You’d think that nightlife would be an enjoyable experience and something to look forward to, but that wasn’t always the case for me. Sometimes, not only did danger lurk in dark corners, but the fear of the unknown also played havoc with decisions.
March 1981
On one wet Saturday evening, I sat in my boyfriend’s car. Holding hands with him, we listened to the patter of the rain on the roof as we watched the raindrops splatter on the windscreen. For weeks, we’d both built up the courage to go to a gay bar for the first time.
The bar was out of town and miles from where we lived. However, neither wanted to leave the car and walk up the steps to the bar. Instead, we both sat there, trying our best to peer through the spattering rain and make out the figures going into the bar.
“At least it’s nice and warm in the car,” I sighed.
“Yeah, it’s too wet to get out,” my boyfriend responded. “We’d get soaked.”
We made excuses for staying in the car for the next half an hour. Even though curiosity ran through our minds about what was on the other side of the doors to the gay bar, we remained fixed in our seats while we continued peering through the windscreen at figures entering and exiting the bar.
“What if we bump into somebody in there who recognises us?” asked my boyfriend. “If there’s somebody in there from work, I could end up getting beaten up or sacked.”
Not only did those words strike fear, but I began to worry that if the police raided the bar, my boyfriend and I would be in serious trouble because of my age. We’d heard of police raiding gay bars, mainly in London, but it could just as easily happen here, too.
Although at 19 years old, it wasn’t against the law for me to go into a bar, I questioned if it was against the law for me to hold hands with another man in a public place.
Terrified of the consequences of entering a world where people would have welcomed and accepted us for who we were, we drove off and went home. Hiding who we were and how we lived our lives seemed a much safer option.
It would be months later when we talked about that night again.
“If somebody you worked with had been in that bar, wouldn’t they have been as terrified as we were at being recognised?” I asked my boyfriend.
“I never thought of that,” came his reply. “It makes sense, but it’s still a risk, right?”
Six years later, as I made my way on my own to a new life in London, I left behind a boyfriend who had been secretly sleeping with another man he worked with.
June 1988
Earl’s Court in London was the place to be during the 1980s. Gay men were attracted to the area because it had many bars and a nightclub, but, most of all, it was a safe area for gay men to hang out.
My best friend Neville and I were having yet another Saturday night out, but this particular night would be very different.
When it came to men, it wasn’t rare for Neville and I to be attracted to the same person. And on this particular night, we’d both clocked a handsome man who seemed to be making eye contact with both of us.
Neville made a bet with me that whoever ‘Catch’ (as we’d nicknamed him) asked out on a date, the other would have to do all the winner’s laundry for the rest of the year. How could I decline a bet like that?
I didn’t want to make the first move on ‘Catch.’ I hated rejection, but the prospect of having my washing done for the rest of the year was tempting.
But by the end of the night, neither Neville nor I would be doing each other’s laundry, as not only had somebody else swooped in on ‘Catch’, but Neville had been chatted up by somebody else. He informed me that he was ‘off for coffee,’ which was a code phrase we had for something completely different.
I found myself making the short trip home alone.
“Hi,” came a deep voice from behind me shortly after I left the bar. I’ve been watching you and your friend for weeks and wondered if you fancied going back to my place for a coffee?”
As I turned around, butterflies in my stomach started rioting as my eyes were met by ‘Catch’ smiling at me.
It wasn’t long before I found myself in a taxi on my way to ‘Catch’s’ place. He’d insisted I go back with him rather than both of us making the short trip to my place.
As soon we reached his apartment, I’d hardly given ‘Catch’ time to close the front door before grabbing him and telling him there was no time for talking. “Where’s the bedroom?” I asked.
An hour later, Catch asked, “Would you like a beer, Peachy?” ‘Peachy?’ Was he talking to me? “You can stay the night if you like?”
As much as I wanted to stay, I only wanted to get home and tell Neville that he’d be doing my laundry for the rest of the year!
Several minutes later, I grabbed my clothes and walked to the kitchen, where Catch was getting us something to drink. I realised I still didn’t know Catch’s real name. Should I ask or wait until he asks me for mine? After all, he couldn’t know me as ‘Peachy’ when we went on our first proper date.
“Would you like to make this a regular thing?” ‘Catch’ asked.
I had a fleeting vision of Neville doing my washing, so it didn’t take long to respond.
“You bet!”
“Good, I was hoping you’d say that.”
After a final kiss, which I never wanted to end, it was time for us to part, and Catch escorted me to the front door.
However, stopping in his tracks, he turned around and told me to wait while he wandered off, muttering about forgetting something. I watched as the man of my dreams disappeared back into the bedroom.
With my heart playing the drums in my chest, I thought I felt Cupid’s arrow strike my heart. Catch was probably writing down his phone number for me.
Then, it all started to go wrong.
I couldn’t take my eyes off ‘Catch’ as he walked towards me. “Here you go,” he said, thrusting a wad of money into my hand. “You didn’t tell me your fee, so I hope there’s enough. I’ve deducted a little for the drinks you had here. I hope that’s okay?”
Shocked, my jaw hit the floor, and I was speechless for the first time in my life! ‘Catch’ had mistaken me for a rent boy.
Still openmouthed and unable to speak, Catch pushed me out the door while muttering he’d recommend me to anyone looking for the same kind of fun.
I never saw Catch again, and nor did Neville do my laundry.
October 1992
“There’s a new gay bar in town. Shall we try it?” asked Shelley.
Even though the building was old, the bar was very posh. Shelley had been told that it served some of the best food in London. To cap it all off, the bar staff were some of the best eye candy I’d seen in a long time.
“Are you sure this bar is gay?” I asked as I looked around.
“Yes, why?” asked Shelley.
I didn’t answer her question as I was already making my way to a window table that had become vacant, but I was beaten to it by an elderly couple who had just walked into the bar.
An hour later, not only had we enjoyed a marvelous pub dinner, but the elderly couple by the window had asked us to join them in sharing a bottle of champagne as they celebrated their Ruby wedding anniversary. Shelley had struck up a conversation with the woman in the toilets. She and her husband had lived in the area for over 30 years and had been coming to the bar for most of that time.
Everything had been perfect that evening. As Shelley and I left the bar, it started to rain, so we quickly put on our coats. But just as we hooked arms under Shelley’s umbrella, two youths appeared, both holding bricks.
We watched in horror as they shouted out awful homophobic slurs and threw the bricks they held towards the window of the bar where the elderly couple were still sitting.
Rushing back inside, we were shocked to see the elderly couple we’d spent a lovely evening with covered in blood from the wounds they’d received from the glass of the smashed window. One of the bricks had also struck the man on his face. It wasn’t long before an ambulance arrived, along with the police.
We never saw the elderly couple again.
Months later, I was still blaming myself for what happened that evening. Had the bar not become ‘gay-friendly’, the elderly couple would never have been hurt. There were several other attacks on the bar before somebody set fire to the place one night.
One hundred years of history disappeared just because some people could not cope with people living lives differently from theirs.
Notes from the author.
I wanted to share these three nights out of my life because of the different aspects and emotions they produced.
I had many other nights out, most of which were fun-filled without incidents.
During the 1980s and 1990s, there were some areas in London where gay men felt safe when going out for the evening. But the majority of gay bars were in dangerous parts of London. Bars were often raided by police wearing rubber gloves because of the AIDS epidemic.
From the late 1990s, as attitudes towards gay society changed, going out became much safer. And as it did, gay bars sprouted up in many areas. Other bars saw the ‘pink pound’ as a way of making more money, so started offering ‘gay-friendly nights.’ One hour, a bar could be straight, the next gay.
Of course, ‘gay-friendly’ gradually became ‘all welcome’ as time went on, and although there are still many gay bars and clubs, sexual orientation no longer matters.
Since the opening of the first gay bar in London, ‘The Cave Of The Golden Calf,’ in 1912, not only have gay bars come and gone, but gay nightlife has taken on a dramatic change, not always for the better.
Next month: – Pride. Gay Pride now plays an integral part in the calendar, but in its early days, Pride was very different to how it is today.
If you enjoyed this entry, you may also enjoy reading, ‘True Stories: Gay Memories – The Day My Life Changed.’
Last month, In this series, the subject was Friends. Click the link below to read it.
True Stories: Confessions Of A Gay Man – Friends
Where would we be without friends in our lives? We all need them, don’t we?
As a gay man, I’ve had my fair share of both male and female friends over the years, but some of those friendships were not what I thought the true meaning of friendship was all about.
Meet Tasmin, Neville…
Please feel free to ask me any questions by leaving me a comment.
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