PLEASED TO MEET YOU, WON’T YOU GUESS MY NAME
I won’t try to weave this tale so you’ll like me better, say I was young and naïve, and the big bad wolf seduced me. Even when I was too young to know it, I had one eye on the next scam. When the wolf came knocking, I could hardly wait to let him in, which I did in the searing summer of 1978.
I attended the University of Houston, far from my North Louisiana hometown of Shreveport, where I’d be free to experiment with my sexuality and drugs. Drugs provided an escape from my confused, shame-filled adolescence. I’d taken acid a few times with varying degrees of success. Quaaludes were high on my list, but more than once, I mixed them with beer and blacked out. High on angel dust, I saw Female Trouble, a midnight movie on campus. Smoking cigarettes in the girls’ bathroom, the film’s bad girl Dawn Davenport declared, “I hope I get arrested,” spraying another layer of lacquer to her beehive. That resonated with me. I wanted to go underground.
New York City would provide that portal.
I had just arrived in the Big Apple for a two-week getaway, a postponed 21st birthday gift to myself, before the start of my senior year of college. The gay scene in New York was legendary. After the Stonewall Riots in 1969, when fed-up drag queens led the fight against harassment and forced the police to retreat, enforcement of sodomy laws gradually laxed. Almost a decade later, packed, dark bars and steamy bathhouses all but welcomed sexual encounters.
Just what I’m looking for.
Even on my meager student budget, I would have enough money for a fun visit—meals, museums, and sundry drugs. I took in the hustle and bustle, as passing buses advertised the latest in entertainment. The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas had just opened on Broadway, a sweet callback to home.
Standing inside the old-school phone booth, I caught my reflection in the glass doors, never comfortable with my large Greek nose and thick lips framed by my feathered brown hair.
God, just like my dad.
I dialed the number Ian had scribbled on the back of his business card. Ian, a friend, okay, maybe more than a friend, was a notable art dealer, cultured, and in a not so committed relationship. I used my slim, boyish body as currency, fulfilling Ian’s sexual fantasies he never realized with his uptight partner, Oliver, in exchange for nice dinners and help with my rent on more than one occasion.
The phone started to ring. It continued ringing. I was about to hang up.
I can try again later…
“Hello?” a commanding voice answered.
“Trey? Hey, my name’s Louie,” suddenly self-conscious of my southern drawl. “Ian gave me your number. I’m here on vacation. Just flew in from Houston.” I had no idea who Trey was—perhaps a stuffy colleague from the world of antiques?
Digging my finger in the coin return looking for change, I heard his deep voice again. “Ian?”
“Yes, Ian Meckler. Listen, it’s my first time in New York City,” I started, looking out, itching to explore this new world. “You think we could meet for a drink?”
An awkward pause followed, as the constant stream of pedestrians raced past. “How long will you be here?”
“Couple of weeks. Ian said you’d show me around town.” That was a lie.
“Why don’t we meet at the entrance of the West Side Y on West 64th?”
“The YMCA?” I wanted to be sure I understood him.
“Off the corner of Central Park West. Say 20 minutes?”
I checked my Casio watch. “Cool. I’ll see you then.”
The phone booth door unfolded like an accordion ushering in the free-form Midtown symphony, the sounds and smells of everything sizzling in the concrete frying pan. Searching through T-shirts and bikini underwear in my red backpack, I pulled out a small map to chart my course.
August. I hated the heat, muggy as only New York in August can be with a hazy gray coat hanging in the air, the collar of my white Izod tennis shirt sticking to my neck. But I was invigorated by the heartbeat of the city, determined to enjoy every moment of the next fourteen days.
Continuing north across East 58th I spotted the Plaza Hotel. So imposing, so stately. Well-groomed bellmen assisted travelers with their luggage from all corners of the globe. The building wrapped around the block and faced out to the park—Central Park.
Staying on the outskirts of the low stone-walled preserve, it seemed too grand to enter. I had to stop at the confusing intersection of tangled arteries at Columbus Circle near the Gulf and Western Building.
God, too many cars. This is a deathtrap. Which way should I go?
I double-checked every thruway, then crossed. Exiting a long black limousine, a long-haired mogul type in a bold plaid suit stood alongside two well-heeled women in chic midi-length wrap dresses. Glancing down to check out their strappy sandals, I glimpsed a large rat peeking out of a gutter. What other horrors were hiding beneath the surface?
Walking up Central Park West, I pulled focus on a trail of male gym goers wearing dancers’ socks and tight short shorts drenched in sweat, confirming that I was getting close to my destination. Back home at the Houston Y, everyone looked so nice and neat and vanilla in their gym-supplied uniforms. Not here. Everything was real, every flavor, every combination, all the toppings.
Glancing up at the West 64th Street sign, I turned the corner.
God, is that him?
Leaning against an imposing cylindrical column, Trey looked like a GQ model waiting for the camera shutter to click, one foot resting on a square stone base, his thighs spread apart unapologetically. Six feet tall. A few inches taller than me. Wavy hair, intense eyes filled with darkness and light, reminding me of Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind.Forty and fit with smooth, translucent skin peeking out of his tight red Izod, collar up. We both wore Levi jeans. Izods and Levi’s—the all-American gay ’70s uniform.
“Trey?”
“Hey, Louie,” his voice an octave deeper than when we spoke on the phone. I reached out to shake his hand. A nice firm grip—nothing worse than a limp handshake. “My friends call me Govind.”
What kind of a name is that? I thought his name was Trey?
I had to over enunciate his name to get it right. “Okay. Go-vind. What should we do first? The Statue of Liberty? The Empire State Building? I want to see everything.”
I felt his eyes checking me out, but he couldn’t be interested in me—way too good-looking, way out of my league—even though months of working out had put a bit of muscle on my 27-inch-waist androgynous Jagger look.
“Let’s go hang out,” he said, pointing to the urban forest. At the very least, he seemed willing to spend a few minutes with me.
Crossing the busy thoroughfare, we spotted a vendor, his metallic cart covered with a large hot dog photo. “You want anything?”
“I’ll have a Coke,” I answered, pretending to reach for my wallet.
“I’ve got it,” Govind offered. “Perrier, please.”
As we cut through bike paths filled with joggers and roller skaters in rainbow colors, his walk fascinated me. Body movements disciplined but fluid. Not at all feminine, and yet graceful. Govind’s mysterious confidence perfectly contrasted my wide-eyed curiosity.
“How do you know Ian?” I asked.
“We were lovers in the ’60s.”
“Lovers?” I didn’t remember Ian mentioning anything about that.
“He wanted to move to Houston. I went for a visit. And you?”
“We’re friends,” I said slyly. “You know, dinner now and then.”
“Dinner? Does Oliver know?”
I didn’t feel the need to clarify.
I couldn’t grasp the vastness of Central Park. In the distance sat a small, enchanting cottage nestled in the trees. Govind read my mind. “That’s Tavern on the Green, a posh restaurant.”
Posh? You’re posh, mister.
He led me to an open meadow under the shade of bright foliage at its summer peak. Huge boulders, lush vegetation, so much green under the suddenly big blue sky—open acres of nature corralled by rigid concrete and steel towering above mighty elms three stories tall. “Far out! It’s like we’re in the country.”
Govind remained guarded, somewhat aloof. “The city can be harsh. I come here to recharge.”
“Recharge?”
“I come here and soak in all the energy that exists in nature.”
Soak in all the energy? I never thought about that.
Summertime activities filled the park. Shirtless teenage boys tossed footballs and Frisbees. Nannies with baby carriages strolled by. A ragtag band played salsa music, a repetitive tribal beat fusing with the elements. Govind motioned me to sit across from him under a never-ending emerald canopy, preserving his alabaster shell from sunlight. A slight breeze blowing, but still hot and muggy. Twitching from side to side, I pulled at my shirt to let some air in.
“I didn’t catch your last name on the phone,” crossing his legs in a lotus position, the palms of his hands open to face me.
Shreve Island Elementary all over again. “Man-dra-pill-ee-us.” Why couldn’t I have a one- or two- syllable last name? Smith. Allen. No, Mandrapilias.
“Greek, right? Like a Greek god,” uncertain I heard him correctly. “I’ve never met a blue-eyed Greek.”
“My Mom’s are brighter.”
Between my fascination with the park, and this seemingly suave man of the world, I was an open book. His gaze kept pulling me in—I felt powerless to look away.
I spouted out my most pressing question. “Go-vind. Ian said your name was Trey. Why’d you change it?”
He studied my face. “Trey was my name before my awakening. My guru in India gives all his followers new names.”
“A guru?” I never expected anything spiritual to enter our conversation. Not on vacation. Looking for answers, I’d read books by Emmet Fox, and experimented with meditation. Did Govind have wisdom he could impart? “I’ve been going to Unity Church for the past year.”
“Yeah? What’s that like?”
“I’ve always wanted to believe in something, but not the God from Sunday school,” I said, confused by contradictory messages, even as a child. “Who switched the day of the Sabbath? Why aren’t women allowed to be priests? And what about Leviticus? ‘Man cannot lie with a man,’ but you’re not supposed to eat shellfish, or mix fabrics.”
“Letting go of old patterns. You’re on a spiritual path, too.”
“Baby steps,” I laughed. I certainly didn’t think of myself as enlightened but welcomed a like mind to delve deeper. “There has to be... something. Guiding us. Does that make sense?” He gave no response, prompting me to continue. “Sometimes, I think I’m getting it. Then I go smoke a joint. I wish someone would just teach me.”
There’s something so familiar about him, like we already know each other.
I’d had readings with psychics. Been introduced to the occult. “Do you believe in past lives?” How heady I must have sounded. “Jesus,” I joked, “this is so deep.”
“Okay,” he smiled. “What’s your sign?”
“Sagittarius.” Discussing one’s astrological compatibility carried significant weight. We all studied our charts during the Age of Aquarius, “when peace would guide the planets, and love would steer the stars.”
He nodded, “Me too. You like adventure.”
I took it as a good omen. All my closest friends were archers like myself. Ian’s birthday—a week before mine. And my roommate Tom’s. There was always an instant kinship with fellow Sagittarians—free spirits who enjoyed exploring the world at a moment’s notice. I was feeling it with Govind. “Tell me more.”
“Next month I start my last year in graphic design at U of H—University of Houston. Painting and sculpture ruined my hands, darling,” flashing my well-manicured fingernails, quickly pulling them down.
Shit! He’s gonna think I’m some nelly queen.
In truth, after one look at my design instructor’s precisely trimmed cuticles, I knew I’d found my career path. It wasn’t just vanity that helped me decide. I might be able to make a living at it. Minus sorcery, Darrin Stevens provided an upper-middle-class life for Samantha on Bewitched.
“John Waters movies. I love that scene in Female Trouble, Divine’s photo session where she shoots up. ‘Liquid eyeliner! Liquid eyeliner! I love crime and getting away with it!’”
Govind’s face softened. “You like breaking rules?”
“Sure. You gotta break the rules if you wanna have fun.”
“Like your dinners with Ian,” raising an eyebrow. “What else?”
“I sell a little pot, make some extra cash.”
His ears perked up. “You sell pot?”
“Yeah,” I paused. “I drive to Austin once a month to buy a pound of sinsemilla for my regular clients.” Growing up, I watched Dad showing off his guns and trading ammunition in back of his drive-in with several cop friends out of his Cadillac trunk; dealing drugs didn’t seem so dangerous.
I revealed too much, trying too hard to come off hip. Jesus, I even boasted about my drug deals. Rookie move. Better change direction. Again. “Ever heard of Patti LaBelle? Her voice—”
“Oh my God,” his eyes bursting wide, “she’s amazing! Her voice opens the heart.”
I had already worn out her first solo album, her vocal range a gift from outer space. “It grabs your soul!”
“How could you hear her voice and not hear God?” he declared.
“Do you have her latest album? Yes, you, you’re teasing me,” I sang. “Let’s start this lesson so I can see…”
“All the moves I’m confessing,” he continued, beaming at me, “will set your body free…”
Govind reached into his pants pocket and held up two tan glycerin capsules. “There are lots of ways to connect with God. To let go.”
I looked at the capsules. “What is it?”
“A shortcut,” he said, enticing me. “You’ll like it.”
I hesitated but didn’t want to appear uncool—a southern hick. I took one.
“Take both,” he insisted.
“Are you sure?”
“It’s all for you.”
I don’t even know what this is, but he’s a friend of Ian’s. He’s cool.
I had brought enough cash to score drugs in New York—Ian’s friend was offering me a freebie—although I wasn’t sure what it was. I put them into my mouth. Tilted back the bright red can of Coke, washing down two hits of MDA—a hallucinogen I had never ingested before—with a big gulp. I had no idea what effect it would have on me. But when in Rome…
As we continued talking on that sultry summer day, before the pills had a chance to kick in, I was already light-headed, sitting in this urban parkland surrounded by green trees, warm air, staring at this hot man. Our entire conversation so far revolved around me. Intrigued by my afternoon host who spoke of song and spirituality, I volleyed back. “So, Govind. What do you do?”
Unfolding his legs, he leaned back on one elbow, posing for me. His other long limb swayed off a pivot point, dangling from his knee, perspiration painting his armpit a deeper shade of red. “I’ve trained in voice and dance for years. I take care of myself.”
“Why aren’t you a star on the stage? I’d buy a ticket.”
Why am I saying these things?
Energy building. Undressing him in my head, how would his hands feel on me? And his lips, to kiss him. I felt a tingle. The tablets of love kicked in.
Hot, balmy breezes caused the leaves above to roar. I stretched out like a cat and arched my back. My head spinning, body trembling. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. Spiked blades of grass turned into plush velvet against my fingertips. Govind’s sinewy biceps teasing me, stretching his ribbed cuff. His deep laugh melted away any remaining inhibitions.
Man, I have to touch him.
I reached out, stroking Govind’s forearm. He didn’t pull away, inviting me to go further, resting my own on top and comparing. “Your skin is like milk. I’m always tanned.”
Bird’s chirps grew louder, sharper, cymbals slicing the moist air. Synchronized with beating conga drums nearby, my heart pounded in my chest. Like a hypnotic siren, a woman started singing, crying out to me, luring me deeper into the abyss.
Lunging for him, my fingers grabbed his wavy hair, melting into his skull. Decades later, I can remember the exact words I said to him: “Man, I don’t know you, but I gotta kiss you,” shoving my tongue into his mouth—he welcomed it. My hands let go of his dark crown and traveled down his long forearms.
“Oh God. I want you. I want you now.”
Pulling me against him, he pushed me to the ground. Powerless under his weight, my legs wrapped around his dancer’s thighs. No concern for our environment, we rolled around in the lush green carpet in each other’s arms. Out of the corner of my eye, turning wheels of a baby stroller a few feet away picked up speed.
“I don’t care who sees. Oh fuck, fuck man. Now!”
Swimming in the humid air carrying rhythmic beats, I clocked it all: his mouth on mine. Grinding groins. Skin against skin. Everything enhanced by MDA.
Govind pulled away. I held on to his hair, staring at his handsome face framed by the deep blue sky, not wanting to let go. “Come on, I don’t live far.” He stood and held out his hand as we began our pas de deux.
Hurry, please. Please, before he changes his mind. Oh God, please don’t let him change his mind.
Sprinting up Central Park West, car horns and radios blasted, charging oncoming traffic. Coming to a dead stop at the Dakota where Rosemary’s Baby was filmed, he said, “Welcome home.” For a minute I believed him, but he laughed devilishly and resumed running.
Twenty blocks into the West 80s—would we ever get there—I kept trying to grab his hand, keep contact with him. It was romantic, far away from home, where I was anonymous, still getting comfortable with my sexuality. Coming out in the mid-’70s was an act of bravery.
I’m not in Houston, God. Nobody here knows me or my family. I can hold a man’s hand.
We turned left. I read street signs.
Columbus.
Another block.
Amsterdam.
Row after row of rundown structures, the neighborhood felt a little sketchy, not my Park Avenue fantasies. Taking two steps at a time, we climbed a large multi-step stoop of a five-story brownstone that blended with Govind’s neighbors.
High and hyperaware, I made mental notes, entering the vestibule with missing mosaic floor tiles. Intercom next to broken mailboxes, open and unguarded. Passing through a locked door, the interior painted in high-gloss white. Bare fluorescent tubes. No elevator. Thick black metal handrail, journeying up marble steps. Tall windows atop each landing. Inside—an airshaft. No interior decoration. No historical detailing. But clean.
“Fourth floor.”
“Okay,” pushing his ass upward, “move it.”
Almost knocking them down to get past, a Hispanic father and son headed into their third-floor apartment, zesty cilantro and cumin spilled into the hallway. We raced up the final steps.
Reaching his apartment, Govind attempted to insert the key as I wrestled his dark shirt over his head, revealing nothing but muscle.
“God, your back.” Michelangelo couldn’t have done a better job.
Before the door closed, I surveyed the immeasurable floor-through apartment. Walls painted a warm ochre, like the clay banks of the Red River in my sleepy hometown. Tall windows on both ends filled the space with light, bouncing off worn wooden floors.
Touch. Kiss. Grab. Who could undress fastest, rapidly inspecting every inch. His dimensions almost looked Photoshopped. I couldn’t have designed him better myself. Yin and yang, smooth and fair contrasting with my olive skin, his fingers weaving through my furry legs.
Govind let out a deep laugh and pinched both my nipples. “I’m going to show you everything.”
I’d been with dozens of men, but never anyone like Govind, a Tom of Finland drawing come to life. In that moment, I felt like my life was about to change. Back home, Ian may have thought he was in charge, but I pulled the strings, setting the pace, often playing hard to get. Not now.
God help me, I might not be able to say no to him.
As we entered his bedroom, I quickly inventoried the messy environment, unlike my spotless Houston apartment, ready to be photographed for Architectural Digest. Govind’s unmade mattress lay on the floor. Sharp lines of light framed a wool blanket pinned on the window as a curtain. A box fan on the sill for ventilation. Eight-millimeter projector with a film spool on a pale blue wooden dresser. A cassette recorder next to the bed.
We fell onto the mattress and stayed there for the next ten hours—I’d never been so high with such a perfect 10 to get lost in. Another hit of MDA rocketed my perceived intimacy with this complete stranger. When I looked at him, I saw God. All I wanted to do was worship him.
