This was my initiation to gay bashing. It didn't happen to me, but to an acquaintance of mine named Lester. I was merely a bystander who tried to help. This was back in the summer of 1969, before I was old enough to go to the gay bars, and while I was still ignorant of the abuse gay people are subjected to on a regular basis. It wasn't called gay bashing back then. It was usually referred to as

(drum roll please)

Rolling Queers.

Just like today's bashings, it was done by pea-brained young men who have more in their closets than clothes. They seem to be of the opinion that if they promote themselves as being hyper-masculine, nobody would have reason to accuse them of being fruits. This hyper-masculinity plays itself out by the abuse of other people. Often verbally, and sometimes violently. Sometimes resulting in death. It's either a sick and twisted view of what it means to be a man, or more likely, over compensation. Maybe both.

Back in the late 60's there were a couple of «after-hours» places in Kansas City where the under-21 gay crowd went to dance, cruise, do the things that the folks do in regular gay bars, except drink alcohol. They only served soft drinks at these places. Since they didn't have liquor licenses, they were allowed to stay open very late.

The bars in K.C. closed at 1:30 a.m. back then. As any self respecting gay man knows, the party is just getting started at 1:30, and it's way too early to go home, so, the after-hours places would get nicely crowded from about 1:00 until they closed sometime in the wee hours.

Being only 18 years old, from the white-bread, ultra-conservative suburbs of K.C., I had no idea there were gay bars, where they were, or that after-hours places even existed. The only thing I knew about gay life was that a bunch of the punks from my high school talked about going to a park called the Liberty Memorial in downtown K.C. to roll queers.

The Liberty Memorial was a well known hangout for gay men. I had just graduated from high school. I knew there HAD to be other gay guys out there, and finding them was a priority in my horned-up teenageness. But where? The only place I knew of was the Liberty Memorial. Where the bad guys went to roll queers.

I figured it was unlikely that a nice gay man would come to my home out of the blue and offer up his homosexuality for my enjoyment, although I did fantasize about it from time to time. Maybe the Fuller Brush Man would show up one day and say, «Hello, Yip. Is your mother home today?»

«No, she's not here.»

«Good! I'd rather see you anyway. Let me introduce you to the wondrous world of hot man-on-man sex.»

At which point we'd go to the bedroom and re-create every scene ever made in porn movies. Or maybe we'd just do it right there on the kitchen table. No. Formica's not all that comfortable. Besides, I knew at future dinners my eyes would get all glassy when my mother asked if I wanted a cucumber with my salad.

If I were going to find other gay guys, they wouldn't come to me. I would have to initiate the search myself. I had to start somewhere. That somewhere for me was the Liberty Memorial, the only place I knew of where there might be gay men. One evening I summoned up the courage to drive down to the park.

It didn't seem like anything «gay» was going on there. I didn't see men having sex (damn it!) and didn't see any punks beating the shit out of unsuspecting homos. I parked my 1957 Chevy and waited.

My car was my pride and joy. Two door hardtop, not even so much as a ding on the doors. It was beautiful. My brothers and I had painted it baby blue. (Alice Blue?!) Mechanically the car was a piece of shit, but it looked great. Classic body style, with fins on the back end. I had bought it my senior year and was the envy of the punks who would probably beat the crap out of me if they knew I was a budding faerie.

I sat in the park and waited, not really knowing what to expect. Lots of cars were moving around the circle drive of the park. A car stopped parallel to mine. A white Ford Galaxy. A man, much older than me, was driving. «Hi! How's it going tonight?» he asked.

«Fine.» I said. Damn! He was cute! Blondish hair, kind of pointed features, and a nice smile. We sat there for a second looking at each other, then he said, «You want to get in and drive around a bit?»
«Uh…sure!»

God, was I young, dumb and naïve. This guy could be a roller of queers. He could also be a cop. I'd heard they sometimes drove through the park looking for men engaged in compromising activities. In spite of the little voice in my head telling me I shouldn't do this, I climbed into his car.

«I'm Dick.» he said, extending his hand.

«I'm Yip.» I said, thinking to myself, 'Dick? Oh c'mon. How obvious is that!' I shook his hand. He held on to mine a little longer than required. I didn't mind.

As it turned out, his name really was Dick. Dick Lemon. (Everyone had fun with Dick's name, to be sure.) He wasn't a roller of queers. He wanted to hug men, not hit them. And he certainly wasn't a cop. Well, sometimes he WAS a cop, depending on which bar he went to. But that's another story.

Dick and I became good friends. It was a friendship that lasted for years. Dick was the man who «brought me out.» In the olden days, when a man brought a guy «out», it simply meant showing him the ropes of gay life. Some of the language, where to go to meet people, what to wear, how to conduct oneself, etc. A mentor to the life, if you will. Sort of an individualized gay cotillion. Dick was good at it. He introduced me to all his friends, all were much older than me. He and his friends seemed so adult and worldly to a hick kid like me. And they were ALL handsome.

One day at Dick's apartment I overheard a friend of his call him a «chicken queen».

«Dick, what's a chicken queen?» I asked him later.

«Well, it's a guy who likes younger men.»

«Oh, OK. Is that a problem? How old are you?»

«How old do you think I am?» (Typical gay-man response to that question.)

«I don't know. What difference does it make?»

«I'm 32. You should probably be meeting people closer to your own age.»

32?! JesusMaryandJoseph! I was still young enough to think everyone over the age of 30 was wrinkled and senile.

«You think there are gay people my age?» (Ah, the ignorance of youth!) «How do I meet them? I can't get in the bars.»

He pulled a business card from his wallet. It read 'MEMBER' across the top, with the name of a club and phone number. No address. «It's a gay after-hours club.»

«Where is it?» I asked.

«31st and Main. I'll show you.»

That was the beginning of a whole new world for me. I met people of all different orientations, attitudes and identities. There WERE other gay people my age! Halle-fucking-lujah!

I was there every Friday and Saturday night, when I could get away from my high school circle of friends. They had no idea of my weekend activities with THE THIRD SEX. I was horribly afraid of opening myself up to the ridicule I expected if they knew who I really was. (Later I learned how silly that was. It didn't make any difference to most of them.) The club had a great dance floor. Although most of the clientele were bent, there were a lot gay-friendly straight folks who came just to dance.

I even met a girl I knew from school.

«Rita! Are you here just to dance, or are you gay?» I asked after we both got over our initial shock at seeing each other in a gay club.

«Both!» she said. «I'm a big ol' dyke! Didn't you know?»

«HELL no! So am I! I mean, I'm not a dyke, I'm a faggot!» We laughed, hugged, and danced.

That club is where I met Lester, the star of the story. (Yes, we're finally getting to the point of this.)

Lester was about my age, and quite large. Actually, Lester was morbidly obese. He was built kind of like a giant marshmallow. He seemed like a nice enough fellow. He was smart, witty, easy to talk to. I saw him often at the club, but we were never what either of us would call «good friends». Just someone to gab with on occasion, usually about some cute man in the club.

In this particular club, there was a guy at the door that wouldn't let anyone in that he didn't know. You had to sign a book when you entered, and you had to have a membership card. (Thanks, Dick!) Of course, nobody signed their real name (surprising how many times Bette Davis, Tallulah Bankhead and Joan Crawford showed up there), and most people didn't have to show the card. Only those who Door Guy didn't know. They had to be careful. On occasion, some straight guys would show up, sporting their hyper-masculine «I'm gonna beat the shit out of some queers!» attitudes.

Late one night, we were all doing what we did, when a lot of loud voices could be heard at the club entrance. It got louder. Finally, Door Guy got butch with 4 young men trying to get in. He wouldn't let them. He tossed them out. The after-bar crowd was starting to come in. Door Guy was getting busy checking I.D.s and making people put their Joan Crawford in the book. Lester and I were both leaving about that time, and asked him what happened.

«Just some trouble makers. No big deal. Be careful, guys.»

My car was parked about half a block away. Lester and I said our good-byes. As I was driving away, past the club, I see four guys talking to Lester on the sidewalk. This didn't look good. Threatening gestures, yelling, so forth. I slowed down and pulled up just in front of them. About that time, one of the guys pushed Lester and punched him in the gut.

I leaned over and pushed open the passenger door of the car. «Lester, get in! Get in!» I shouted. He staggered a bit, to the back of my car. The guys were pushing him around and slugging him in the stomach. They were about 10 feet behind my car, one guy in the street, the others on the sidewalk. One had Lester's arm behind his back, holding him, while another one slugged him.

I put my car in reverse and stomped on the gas. The guy in the street looked at me just as I hit the accelerator, but he wasn't fast enough. I hit him with the fin of the car, knocking him down. I don't know if I just stunned him or if I had actually done some damage.

One of the other guys started helping him up. I put the car in drive and moved forward 8 or 10 feet, then put in reverse and gunned it. The car lurched up over the sidewalk, barely missing one of the guys. (Shit!) They ran down the street shouting «faggots! queers!» and various other obscenities. Lester was lying on the sidewalk. I got out of the car and went to him just as Door Guy was coming out of the club. «I was afraid of this!» he said.

We were trying to help Lester up. «Christ, my fingers!» he shouted. Two of them were broken. A couple of people took him to an emergency room. As I remember, nothing else of Lester's was broken, except maybe his pride.

I doubt I hurt the bastard very badly. After all, he was able to run away from me and the marshmallow target. Proving just how manly he really was.

I hope, I HOPE I was able to break a couple of ribs or something. Thanks to the Alice Blue tailfin of my Chevy.

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