ABSTRACT
My first big solo trip was during the summer when I was seventeen. Two weeks after graduating from high school, I took off on my bicycle, traveling south from Oregon to San Francisco, hot for a reunion with Douglas, the man who'd deflowered me (nervously) two years previously. I rode four hundred miles in four days, and I arrived on Saturday afternoon-the day before Gay Pride Day. I had a place to stay and a guide; I don't think he was thrilled about showing around a piece of jailbait like myself, but he consented. He took me down Castro Street, and even into one of the bars, briefly, until someone spotted me and asked for my ID. The crowds were pretty intense for this country boy, and I could certainly understand the appeal-wow, all these gay men in one place! Everyone must be getting laid every ten minutes! Don't ask me how I knew that all these men were gay. Douglas certainly didn't have to tell me. I just knew, even though I'd met fewer than a dozen (known) homosexuals at that point in my life. What I didn't understand, though, was why all these gorgeous men had to pack themselves into bars when they could do just as much cruising on the streets (this still puzzles me). I stayed with Douglas for another week, and then took off for Chicago-armed with a Damron guide to the gay world.
