ABSTRACT
Around the beginning of 1989 I was thinking a lot about the way in which gay sex was being monitored by the medical authorities in San Francisco. The image of the prison guard in Genet’s Un Chant d’amour kept reappearing in my mind. The guard’s ever-watchful eye observed the men engaged in solo sex and interpersonal fantasies in much the same way as the eyes of the authorities were watching us.
