilled might triumph over hope dashed seemed almost nil. And yet … And yet …

So once again I stood alone on the edge of the crowd at Herbies’ Bar, wishing the lights weren’t quite so bright, the music quite so loud, the air quite so smoky thick. Curtains of condensation dripped down the plate glass windows. The men on the dance floor above, packed together like melting candles in a box, moved en mass to the music. It beat like a hammer against my ears. As usual, I'd drunk a little – or maybe a lot – too much. My lungs, after too many cigarettes, felt like demons had been at them with steel wool. I took a last deep drag on my current smoke, and then crushed it out in the nearest ashtray.

All around I saw the same faces I’d seen last night and the night before. Some of them I’d seen last year and the year before. I felt a little foolish standing there, in a pose I intended to look disinterested, slightly bored, and at the same time sexy. I also felt a little maudlin standing alone among so many who, like me, had been doing the same thing for so long. The maudlin came from the drinks; that would be gone in the morning. The foolish, which came from the hope of finding love in a gay bar, would go on and on, if the past held any hint of the future.

My evening had passed like so many others: somehow I’d got through the tedious hours from five to ten. Then I’d bundled myself up against the cold and walked three blocks through snow-covered streets to Herbies’. For the next two hours I’d moved from spot to spot around the room – a room small enough to see everything from any spot. I’d looked at the door each time it opened, as everyone did. And I’d shot furtive glances toward the few men who might be interesting and who might be interested. And I’d drunk too much. Later, when all the possibilities had presented themselves (and been rejected), and even though midnight had hardly passed, and the heavy, last-call desperation cruising still lay an hour ahead, I almost felt inclined to leave.

But I didn’t leave. Unless I tricked, I never left before actual last call and closing time on the chance that even then it might not be too late for love. I had to admit that this had resulted more than once in desperation tricking, and that more than once I’d come to regret it. Not for any moral or religious reasons: after long years of practice, those I managed, most of the time, to stifle. No, the regrets had come as the alcohol (or sometimes, drug) haze faded, along with the panic of going home alone, and the utter unsuitable-ness of the desperation trick became apparent. (At such times I was a desperation trick too, of course, so I had to assume that – at times – the regrets were mutual.)

This is the second line of the story I told myself: And then across the room, I saw a face I hadn’t seen before – in the bar that is – though I’d seen it – or one very like it – many times before in dreams. (I called them “dreams” because to call them “fantasies” seemed to diminish them.)

And then, line three: His eyes looked back and drew me to him across the room like a planet compelling his moon – like Jupiter, his Ganymede.

Such things only happened in dreams and myths, of course. And yet … And yet …

The eyes I actually saw across the room were those of a trick from the week before. I nodded. He turned away. I saw other tricks from other weeks. I remembered the names of some. Some nodded when I nodded. Some smiled tight-lipped smiles as they passed by.  Almost none had become friends, the dubious thrill of the first (and often, only) night developing into nothing. Or rather, less than nothing, since those involved could never again be completely unknown to each other, our lame acquaintance destroying the possibilities which lay in encounters with strangers, however kind, however dependable (or not).

Seeing the remembered faces, I looked at the strangers around me with less confidence in possibility, less confidence in hope. I played with the change in my pocket, resisting the urge to light another cigarette, to have another drink.

Any decent storyteller, having placed his hero in a gay bar on a cold night, would develop the situation with a proper suspense until it reached a proper climax, whether in a back room, a front seat, or someone’s bed. If it’s a romance he’s writing, it would lead to bird songs and spring flowers, at least for a while. If gritty “reality,” then to heartache and tears, before grim acceptance and resignation.

Time spent in gay bars was seldom anything but wasted, but if you were a single gay man in search of a good basket – and possibly hope and love along with it … Well, that’s why I went back the next night and the night after that. What if I skipped a night and that happened to be the one when HE was there? And so I summoned all my energy (and hope) night after night – gritted my teeth almost – and ventured forth into the land of possibility. Because they are truths universally acknowledged: Love is all around; Nothing ventured nothing gained; If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again; Hope springs eternal.

1977-2023