Читать книгу Disasterama! - Alvin Orloff - Страница 16

THE WHITE HORSE IN NORTH OAKLAND was a swell old dive with a dark wooden interior, wobbly maroon barstools, and a scuffed linoleum floor. After a few hi-balls you could squint and see 1936—the year it opened—and the ghosts of gays gone by. Despite its attractively vintage interior, the place struck Michael and I as a bit humdrum after the vertiginous glamor of Manhattan. The music wasn’t up-to-date and there was no back room for insta-sex. Still, by late 1982, we became regulars because it was the only gay watering hole within walking distance of my mom’s house and life without boys and cocktails was unthinkable.

The convivial crowd at the White Horse was always up for chatting, but seldom did anyone chat me up. (For reasons unknown, my irresistibility to men had not made the trip from New York back to California.) Consequently, I was highly flattered on those rare occasions when someone bought me a drink. Usually, it was a much older man delusionally hoping I’d say, “Oh, thank you for this watery screwdriver, kind sir! Please allow me to offer you the use of my comely young body as a token of appreciation.” Once, though, a pair of young hotties sent me a Heineken (fancy!) and beckoned me to their table.