Manhattan was the setting where I could pursue being queerly perfect. Manhattan was the place I wanted to have my original introduction to homosexual subculture. New York City’s celebration of subculture and minorities was to be the place where I’d be amongst others who actively kept their queerness secret from family and friends because society won’t accept it.
With a false identity in place, I adventured beyond campus-boys to older gay males. I quickly accepted invitations, hoping that I’d be a step closer to NYC-escape. Behind my more sophisticated and cool mask older men seemed more worldly and attractive. The Jodie Dallas specter faded from the peripheral of my concept of homosexuality, Sex & the City experiences that I had dreamed of seemed a greater possibility. Instead of the Manhattan fantasy – theatre, dinners, and art galleries – I repeated my suburban youth in reverse. This version though didn’t synchronize with the ticky-tacky boxes. Now I saw behind the neighbors’ curtains, and I didn’t like it. Calling them dates is using the term at its loosest. The men that I went home with would close their curtains, citing their need for privacy. As my perceptions grew I came to see “privacy” as a bent mirror to my rejection of the homosexual label.