Anaheim, California, February 1994
My job at at a camp for juvenile delinquents lasted for only about six months, from July 1992 to January 1993: too many crazy rules, too homophobic. The only kid I really bonded with was Chazz, a cute 17-year old on a diversion program for vandalism and auto theft, who I helped break the rules to visit his boyfriend.
We stayed in contact, chatting in America Online chatrooms and sometimes talking on the telephone. After his release, he moved to Orange County, about 40 miles from West Hollywood. He moved in with his father and stepmother, enrolled at Cal Stat Fullerton, and got a job at Disneyland!
"You and Lane should come down and visit," he said. "I can give you a behind-the-scenes tour."
I hated theme parks: the crowds, the noise, the tacky tie-ins, the $15 ice cream cones. Especially the Disney Main Street, a glorification of the racist, sexist, homophobic 1890s America of Walt Disney's childhood.
But I liked Chazz -- I felt like a big brother to him. And Lane had fond memories of going to Disneyland as a kid. So we decided to go down on a Thursday in early February 1994 -- a weeknight in the middle of winter shouldn't be too crowded.
We checked into our room at the Sheraton around 7:00, picked up Chazz at his parents' house, and took him to dinner at a Mexican restaurant (tip: always eat first, so you don't have to buy the overpriced, saturated fat-laden theme park food).
It had been a year since I saw Chazz in person. He had changed, or maybe I had permission to notice, now that he was over 18! Thick arms and shoulders. A far bigger bulge. His adolescent face had hardened into that of a classic leading man: a square jaw, a heavy brow, soft puppy-dog eyes, and a bright smile.
The full story, with nude photos and sexual situations, is on Tales of West Hollywood.