| |
The summer session at
the country’s premier school for fashion
This summer session at Parsons in NYC was based on one drawing I
did of Priscilla, the girl I hung out most with in design school.
She was one of only two or three in the school, long legged, attractive
body. She had a dry sense of humor, and was fun. We had a lot of
good times together, and laughed at everybody and everything. Anyway,
my design instructor thought that drawing showed real potential.
Maybe he was just trying to get me into a different environment
far from home, who knows, anyway I trusted him to know what was
best for me. I had no idea what to expect, and it was just as well
because at this famous school there were only three of us who made
up the total enrollment of the summer session. It seems they were
obligated to teach us anyway, so there we were just three guys and
the teacher. The two other guys were students there, intending to
be fashion designers. Kenny was young and slender and loved making
dresses and the other guy was slightly older than we were, but very
talented and slightly ethnic and married. (Which didn’t stop
him from trying to crawl in bed with me the one night I tried to
sleep over in his apartment. I bolted out the door, but it’s
difficult to convey why I was disgusted and shocked when I suspected
he would try it the first chance he got.) They both could already
draw beautifully. And first-rate student artwork was all over the
walls. We were furnished models, just for the three of us, and drew
all day long. My stuff was horrendous. And I’m not just trying
to be modest, it really was. No one knew what to say, not wanting
to crush my spirit and yet not wanting me to think I had something
worth looking at. Day after day it went on, seemingly going nowhere.
But we had a good time. I got over my drawings being lousy and enjoyed
the delis, the daytrips to fashion stores, the trips up to Queens
to hang out with Ken, and exploring the Village. I lived in a hotel
right off Washington Square. Then one day during the last week I
drew a nude black girl and everybody couldn’t get over the
fact that it was good! Real good! Like out of nowhere good! Then
another. And then the course was over. Those two drawings were worth
it all. I had confidence that maybe I could do it after all. To
celebrate Ken and a friend of his took me on a trip out to Fire
Island. I was getting used to being around gays, and although still
awkward and shy, was eager now to hang out with them. But no way
was I ready for the paradise of Fire Island. More gorgeous men in
one spot would not have been possible. The best of everything: models,
actors, dancers, designers, escorts, porn stars, and a whole slew
of fun wannabe’s. We had use of a house there for a few days,
thanks to a friend of a friend, and would hang out at the famous
Blue Whale Bar, right on the bay where the ferry bringing each days
new supply of men docked. Hey, having been a waiter, and seeing
they used waiters, you think I didn’t ask? Yes, they could
use somebody, when could I start! I made a call home explaining
vaguely that the place had a reputation, but the job was there and
the money should be good, what did they think? I heard mom explain
to daddy that I was in a place that was sort of “fast”
but there was a job for me waiting if he thought it was ok. Me having
any kind of an income producing activity was fine with him. I went
back into the city for my things and rushed back out to make the
most of the end of the summer. It was fantastic. I liked serving
drinks, and people acted like they liked me. Something about me
still kept guys from propositioning me, and sometimes it seemed
like I was the only one sleeping in the dorm where the waiters stayed.
The other boys partied all night long, boosted by drugs. Since I
didn’t do them, (either the boys or the drugs) I needed and
enjoyed my sleep. Once a big yacht was tied up at the bar, and I
was serving drinks to the group on it. The guy who was center of
attention grabbed my arm and said to the others: See this guy working
hard all day for tips? I bet if I asked him to throw them in the
water and come with us he won’t do it! Then he asked me to
go ahead and throw the money away, I could come with them. He was
right. I couldn’t do it. I’ve remembered that feeling
of wanting to and yet being afraid to a long time. Looking back
I realize how little it would have cost me, what 25 or 50 dollars
max to have had an answer, but at the time I chickened out. I still
wish I had flung the money to hell and held my own. Maybe, who knows,
it would have resulted in some kind of personal disaster or something,
but I don’t see why I keep remembering it except for wishing
I had made another decision. Well, by not throwing it away I made
enough cash to pay for the summer’s tuition. I thought that
was really neat. Before coming home I stocked up on some really
cool clothes. When fall semester started at State it was a whole
new me.
One day I went in and everybody was worried for me, saying I
looked so pale. Then I realized it was cause I hadn’t applied
my face bronzer. I was really into the tricks of the trade. I
resewed jeans to fit my ass and crotch better, I seamed up the
sides of jackets and shirts to accentuate my waist, I left shirt
buttons unbuttoned and used abrasives on front of my Levi’s
so as to make my thighs and dick stand out from the highlighted
effect. I felt hot stuff. Then my teachers let me have credit
for sewing up a new “designed” wardrobe. I wrote fabric
manufactures and several of them sent me yards of new materials
they were soon to release to the public. I made jumpsuits, and
seamless sweaters, and accessorized with the best of them.
I got myself photographed and did a brochure. It seemed like I
was headed for the macro world of fashion, since I had conquered
and gone beyond the micro world I existed in. Like Priscilla said:
Wouldn’t it be nice if Tom came in one day IN fashion instead
of 5 years ahead of it! I did get a lot of “attention”?
Meanwhile I’m still dancing at the ballet school, adding
jazz courses on the side. And we present programs in Raleigh’s
War Memorial Auditorium. I also do a fashion show or two, and
mess around with a theater group, but it’s more multimedia
stuff than acting. After Parson’s everyone’s perception
of me changed, even the teachers, and in good ways as well as
humorous ones. I moved forefront in all my classes. Switched from
basic design to product design and then to visual design. The
curriculum was set. Everybody dreaded the mechanics courses and
a lot failed. I went to Dean Kamphoefner’s office one day,
as I needed to talk. Everyone, students and teachers alike feared
him, but for some reason I just liked him, and he seemed to not
mind me either. I told him I had no interest in learning how much
weight concrete beams would support and was dropping the course,
a requirement for graduation. Well, Tom, he said, go ahead and
drop it if you want, but you’ll be the first to graduate
without it from this school if you do. It wasn’t meant prophetically,
but it was. Eventually that bastard course was dropped from the
requirements. It did 2 neat things. Most importantly if gave me
the conviction of my perceptions and secondly, the icing on the
cake, since I didn’t have bad grades in it like everyone
else who took it, my grade point average soared: I not only graduated,
but I was head of the class. I was introduced as such at graduation,
modestly accepting the praise in my white polyester pant suit
and neck scarf. When the Dean handed me my diploma he turned to
the crowd and said, “He made it himself.” It was a close
to humor as he ever got, referring of course to my original outfit.
About the third year of college I was ready, really ready, to
quit school and join the Navy. I had failed in my attempts during
high school to get into the Air Force Academy, an idea implanted
by Cecil, and my nomination procured by my grandfathers democratic
political ties. Everything was AOK until I took the color perception
tests. I couldn’t find those dots of different colors which
meant I couldn’t pilot a plane which meant end of airforce
for me.
Mom and Dad came down hard against the Navy. I acquiesced. Then
the Vietnam War escalated and some of us were getting drafted.
Somehow it never threatened or interested me. I just “knew”
I was not going to be involved. But I got the notice to go to
the draft board. One of the last boxes to check was “Do you
have any homosexual tendencies” Hello!!! I checked it yes.
Then at each station the person would say someone will discuss
this matter with you. At the last station someone finally did.
He explained that many of us have “tendencies” but what
they really meant was did I follow through on those tendencies.
I said yes, I follow through. Well, he said, many of us have followed
through at some point in our lives, what is really meant is do
you see yourself actuating these tendencies in the future? Yes,
I said, perhaps I would. Still he went on, well, perhaps so, but
do you actually have sex with men in the present? Every night
for the past two weeks I said. “You are unfit for service
in the United States Military,” he then stiffly said. You
want to know what was really funny? Greasy Chip was the guy I
had been doing it with and he was there the SAME DAY I was, and
didn’t check the box. I never saw him again. Well, that was
easy enough. I wondered how I would explain it at home. They never
asked. I never told.
So I was free to travel elsewhere. I got it in my head that I
wanted to go to Acapulco. Uncle Cecil and Courtney loved it there,
and infected me with the idea that I would love it too. I packed
two suitcases and wore a stylish straw hat and Mom, bless her
understanding courageous heart, drove me to Lexington to Interstate
85. I got a ride heading west immediately. Looking back, I saw
she had pulled over, probably at last letting herself really cry.
Faster than I had driven it some years before, I was in New Mexico
knocking on Cecil’s door. He didn’t think much of me
thumbing in Mexico and had an idea of a job for me with Levi Straus
in California, said he’d read about it in the newspapers.
I suspected plotting with my parents to keep me out of disappearing
over the border, but maybe I wasn’t so sure about doing Mexico
myself, so I change horses midstream. I fly with some business
friends of his in a small plane out there. Get a room at the Hollywood
YMCA, where I figured right that there would be lots of cruising.
The job thing fell through immediately; they had no interest in
me whatsoever. In the showers at the Y I met a gorgeous blond
dude, Eric. When he wanted to fuck me I couldn’t say no and
was reminded again that what felt so natural to some for me would
be an acquired taste. I fooled around “orally” some
more, got picked up by a guy in a Rolls Royce and then spent time
at his flowers-to-the-stars shop. Shoptalk was very, very gay
and I laughed a lot and handed them flowers for the arrangements.
I took 3 pink silk roses with me as a souvenir and headed towards
home. Getting rides was effortless, as soon as I stuck out my
thumb someone stopped. And mostly they were not even gay. I just
had a friendly air, and from the dance I knew all about body language.
I stopped in Las Vegas. I went to the StarDust hotel and went
back stage to see if I could audition. I could the following morning;
but that evening I was treated to a stageside table for the most
extravagant show I had ever seen. I just wasn’t good enough
for them yet; my ballet wasn’t the same as show dancing.
I saw again I had a lot to learn. I hung out in Las Vegas awhile.
I went to one older guy’s room. He wanted to wrestle and
we did. It excited him. My reaction was sort of “imagine
that!” Like I said I had a lot to learn. I caught a ride
with one of the dealers; he had the regulation short hair cut
until he took the wig off to reveal his hippie hair. He said they
were really strict with rules and regulations at the casinos.
I began wondering would I like it that much after all.
Leaving the west I zipped across the middle of the country, moving
night and day, then got stranded in Arkansas. After hours in the
sun, I surrendered to buying a bus ticket to Birmingham Alabama.
>From there getting into Atlanta was easy. I was scoping Atlanta
out, trying to find where the action was. Outside a bar this guy
propositioned me and I told him to fuck off. Out of nowhere he
clobbers me on the jaw, knocking me down. It’s all I can
do to not get a brick and put it through his windshield; instead
I get the police and go with them into the bar. That’s him
I point out and the guy looks at me like I’m crazy. Then
the police turn on me wanting to know where I was staying and
all. They end up running me out of town, driving me to the city
limits and putting me out. I get home ok.
Daddy says I gotta get a job. So I go to High Point to a job
agency and the first interview I go on, I get hired. Cartwright,Inc
made office furniture. I only had my “fashion” portfolio-
lots of pics of me in funny looking outfits (fashion ages fast
remember!) and I was sure this middle aged chain-smoking Catholic
Capricorn would have no use for it or me, but to my surprise he
could see that I was good at presentations and he needed a new
catalogue. He showed me the old one and asked if I thought I could
do better. Anyone could, I said.
He let me hire as photographers my two best friends from school:
Ken and Eli. I omitted the fact they were lovers when I pitched
the idea, just said we worked well together. We set up a photography
studio and everything. I designed the catalog oversize and artsy
against advise not to do so from everybody. Cartwright had made
his bet and let it ride. The printers rolled their eyes at first,
but the catalogue ended up winning them a prize. It also pleased
Jack Cartwright immensely. But I had worked myself out of a job.
The three of us were given little projects, but it wasn’t
enough. I got itchy again, now that I was well, ready and raring
to go. Shortly after getting home from Atlanta my jaw really started
bothering me. X-rays showed it was broken, so I had to really
be careful with it for a while. But then I started having a malaise
I couldn’t define. And my butt itched and burned bad. The
doctor said it was just a tear or something, not to worry about
it. It did finally get better, but then I started feeling really
bad and looking bad. Cartwright asked was there a problem probably
thinking I had an addiction or something, and I said no. But I
was reading medical books, trying to find symptoms matching mine.
None did. Then one day I’m in the shower and look down to
see a pink rash all over my feet. I dried off, ran down the hill
to the rink where mom had a session going and said Mom! I know
what’s wrong with me! It’s SYPHILLIS!!!!! See, I was
just delighted to finally know what it was, I wasn’t the
least bit embarrassed about the social context. The health department
sent out a young guy who was extremely uncomfortable interviewing
my sexual history and since it stretched across the country, my
case was not easily “contained”. Besides I had no names
and addresses, just vague descriptions. A jab of penicillin in
both ass cheeks was all it took, although they said it would remain
in my body somehow forever. Had I not realized what was going
on, once the rash had gone away, there would have been no more
symptoms until my brain started rotting. I could have told the
health guy exactly who when and where it came from and if you
want to see his pic, check out the college Yearbook of NCState,
1971. I had taken a photograph of sexy Eric standing outside the
Hollywood Y which Ken and Eli liked it so much they printed it
full size. They were the co-editors of the yearbook, why not?!!!
|
