Dirty Poole
a sensual memoir
Wakefield Poole
Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords
Copyright © 2000, 2011 Wakefield Poole.
all rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First edition published by Alyson Books, 2000.
This edition published in 2011 by Lethe Press, Inc.
118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018
www.lethepressbooks.com • lethepress@aol.com
isbn: 1-59021-229-0
isbn-13: 978-1-59021-229-5
Set in Hoefler Text, Broadway, and Edwardian Script.
Interior design: Alex Jeffers.
Cover design: C.J. Reinhart.
Cover photos: Peter Fisk.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
available on request
To
Marvin Shulman,
for everything,
and
my nephew, Bill,
who once said, “I don’t envy your life,
Uncle Wake, only the people you’ve met.”
Contents
Chapter One: Rolling out the Red Carpet
Chapter Four: Broadway at Last
Chapter Five: Do I Hear a Waltz?
Chapter Six: Good Drugs, Good Times
Chapter Eight: Boys in the Sand
Chapter Twelve: Hot Flash of America and Take One
Chapter Thirteen: Bottoming Out
Chapter Fourteen: A New Start: Broadway-Bound…Again
Chapter Fifteen: The End of an Era
Chapter Sixteen: Life After Sex
Appendix: The Films of Wakefield Poole
Chapter One: Rolling out the Red Carpet
New York City, 1971
I spent one of those nights you spend waiting for the alarm to go off, half worrying about not sleeping, half wanting the night to end. The wait was finally over. Peter removed his arm from under my head, touched the alarm button, and gently slipped out of bed. We’d been lovers since the summer of ’69 and were comfortable with each other. We’d also been through a lot to get that way, and although we didn’t know it, the fun was just beginning, especially since my first movie was opening in New York City that day.
I had publicly come out of the closet the week before. It started with a Variety review of my movie Boys in the Sand on December 22, 1971—the publication’s first-ever review of a hardcore all-male film—and was topped off in a Sunday edition of The New York Times with a sixth of a page advertisement for the film’s opening, the first gay display ad ever accepted by the Times. To this day, I don’t know how we got such good placement. The ad looked classy, so maybe they just didn’t read the copy. Or perhaps someone had let it slip by. I’d like to think some gay man in the advertising department had pulled some strings. If that is what happened, I’m forever grateful.
The provocative and stylish ad, a drawing by Ed Parente, depicted an attractive, mustached man in a Speedo, from his thighs up. His nipples were prominent, and a lightning bolt ran across his crotch at an angle to the top of his bathing suit. He wore a banner of shells over one shoulder, leather thongs tied around his wrists, and held a beach ball against his right hip. An art deco border framed the ad, making it eye-catching.
The ad appeared on the first page of the movie ads between, and of equal size to, X, Y and Zee, starring Elizabeth Taylor, and the John Cassavetes film Minnie and Moskowitz. Nicholas and Alexandra took up the top half of the page. My name appeared above the title, out there for all to see. I was proud of the film and never considered not putting my name on it. People who knew me would be intrigued and, I’d hoped, curious to see what I’d done. What good is a movie if no one sees it?
I hadn’t really been in the closet or pretended to be anything or anyone other than who I was. I didn’t label myself. The majority of my sexual experiences had been homosexual, and even though it was my preference, I didn’t limit myself to men sexually or emotionally. My sexuality probably added mystery to my persona and in turn attracted both men and women who might not have otherwise had any interest. But this was after Stonewall, when gay pride was just taking hold. We were feeling good about ourselves, and most of all we felt hope. Without hope, there would have been no gay movement. It was time to make a declaration. So many people were demanding their freedom. And it was time.
The phone rang and jolted me from sleep. It was Marvin. He wanted to make sure Peter and I were up and about. Really, he just wanted to talk. “I’m going to run out to Lamston’s and to the florist,” he said. “I just wanted to check in before I left the office to see if you needed anything.”
I told him we were on schedule and that everything was fine. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the print sitting by the front door, and I won’t be late. But what if nobody comes?” I said, laughing.
“Good-bye, girl,” he said as he hung up the phone. Obviously, he didn’t want to deal with that possibility. Marvin Shulman, one of the funniest and most interesting people I’d ever met, had been a friend as well as my business manager for more than ten years. His generosity allowed me to live and maintain a comfortable lifestyle, even when it appeared I’d never work again.
Marvin became my partner in the movie and also came out publicly in the credits. He even listed his own name as the producer of Boys in the Sand. Although we didn’t realize it then, this day would forever change our lives. Marvin had quite a talent for choosing clients, mostly from his friends, who he thought not only had talent but also potential for making money. He had many clients and did taxes for hundreds of singers, dancers, and actors. Some of us were friends as well.
Tom Porter (a production stage manager), Paul Jasmin (an artist and photographer), and Michael Bennett, Larry Fuller, and I (choreographers and directors) all supported each other as colleagues, professionally, and through Marvin, as our manager, financially. We would remain like this for many years.
I got out of bed and went downstairs to put on some coffee. It was a nice clear day outside, cold but not windy. The weather certainly would have no effect on the box office, an excuse we couldn’t use if no one showed up. We’d already had so many screenings that most of our friends had already seen the movie. I hoped this wouldn’t affect ticket sales for the premiere.
Jack Deveau, a longtime friend of Marvin’s, had hosted a screening in his penthouse and invited about twenty of his friends. Cal Culver, a.k.a. Casey Donovan, the star of the movie, was invited as guest of honor. It was a big success, and I heard later that in Jack’s bedroom Cal entertained each and all who were interested. All were interested! We should have known from that screening what a gem we had in Casey. Everyone wanted to fuck him. Cal called me the next morning to say he’d had one of the best times of his life.
Robert L. Green, a fashion editor and friend of Marvin’s, took great care in whom he invited to his own screening. It was shown during a brunch, and I’m sure it was the first porno-chic party ever thrown. The guest list included people in the fashion industry: models, photographers, stylists, makeup artists, and magazine editors, people who talk about everything that’s happening. It was a very “in” group, and the reaction was unanimous: They loved it. Most of the guests at Robert’s screening already knew Cal. He was also a model who appeared regularly in ads for Bloomingdale’s, so there was a lot of discussion as to whether making this movie would damage his modeling career. As it turned out, it did. But eventually Cal became an underground superstar and launched a career in pornographic films, both straight and gay.
We had a small screening at Marvin’s apartment for some of his straight clients and friends. This took a lot of courage on Marvin’s part. Still, the positive reaction was the same. But we still didn’t know how well the film would go over publicly. Then we held a press screening at the Rizzoli screening room. Our press agent, Robert Ganshaw, saw to it that all the critics were made aware of our efforts and urged them to attend the screening. Most of them came. Most also chose not to review or even write about it. The gay press, however, gave us more coverage than we could have asked for.
We wanted an audience of first timers—those who had never been inside a porno theater. Most of the gay theaters at the time were depressing and dirty and located in out-of-the way places. People went to cruise and meet others, not to see movies, and the atmosphere was almost always sleazy. Marvin and I wanted something else; we didn’t want to feel like second-class citizens. So we rented the 55th Street Playhouse across the street from Marvin’s apartment. Andy Warhol sometimes exhibited his films there, but lately the theater had been showing Chinese movies. We made a deal with Frank Lee, who held the lease, and our work began. We did a lot of cleaning, fixing, and even a little painting. Peter brought some posters from Triton Gallery to brighten up the lobby walls. The location was perfect, and now the theater’s atmosphere was at least pleasant, if not plush. Marvin and I wanted everything to be first class—or at least to appear so. We had to make a little magic. So we left nothing to chance.
On the day of the premiere, I was reading the morning paper when Peter came downstairs, ready for work. He was part owner of Triton Gallery, a theater and movie poster shop. He planned to go to work that day as usual, even though he was one of the film’s stars. He took the name Peter Fisk for the film, not so much because he was ashamed but because he thought Peter Schneckenburger was a bit much. We all agreed.
Peter helped me bring all the elements of the movie together. The old cliché “I couldn’t have done it without him” certainly held true in this case. Peter poured himself a glass of juice and sat next to me. He asked what Marvin had wanted, and I said he was just nervous, like me. I poured him a cup of coffee.
“I’ll try to get up there before the first show starts,” he said. We finished our coffee in silence. I have no idea if he had any second thoughts about being in the movie. If he did, he didn’t share them with me. He kissed me good-bye and left.
At noon my first movie was premiering. It was X-rated, but it was a movie, made exactly the same way all movies are made. Unlike live theater, it was finished, no changes. All I could do now was show up and observe. I had the cab let me off in front of the Wellington Hotel on Seventh Avenue. When I walked around the corner to 55th Street, I saw the marquee:
WORLD PREMIERE
WAKEFIELD POOLE’S
BOYS IN THE SAND
ALL-MALE IN COLOR
I was frightened, proud, excited, anxious—so many things at once. Most of all, I felt a great sense of accomplishment. Frank Capra once said that just finishing a film, any film, is a minor miracle. When I walked into the theater, I found Marvin on his knees, arranging flowers in a large vase. He was making his magic and had worked wonders on the lobby.
“Marvin, I never know when I’m going to find you on your knees!” I announced as I handed the print of the film to the projectionist. We’d been warned not to let the print out of our hands overnight because someone could duplicate it without our knowledge. Pirate prints could suddenly be playing in every gay theater in the country.
At that time there were maybe ten gay theaters across the nation, in the major cities, so if we wanted to make any money at all, we had to be careful. Everyone should be suspect. The ticket taker, the projectionist, the manager, even the owners were not to be trusted. This would be our first of many cases of “porno paranoia.”
In the early ’70s, pornography was still taboo, and across the country raids occurred frequently, so we had some fear. Even though it never influenced the content or how we promoted the movie, the danger of being busted was always present.
“The lobby looks terrific, Marvin,” I said. “What a difference.”
“Go up and look at the bathrooms if you want to see a big difference. You could eat off that floor…and you probably will.”
I wanted to speak to the projectionist anyway, so I headed upstairs to check out the john. It was not only clean but also had been lightly sprayed with deodorant and was stocked with soap and towels. We’d decided to start the program with a ten-minute film called Andy, which I’d made as a birthday present for Andy Warhol, a documentary of his retrospective at the Whitney Museum. I wanted the audience to think they were going to see a solo jerk-off short featuring a young stud named Andy. Instead they got a short subject that could be shown at Cinema One. It set a different mood and made the audience really look at what they were seeing. I asked the projectionist to splice it onto the front of the print, then went downstairs.
Peter had arrived and planned to sit with me. With all the editing and screenings, we must have seen the film fifty times, but we wanted to sit through the premiere together.
At 11:45 it was time to open the doors. There was no line outside, but the minute the doors opened, people started to filter in. Most had their $5 in hand so that they could rush in unnoticed from passersby. No one lingered at the box office. Even customers were caught up in the paranoia of the times. In minutes the theater was half filled, and they were still coming. We knew for sure now that we’d have a decent crowd for the opening.
Marvin decided to hang around the lobby while Peter and I took our seats. By the time the feature started, the house was packed. Usually when people go to porno movies they sit alone, but today it was so crowded that people were forced to sit next to each other.
The audience’s reaction was overwhelming. They even laughed at the right places, which was good, since we had included a lot of humor: calendar pages burning in the sand to denote the passage of time, Casey throwing a pill that turned into an Italian stud in a swimming pool, and our recognizing our insecurities in the way we cruise. But I didn’t want to include anything degrading about the sex or the situations in which the actors were involved. It all worked marvelously.
For the most part, the audience stayed in their seats and watched the movie without getting up to cruise or check out the john. It was so crowded that people couldn’t change seats as they usually did; they had to stay put and watch the movie.
When the film ended the audience burst into applause, which I hadn’t expected. Peter and I walked into the lobby but couldn’t find Marvin anywhere. Mr. Louie, the theater manager, told us Marvin had gone to his office to arrange for a security guard. We were taking in so much money that the theater didn’t want to be responsible in case of a robbery. The tickets for the second show were selling steadily too, so it seemed our movie might have legs. But how long would this success last?
I said good-bye to Peter, and he went back to Triton. I wanted him to stay and enjoy our success, but he wasn’t yet ready to be recognized. He was now a porno star, and it would take him time to become comfortable with it. He knew his life would never be the same again, but he didn’t realize it would be so instantaneous. As he left the theater I saw two guys recognize him and follow him down the street.
Marvin came back a little later with a smile on his face I’d never seen. “I can’t believe this. Can you? They think we’ll bring in at least $5,000 today. The security guard is on his way, and everything’s taken care of. All we have to do is collect the money and enjoy it.”
Cal came in looking like a million dollars, greeting me with a big kiss. He wasn’t alone. “Wakefield, this is Jerry Douglas. He directed me in Circle in the Water. We’re going to make a film together.”
“Welcome,” I said, offering my hand. “The second show is about to start, so you’d better find a seat. It’s pretty full in there.” I gave Cal a hug and whispered “Thank you” in his ear.
Cal had made a movie titled Casey, so he decided to take the name of the character he played as his porno name. Voilà! Casey Donovan was born.
The second show had started, and people were still coming in. We had done it. Even the feeling in the theater was different. There was no depressing sense of gloom or guilt in the air. People were actually smiling at each other.
Marvin approached me and said Michael Bennett wanted us to come to his place to celebrate with a glass of champagne. Michael lived directly across the hall from Marvin, and his terrace overlooked 55th Street. A few minutes later, on that cold December day, Michael, Marvin, and I were toasting our good fortune on his terrace, looking down at people getting out of cabs and entering the theater. Michael had set up a small table, complete with linen cloth, champagne flutes, and a crystal cigarette cup filled with joints. It was perfect.
Michael had begun his meteoric rise to fame with four shows running on Broadway: Promises, Promises; Company; Follies; and Twigs. After our toast he put his arms around me and said, “Welcome to the mushroom.” I never quite understood the meaning of that remark, but its effect was pleasant. We laughed and enjoyed the moment.
Who’d have thought everything I had done up to this point would result in my making a hit porno movie? I certainly had no idea—not even a year before—that my life would bring me here.
Chapter Two: A Normal Start
Salisbury, N.C., 1944
Jack Brady was my first boyfriend. We were both eight years old, and I can’t remember a time when we weren’t friends. We did everything together. Jack’s house stood directly behind ours, separated by a large field that our families used for a victory garden.
My father was a policeman, and I remember him as he directed traffic in the middle of Main Street. He was tall and thin and cut quite a figure in his uniform. Horns would honk, hands would wave, and every once in a while “Hey, Slick, how ya doin’?” could be heard over the traffic. My mother called him Walter, but to everyone else he was Slick or Bub. I went to a lot of movies since he got me in for free. He’d place me in a seat, tell the usher to watch me, then pick me up later.
The State Theater was my favorite because it had a stage act, a glorified burlesque show featuring animal tricks, magicians, and a big finale. I saw Sally Rand do her famous fan dance there. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A few days later at a baseball game, there she was. Sally Rand, in broad daylight, fully clothed, throwing out the first ball. I even got her to sign an autograph on a telegram form. I kept it for years, and meeting her still remains a vivid memory.
My mother, Hazel, had beautiful black hair and an olive complexion, which in the summer turned a golden brown. I always regretted that I didn’t inherit her genes; I was a miniature of my dad: fair skin and light-brown hair. My sisters, Marilyn and Pat, were a mixture of both. Altogether, we made an attractive family. All my memories of this time are static, fragmented without linear sense. Good times! Swimming in the quarry lake at the farm, playing cowboys and Indians, listening to music on the Victrola, and, most of all, eating. Bad times! Getting punished for breaking into the hen house to steal eggs for mud pies and being spanked with a hickory switch for some minor offense. One day, though, stands out clearly in my mind.
One afternoon in the early spring of my eighth year, a series of events occurred that would change my life forever. I was going to sing at Catabah College’s Spring Follies that night. For some reason I had been invited to participate, probably because of my expert rendition of “God Bless America,” which I had sung in church a few months before. I was a bass baritone, while the other boys were still singing soprano. That night, I would stand on a real stage for the first time and sing “Long Ago and Far Away.” Until then, playtime with Jack.
Jack’s driveway was our favorite place to play. We’d gotten all our cars and trucks out of the box and were digging under a root to make an underpass for our highway when we noticed Monroe Kress come out of his house next door. Monroe had four brothers and two sisters. He was fourteen, the youngest and the best looking. He went into the family’s dog shed and began to sweep. Mr. Kress loved to hunt and kept his three dogs in a playhouse he had built for his daughters years before. The playhouse was elegant, with a front door, windows, and even a porch. Southerners treat their dogs well!
After a lot of sweeping and cleaning, things grew quiet in the doghouse, just quiet enough to get my interest. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I could feel a sexual energy and was drawn to it. Jack and I went over to the fence.
“Whatcha doin’?” I called out.
“Just resting,” Monroe said.
“Can we come inside?” Jack nudged.
We kept on until he finally gave us permission to enter the gate, crawl through the dog run, and enter the shed. When we got inside it was pretty dark, and it took us a second to get used to the light.
“Sit down right there and be quiet,” Monroe commanded. “You wanna see what I’m doing, so watch!”
We sat. Then, as my eyes adjusted to the light, I began to make out his figure. Monroe was sitting on the floor in the corner. His legs were spread apart as far as the walls would let them, and in his hands was the biggest dick I’d ever seen. Apart from Jack and a few cousins, I hadn’t seen many. His was certainly the oldest I’d seen, and if that’s what “growing up” meant, I couldn’t wait.
Jack and I both sat in the semidarkness with our mouths open, barely breathing, as he slowly moved his hand up and down. First one hand, then the other. Sometimes even both. I was truly awed. It wasn’t until his stroke grew faster that I noticed a swelling of my own. It was the first time I had gotten an erection without doing anything. I didn’t understand what was causing it, but I liked it a lot. Suddenly Monroe began to mutter things I couldn’t understand. Once, I thought I heard him swear. I know I heard him say “God” and “Ah, Jesus” a couple of times.
Outside, the sky was growing dark, and we heard rain hit the doghouse roof. Thunder cracked, and rain began to pound harder over our heads, which seemed to urge Monroe on even more. His strokes grew faster, and suddenly his body stiffened. He let out a sound from deep down, and out shot an eruption, a stream of white fluid. It flew all over the place, like fireworks. I almost fainted. It was truly miraculous. I sat there with my little boner, knowing I had seen something quite special.
Monroe pulled a rag from his pocket and began to clean himself. “Someday soon you’ll be able to do that. Both of you,” he said as he put himself back in his pants.
I didn’t want it to end. Couldn’t he do it again? I could only think, When will we be able to join in this miraculous event? Later I would think of a million questions I should have asked. I also knew he had shared a personal moment with us and it wasn’t likely to happen again. I was sorry about that.
Jack and I made our way out through the run. Monroe went into the house as we stood in the drizzling rain watching him disappear through the screen door. Too overwhelmed to talk about what had occurred, I said good-bye and ran up the path toward home. “See you later,” Jack cried out as the rain fell down even harder.
It was still raining as Mom and I ran out to the taxi. Daddy was suppose to pick us up in the patrol car and take us to the college for the Follies but couldn’t get away. We rode in silence, listening to the wipers beat out an irregular rhythm against the strains of “Bésame Mucho” coming from the radio. I couldn’t stop thinking about the adventure in the doghouse. I wanted to talk to Jack. Had he seen anything like it before? Did he feel the same excitement I did? Would ours get that big? I had so many questions.
When we arrived backstage at the auditorium, it was total chaos. Lights were switching on and off. People were running around shouting orders, carrying things, and some were half dressed. Some were rehearsing while others talked in groups. Backstage! It was a sight I would see many times, but this first time was frightening. How would this show ever get on? Someone took us in hand, led us to a room, and started to put makeup on my face. When she was done I looked in the mirror. No freckles. Hey, I liked this more and more every minute. The pace of all this activity grew and grew until everything stopped abruptly and then grew quiet. All that crazy energy had transformed into palpable excitement. The show had started.
In no time I was in the spotlight and the band was playing my intro. I was on stage alone and couldn’t see a thing. I could only feel a hot white light around me. Then an amazing thing happened. It was over! The audience was clapping and whistling, and I didn’t even remember singing. It was over. As I came offstage everyone touched me and told me how great it was. What a fuss! My mom just stooped down, took me in her arms, and held me close for a few seconds. Then she stood up and led me to the dressing room. If this was show business, I liked it a lot.
When we got home the rain was still coming down hard. I got into the house and was immediately told to get out of my wet clothes and into a hot tub. Then my mother told me I could go to Jack’s to spend the night. What a surprise! I wasn’t about to ask why, but I knew something was going on. I was getting out of the tub when I heard my dad and Uncle Ray arguing. They must have arrived while the bath was running. I heard a lot of cursing and yelling followed by a lot of shushing and commotion. Things would calm down, but before long the volume would rise to an understandable level again, “…woman in the police car?” Uncle Ray’s voice cut through again. Then more commotion. I kept hearing one word I didn’t know, fuck.
After I was dressed I was given an umbrella, led to the back door, and told, “Everything’s going to be all right. Just go right in. They’re waiting for you.”
I never heard anything more about that night, except later someone said that Uncle Ray chased Daddy with a butcher’s knife. Someone also told me my dad wasn’t a policeman anymore.
I spent the weekend at Jack’s. We had a chance to talk and experiment with the new activity we had learned from watching Monroe, but we were really disappointed when all our efforts produced nothing but skin burns and sore arms. Monroe had said, “Someday you’ll be able…” If only we had asked when, we could have saved ourselves a lot of pain.
I told Jack about what happened at my house and what I’d heard that night, but we couldn’t make any sense of it. He did tell me fuck was what a man and a woman did together to make babies. Wow! This became major fuel for my fantasies.
To this day, what really happened that night has remained a family secret. Not one of my relatives will admit that they know exactly what occurred. My Uncle Clayton even recalls something about there being twin girls involved, so the stories grow. My mother’s relatives are all gone now, and the secret remains a secret. One thing that’s not secret is that my dad was quite a ladies’ man. As a child, I was following his lead.
I had two female friends at the time: Nancy Brown from church and Liddy from my second-grade class. She lived across the street, so she would be the one I would ask to have my baby. The following week in class I took a piece of paper, wrote “Wanna fuck?” and passed it down the row to Liddy. It had almost gotten there when the teacher caught sight of it and snatched it. I froze as she unfolded the note. I’ll never forget how the color of her face changed as she read it. I thought it would end with her head exploding.
Instead, she walked over, took me by the arm, and led me to the principal’s office. I didn’t think I had done “something bad” as she had told the principal. Besides, Liddy hadn’t even seen the note. My mom had to come pick me up.
Many years later, watching the Today show, I’d learn that Liddy, my Liddy, had become the U.S. Secretary of Transportation and president of the American Red Cross. Liddy Hanford had become Elizabeth Hanford Dole, senator’s wife, servant of the people, a staunch Republican, and a presidential candidate.
One day after the letter incident, I was taken to stay at my grand-parents’ farm while the rest of my family visited relatives in Florida. If this was their way of punishing me, it was far too severe for the crime. My family had gone to Florida to investigate the possibility of our relocating there. When they returned they informed me that the decision had been unanimous and that we would move there. I didn’t get to vote. I wasn’t too happy about leaving Jack, but a deal was struck that he could visit whenever his parents allowed.
We finished out the school year before leaving Salisbury.
It was a perfect early summer’s day when we arrived in Jacksonville. As we drove down Riverside Avenue, I was speechless. The street was lined with enormous oak trees; their limbs, laden with Spanish moss, hung over the street, making a sort of tunnel. Hibiscus, of various shades of pink and red, flanked both sides of the street. These ranged in size from small shrubs to bushes of eight or nine feet tall, all covered in blossoms.
Rays of sun found their way through the moss to play over the flowers like tiny spotlights. A blooming dogwood tree appeared now and then. I will never forget this first impression of our new home. It was so different from the red hills of North Carolina.
As promised, in late June, Jack arrived by bus. My God, he was a handsome boy. He was supposed to stay just a week, but more than a month passed before his mom called to say she missed him and that he would have to come home. It was great having him there and even better sleeping with him every night. Before he left for North Carolina, though, we both experienced our first orgasms. I was first.
“What was it like?” whispered Jack.
“It happened so fast, I’m not sure,” I answered. “It hurt! Yeah, it hurt. But felt good too. Real good.”
A few nights later Jack would have his. I was relieved because he was beginning to worry. Ten years old, and we had already begun to fret about orgasms. We had matured sexually at an early age, and since that day in the doghouse, there had never been a more determined pair. It had been a good summer, but eventually Jack and I would grow apart. Distance made things too hard. Friends have to be together or things change, despite what they want.
I would see Jack just once more, when we were both twenty years old and I was living in New York. My Grandmother Melton died, so I met my family in Salisbury for the funeral. I called Jack, and we agreed to meet after dinner that night.
At the appointed time I was waiting in the Empire Hotel lobby. I thought about my great-uncle George, my dad’s uncle who lived in this hotel. He was quite a character and was always immaculately dressed but usually in bright colors: yellow slacks, bluejacket, white shirt, an outrageous tie, a vest, and shoes with spats. At the end of his watch fob hung a miniature chamber pot with a $100 bill stuffed inside. He was striking, to say the least. Everyone called him Lord Salisbury, and when there was a parade in town, he would always be the last one marching, throwing brand-new pennies into the crowds. The kids loved him. I regret that I was so young when I knew him because I’m sure he had some good stories to tell. He was the black sheep of the family, and I was next in line for his title.
A car pulled up in front of the hotel, and Jack stepped out. He had grown even more handsome over the years. He looked like Paul Newman. I had developed a habit of comparing people to movie stars, but this likeness was uncanny.
“Wakie?” he asked, holding out his hand.
“Jack.” I clasped his hand in mine.
There was a moment’s pause, then I pulled him into a bear hug. My mind jumped back to the old days as I felt his body next to mine. He had brought some buddies with him and said we should all go have a few beers and then see what we could do about getting laid. After drinks at a local juke joint, we drove several miles out of town. I didn’t know what was going on, so I stayed real cool.
Jack pulled off the highway and turned off his headlights as he continued down a dirt road. He slowed, pulled to a stop under a big tree, then flashed his lights. In a minute or two I heard footsteps coming up the road toward the car.
“Who’s there?” came a woman’s voice out of the dark.
“Jack!” he answered. “Come on over here.”
“I can’t do nothing tonight, Jack. I got the rag on.”
Dropping by like this was evidently a common occurrence since there were no amenities or small talk. Jack turned on his parking lights and into the glow appeared an average-looking girl in her teens. She had on a faded cotton housedress, which was tight fitting but had a stretched-out look to it. Jack slid out of the seat and stood by the open door facing into the car.
“Well, I guess you’ll have to use your mouth,” he said devilishly as he unzipped his fly. “I’m horny as hell, and I’m not alone.” He reached into his pants, and I held my breath. Then I saw his dick in his hand. It wasn’t totally erect yet, so it just hung off the front of his hand. The girl worked her way inside the open door, sat on the running board, and took him into her mouth. I have no idea what the guys in the backseat were doing, since my mind was trying to deal with the moment at hand. My own dick was rock-hard. I could only see the back of her head move. I raised my eyes up to see Jack looking straight at me. He motioned with his head for me to join him.
I got out of the car, walked around the back to the driver’s side, and stood next to him. With absolutely no shame, he reached down and unzipped my fly. He took out my dick and, holding it in his hand, offered it to her. “Try some Yankee dick, honey,” Jack said.
She took me into her mouth. There I was on a dirt road with Jack, one of his arms around me, the other playing with his dick, and a teenage girl giving me a blow job. It didn’t take me long to get off. When I did, she took me down her throat and kept me there until I began to go limp. She immediately moved onto Jack and brought him off just as quickly.
“Like ol’ times, huh, Wakie?” he whispered under his breath as he put his dick back into his pants and zipped up. Jack was straight, but he sure was hot.
When I hear people talk about sexual orientation and gays recruiting straights, I think of Jack. The things we did together as kids didn’t affect him the same way they affected me, but we both remembered. Queers are born, not made.
Some years later I asked around about Jack. I was told that he was married, had two daughters, and was living in Winston-Salem, N.C.
It had been an eventful year. We moved to Florida, President Roosevelt died, the war ended, and I had my first orgasm. Jacksonville was a military town, with three major naval bases within a forty-square-mile-area: the reason most fathers kept a tight rein on their daughters.
At that time young girls did not venture out alone, period. But as a nine-year-old boy, I was allowed to go almost anywhere. It didn’t make sense to me, but I was glad to be a boy. I rarely stayed home, as I was always out searching for a new adventure.
Saturday mornings were another matter entirely. I never missed my favorite radio shows, Let’s Pretend, First Nighter, and Grand Central Station. But by afternoon I would be on my way downtown. I could take care of myself. My many afternoons spent alone at the movies in Salisbury had provided good training. I had no fear of getting lost, no fear of people, no real fear at all. The few fears I had were of unreal things, stories my sisters told me, monsters from movies, and the like. I looked forward to my Saturdays since they were mine.
One Saturday I turned on the radio a little early. Right before Let’s Pretend, I heard the end of a local program called Crusader Kids, a talent contest with the theme song “School Days.” I decided to check it out the following week—another new adventure.
The next week I walked to the station. Behind double glass doors, etched with the letters WJAX, was a wide staircase and, at the top, two more glass doors. When I entered I saw a woman talking on the phone. Her hair was gray; she wore a soft, filmy dress; and from the way she sat, very straight, I could tell she wore a corset. She smiled at me as she hung up.
“I’d like to sing on the radio,” I blurted. She looked around. I think she was surprised I had come alone.
“I’m Irene Lake. What’s your name?”
“Wakefield Poole, ma’am.” I offered my hand.
I liked her immediately, and I could tell she liked me too. She told me she was the pianist for the show. I said I didn’t have any music. All I had with me was nerve, and that could leave me at any minute.
“What would you like to sing?” She took a dainty handkerchief out of her sleeve and lightly dusted the keys of the biggest piano I’d ever seen.
“Do you know ‘Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life’?” I asked.
“Now let’s see…what key?” Mrs. Lake muttered as she played a few cords, then nodded for me to begin.
“A little lower, please. Much lower,” I said.
Mrs. Lake modulated to an even lower key, and this time I didn’t wait for a nod. I opened up and began to sing. She broke into a broad smile but continued to play, urging me on to the end. She took out the little handkerchief, wiped her forehead and hands, then returned it to her sleeve. “Very nice, Wakefield,” she said. “I think we can use you on the program.”
“Today?” I answered. “I’d love to.”
Mrs. Lake let me use the phone to call my mom. At first my mother didn’t believe me. Then, when she finally did, she had to get off the phone to call everyone to listen.
We went into another studio where there were about twenty people. Some children, a few parents, and even a little girl in a hillbilly costume. Mrs. Lake sat me next to her at the piano. I was on last, and when it was time for me to sing, she showed me where to stand. It went even better than the rehearsal.
After the commercial the announcer gave the results of the judges. Third place went to a little girl who did a recitation. Second place went to a teenager who sang “La Vie En Rose.”
“And first place,” the announcer said, “goes to our young bass baritone, Wakefield Poole.”
The audience broke into applause, then Mrs. Lake played the intro to “School Days.” As we started to sing, the announcer made his closing remarks, and then it was over.
A man handed me an envelope containing fifteen dollars in savings stamps, the first prize, and the first “money” I had ever earned. It had been so easy. I thanked Mrs. Lake.
“You’re more than welcome,” she said. “Your mother should be proud of you. You’re quite talented and such a sweet boy.”
Over the next few years I would appear regularly on Crusader Kids. Each series ran twelve weeks. Depending on how you placed, you could win anywhere between $50 and $100. It was fun—and profitable. I liked singing, I liked winning, and I liked the money.
Suddenly, my mom got phone calls asking me to sing at this meeting and that function, until I was making quite a bit of money with little effort. She wanted me to have a fairly normal childhood, so these offers were carefully screened and I was allowed to sing only once a week. This left me plenty of time to go to school, make friends, be a son to my parents, and a brother to my sisters.
I made friends with Sandra Hicklin, who lived up the street. She was in my class and was a lot like me. She was inquisitive, fun, spoiled, and an only child used to having her way. I had two sisters, but I was used to getting my way too. This made for a volatile relationship. After a few years of playing the romance of kids, we became the best of friends. We still went to school dances and did things together, but we both knew that romance, for us, would be found elsewhere. It was a friendship we each found both pleasant and useful.
One Saturday afternoon after the radio show, I went to the Arcade Theater to see Frankenstein. Most kids went to Saturday-morning matinees in their neighborhoods, but I liked to go to the regular movies downtown. I enjoyed being with adults.
I walked out of the bright sun, through the black-velvet drapes, and into the dark theater. Waiting a second for my eyes to adjust, I caught a slight chill from the change of temperature and decided to go to the bathroom before the show.
When I walked into the men’s room, I saw two sailors inside. One stood at the sink combing his hair, and the other was at one of the urinals. I stepped up next to him, unzipped, and started to take a leak. The sailor at the sink turned off the water and left. The bathroom suddenly grew quiet, and all I could hear was the sound of my urine hitting the bowl. I realized that there was no sound coming from the sailor next to me. I glanced over. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him trying to hide a slight erection with his hand and not doing a good job of it. Without thinking, I turned my head slightly toward him to get a better look.
He noticed that I was looking, then took a small step back. Then he changed hands to allow me an unobstructed view. The flap of his sailor pants was totally unbuttoned, revealing snow-white boxer shorts out of which hung an incredibly beautiful dick. Why I found it beautiful, I didn’t know, but my mind flashed back to that day in the doghouse with Monroe. I was so excited that I reached out and took it in my hand. He was surprised at my action. He wasn’t smiling, but when he turned to face me, a strange feeling of warmth overwhelmed me.
Suddenly there was a sound at the door. He turned quickly to face the urinal just as the door opened. A man entered and went straight for the toilet, dropped his pants, and sat down. I noticed there was a hole in the wall of the booth about the size of a billiard ball, and then I saw the man’s eye look through the hole at us.
During this the sailor had buttoned his pants and walked over to the sink. When I turned to look at him, he nodded for me to follow, then opened the door and left. I walked out and found the sailor waiting at the top of the aisle inside the theater. When I reached him, he put his arm on my shoulder and led me to a seat. After a while he leaned over and spoke for the first time.
“How much time do you have?”
“I have to be home by dark,” I answered without hesitation. “Do you have some place we can go?”
“I have a room at the Roosevelt Hotel. Wanna go up?”
“Yeah.” I had never been so excited in my life.
We sat for a minute or two before getting up. Then, together, we left the theater. Crossing Adams Street, he told me to be natural and act like he was my big brother when we entered the hotel. Things went well, and without any problems, we arrived at his room.
Once inside, he removed his uniform. I undressed as well. I could hardly take my eyes off him. There he was, a naked man, standing before me. He took me in his arms, kissed me, then led me to the bed. I had never kissed a grown man like this before, but I liked it very much.
We kept it up for more than an hour, taking turns doing things to each other. He would do something, then I would eagerly follow his lead. I learned more about sex in one afternoon than I had ever imagined. I know now I should have been frightened, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t forced to do anything. I was the aggressor. Nothing we did seemed ugly, and nothing hurt me. He was kind and gentle, and it was totally enjoyable.
When we were finished I asked him all sorts of questions. I told him this was the first time I’d been with an adult but that I’d thought about it. He seemed amused when I told him about the doghouse episode and Jack. Then I asked him about the man in the men’s room looking through the hole. He explained that it was a glory hole and that guys used it to have oral sex. He also said I should be careful if I decided to use one. He knew this wasn’t a one-time thing for me. He was very nice and talked to me in a way I had never been talked to before—like a grown-up.
It was getting late, and I realized I had to get home. I didn’t want to, but I rolled off the bed and put on my clothes anyway. When we kissed good-bye I couldn’t resist touching him once more. He laughed, opened the door, and I left him there in his snow-white shorts with a semi-hard-on.
I got home just before dark, and my mother was just before getting angry. When she asked where I had been, I lied to her for the first time.
“The movie was so good, I stayed to see it twice,” I answered innocently. “I’m sorry I worried you. Next time I’ll call.” And I would.
This experience changed the way I felt about myself sexually. Sex was no longer something I did with my friends but something adults did as well and did better. I began to see sexual situations where I had never imagined them.
Almost every men’s room in the city had glory holes. I had never paid any attention to them before, but now I saw them everywhere—in theaters, in city parks, at bus stations, even the public library. From this time on, most of my adventures would end up with me in one of these places. The sex was usually impersonal, with no direct communication.
I started to look for signs: uniforms, shoes, wedding rings, anything to give them some identity. So many married men cruised these places that I thought it was commonplace, something all men did. For the longest time I even feared I might run into my dad in one of these places. I wouldn’t know for a few years that there were straights and queers and that I definitely belonged to the latter. At this time, though, I felt no fear, guilt, or shame about my actions. I assumed that under the right circumstances all men liked sex with other men. I had sex regularly with a man who was married, had six children, and even owned a second house to entertain his male friends. This may sound strange to many, but in all my sexual dealings with adults, I was always the aggressor. I was never a victim of child molestation. Just the opposite—I was relentless in my pursuit of adult companionship.
It was during a fourth-grade class play that things began to change for me. Actually, it was my voice that changed. It was part of growing up, and I was all for that.
Katherine Bagaley of the Bagaley Juvenile Theater offered me a scholarship to her school. The school taught tap, ballet, acrobatics, and dramatics, and within a month I began my first dance class. Again, something so simple, but my life would never be the same. I knew I was a dancer. Even when my voice settled and I started to sing again, I was still a dancer. Dancing made me feel like nothing else could. It was even better than sex. Well, maybe not better but different and just as good.
From that moment on, dancing and sex would occupy most of my time. After I started to take dancing classes, people began to call me a sissy. I had been called names before, but this time the taunting had a hateful, superior edge to it. I found some humor in it, though. I’d been having sex secretly with men and boys for years, and no one knew. But they were calling me a sissy for being a dancer. Right name. Wrong game.
After two months at the school, I moved to the advanced class. By my third year I was teaching the class.
When I was fifteen, Miss Bagaley took me to New York to study dancing. The trip was unbelievable. I started to get stronger and stronger and more sure every day that this was what I was meant to do.
At this point in my life, dancing became my primary motivation. School became a place just to make friends and have fun. After school I reserved my time for dancing.
My teenage years were not filled with torment and emotional crisis. I had close friends, others who had goals and serious ambitions like me. Ann Koscielny and Helio DeSoto were both studying to become concert pianists. Sandra Hicklin and Beverly Jones were both sensitive and eager to get everything out of life. And we were all a little boy crazy. Sisi, Helio’s sister, became a welcome tagalong. The six of us made up our gang. It would change sometimes to include a new boyfriend here or there, but even today we remain the best of friends.
My spare time was limited, but I joined the chorus at school, coached the majorettes, and worked with the drama club. I also saved a little time to go to the park or the bus station to pursue my sexual activities, which were becoming more frequent as I grew older.
Despite increased name-calling, I performed in many school plays. I was always happy with my performances, even though I had to dodge pennies thrown by hecklers and endure loud hoots and laughter. When I was in my junior year, I exacted my revenge. I was asked to be the master of ceremonies for the junior-senior prom floor show. At the end of the show I walked onstage in my white dinner jacket to wrap up the proceedings.
“I want to take this opportunity to thank you all for your appreciation of my performances throughout our years together,” I proclaimed. “I’ve received so much from you over the years that I want to give you something in return.”
With this remark, I put my hands in my jacket pockets, and with one grand gesture, I showered the audience with brand-new pennies. If it worked for Uncle George in Salisbury, it should work for me here. Two black sheep using pennies to gain acceptance. There was a dreadful moment of silence. Then, after the shock, the entire audience laughed, applauded, and stood up—the only standing ovation I ever received at school. It was worth waiting for.
Simple fact: I was the best ballroom dancer in school. For that reason, I was quite popular. I liked girls a lot and never had any trouble having a good time. I was at the age when kissing and petting was part of the dating process. It was pleasant but totally different from the kisses I received from my male partners. With men, it was an interlude before or during sex. With girls, it held the promise of things to come.
My sexual activities were still mostly limited to men’s rooms and parks and were for the most part impersonal. It’s hard to get personal through a glory hole. But it made everything easy. No commitment, no identity, nothing but sex. It was exciting to have sex with people and then not recognize them if you should pass them on the street. Judgments and personal tastes didn’t confuse the game. There were no “I like blonds” or “I like redheads.” There was only a dick and a hole in the wall. The rest was up to you.
Many times I would agree to meet someone face-to-face. When we met, the men were always surprised by how young I was. I knew nothing about laws concerning sex with minors, so I didn’t understand when immediately some would say they had to go back to work, or make some other excuse. I assumed they didn’t find me attractive or didn’t like my hair or something. Others weren’t bothered by my age.
Early on I learned to deal with rejection. In 1951, when I was fifteen, I began to notice a growing trend in all the men’s rooms I had cruised for the past five years. It started the same way at all of them. More and more, a nasty janitor would storm into the room, banging the door as he announced, “All right, you fairies. Outta here! We’re closing up for cleaning.”
Toilets would flush, and the place would clear out in seconds, which always amazed me. Rushing out would mean you were responding to him and that you were what he said you were. But I never rushed out in these instances and, defiantly, even took time to comb my hair. After a short walk I could always go right back, but it would be the same routine every few hours.
Then one day the glory hole would be boarded over, even if the stalls had steel walls. They riveted some; they welded others. This was definitely a sign that things were changing, that the good times were coming to an end. Nasty notes began to appear on the walls: Fags, Get Out! or Kill Queers. One by one, the bathrooms became almost dangerous, and with these changes came the fear that you could be arrested at any moment. Suddenly these places became instruments of entrapment and harassment. Police hid in mop closets, peeped through tiny holes in partitions, and observed through transoms. Sexual activity in these places all but stopped.
I was shocked. I not only lost my major source for sex but also discovered that all men didn’t do the things I loved doing. What I loved doing, they said, was nasty, degenerate, and a crime against nature. I knew I was different, but anything that felt so good couldn’t be that bad.