The Real Key West

I've had a slough of visitors from a blog called The Real Key West in the past day, and a lot of requests for more stories. There are plenty, so OK, but the photos may not match. I'm running short.

I have too many stories to bring back in logical order, so I'll begin with this. It was the seventies. Look at the movies and the basketball players from that era. I, however, went to a gym, so a little of that went a long way. And I wore European-styled bikinis on the beach as many of the Key West locals did at that time, and many gays had come to the island by then. I was open minded about most things since I didn't seem to fit in with much of the south where redneck values ruled the day. But Key West was different and anything went.

As I have written elsewhere in this blog and on the F Blog, I met Tennessee Williams in New York City when he was doing a signing at a big bookstore on 5th Avenue. One day in Key West, going back to my room at the Southern Cross, I met him once again. He was in the company of two very attractive young boys, but he slowed to say hello. "Hello to you Mr. Williams," I replied. "I know you don't remember, but we met in Manhattan a couple of years ago." He didn't, of course, but he was very nice and spoke to me awhile (to the obvious consternation of his young companions who had marked me as rough trade, I think) in that most beautiful of southern voices. And soon enough, with a wave he was gone.

I took to eating lunches at a restaurant around the corner, one just a couple of shops down from Captain Tony's. I can't recall the name just now, but it had an aeronautical motif (if anyone remembers, please do write). There was a waiter that I came to know over the months that I visited. I hadn't been to Key West for about six months, and when I came back and had lunch at the restaurant, he asked me, "Where on earth have you been?" I told him that I had been working, of course, but it became apparent that he did not know I didn't live on the island. When I told him, he was quite surprised. He stayed at the table as I was having lunch late and no one else was in the restaurant, and he told me something quite personal. His parents, he said, did not know that he was gay, and he was going home to New York in a few weeks to visit. He said that he planned to tell them, and it concerned him greatly. It would be hard for them, he said. At the time, I thought that if I were gay, I would be so quite openly, so I did not appreciate the seriousness with which he relayed his dilemma. But about a month later, I received a letter from him at my home. It was a gloriously written letter full of emotion and reflection about telling his parents he was gay. I never saw him again to find out how the story had turned out, and I think about him more often than one might imagine and hope that his life turned out well.

Delmonico's was a gay disco, but my friends--lets call them Bruce and Barbara--liked to get coked up and go dancing there. We were there one night when suddenly I spied one of the most beautiful women on the planet. I watched her intently for awhile before it seemed that she spied me. I should have known something when she approached me and began to chat me up, but I was enamored of her and the night and my life, so there was no filter or hint of rational thinking. At some point, and I couldn't really say when, she introduced me to three of her friends, James and Steve and Panno. And then with grace and eagerness, she excused herself saying she would be right back. James and Steve were a couple and drifted off into their own conversation, and soon enough I was left to chat with Panno. Too slowly, I realized that my new girlfriend was not coming back, and so I said to my newest friend, "Look, you're a fun guy, and I'll stand here and talk with you and buy you drinks all night, but I have to tell you, I'm not gay, so if that is what you are thinking, I don't want to waste your time." Well, Panno was an alright guy and I did buy him a drink and we talked an laughed and got to be friends. It was a friendship that benefitted me more than him, I think, for he was a bartender and a generous man, and I often drank quite cheaply at the outdoor bar at a beach I often patronized. It was then that I learned two things, that gay beaches are often the most beautiful, and that that is where the most beautiful women are to be found. Panno and I remained friends for years, and when the boys would yell, "Tarzan, oh Tarzan," in there half-serious, half-mocking way, I would give an appreciative wave.

The mix of roughnecks and gays was quite unusual back then, but I never saw any trouble. There was money and beauty enough to go around.