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preparation for the skilled and beautiful execution of his show could, in his mind, somehow reach its zenith with so little left to show. I tell you it was maddening. I loved it. He was a freak.
    While I lay in limbo between the Peps and my first solo shot at the Village, Timmy began what I now understand to be his pursuit of me. It is difficult to describe being pursued by someone of the same sex because it requires a shift in ones own perception of self and sexual identification. There I was, what I believed to be, a young man. So what did that make Timmy?
    This was not the same as the build up to the oral pederasty and sodomy of my childhood at the hands of local deviants. This had an air of excitement. The telephone calls, the letters begging for a chance just to talk, standing outside my home on a summer evening and throwing pebbles at my window as I tried to shout in a whisper, “Go away,” the singling out and cornering at the Village until finally I agreed to go places with him.
    Timmy took me to an old casino on Belle Isle, a beautiful, quiet island respite from the city in the middle of the Detroit River. There was an old piano there and he taught me songs. I even visited his home on West Grand Boulevard and it was very much the same thing. One night after the Village, I went with him to what he described as a party. On the way there he introduced me to my first experience with Seconals, or “Reds” as they were known. When we arrived, no one else was there. The next few moments were, sadly, all about the chase and the cherry. After that, Timmy disappeared from my life forever.

Chapter 5
     
    E VERYTHING IN MY LIFE LAY NAKED , filled with unsophisticated romanticism over any innocence that I might claim. There was fear. Bedazzled idolatry. The hunt. The capture. The hollow disingenuous eyes of the Shaman filling with flames as the impasse grew obvious. A scene from yesterday, a scene from every lonely moment I had ever lived. Just touch me. If you touch me I will know that you love me. Do you love me? Do you really love me?
    I hated it. In the quiet aftermath, I thought about killing myself. I really did.
    Now I had top solo billing but in street talk I had become the bitch. Much more confusing and punishing was the label “queer,” and I didn’t have a woman in my life that I could point to for salvation or rebuttal. I had never had sex with anyone, unless you took into account my treatment at the hands of child molesters.
    When you are young––and especially in your middle teens––sometimes you are able to turn being different into a good thing. Not this time, and not in Detroit. Queers. Faggots. At least the women were safe, but watch out. If you were a man and one of those freaks came around, what would you do? You didn’t want to return their smile for fear they would read it as an invitation. You didn’t know what would happen, and you didn’t want to find out.
    I find that women are sometimes curious about male homosexuality because most hate rejection by the opposite sex. It is vanity. Such a question of sexuality is, in fact, upsetting to the natural order of things. I became desperate to find a woman. My machismo went into overdrive. The non compos mentis reality propelled me into a situation involving money that belonged to a charming, wet and sticky, bovine back alley debutante. No “Thank you” required and “No,” I didn’t need a receipt. I felt somewhat balanced after that.
    But the memory of Timmy, oh God, that lingered for an eternity. What is a queer anyway? Should it be something unpleasant? I don’t believe so. I know that homosexual men are capable of reaching love, fear, hate and joy, sensitivity, passivity, violence, selfishness, bias, prejudice, shame, regret, celebration of life and pain, compassion, creativity, discerning taste, mundane existence, political astuteness, determination, and finally a healthy sense of self bolstered with confidence through love. In that