I go to the first Gay Rights March in the State of Iowa, with Thomas the Episcopal Priest and Mickey the Muscle

  

Link to NSFW version

June 1982, after my junior year at Augustana College.  Thomas, the former Episcopalian priest who I met with my ex-boyfriend Fred last year, calls to invite me to Des Moines for the first Gay Rights March in Iowa. 

I have never heard of such a thing.

"We march to protest police harassment, discrimination in jobs and housing, sodomy laws, that sort of thing.  They have them in cities all over the country.  It's always close to June 28th, the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots."

I have never heard of the Stonewall Riots, either.  But count me in.

June 27th, 8:00 pm: Thomas, his lover (in those days it was always "lover," not "partner"),  six other gay men, and two lesbians sit on folding chairs and on the floor in his rec room, making banners: "Stop Gay Police Harassment,"  "We Are Your Children," "Gay is Good," "Gay People are People Too."  

"Maybe not the catchiest slogans," Thomas tells me, "But idea is to get the word "gay" out there, to let the straights know that there are gay people even in Iowa."

I sit next to Mickey, the only other guy my age, a grad student in Russian at the University of Iowa: short, tan heavily muscled, very attractive, with dirty blond hair and a round boyish face.  We chat a bit, but don't exchange any personal information -- in those days you were circumspect, even among other gay people.

Thomas walks around the room, looking at each of the guys.  Finally he stops in front of me and Mickey. "I want you guys to take first place, with the banner that says ;Gay is Good.'  We want some muscle out front, to show the straights that we're not all weak little sissies."

Mickey grins.  "Up for being partners?"

Marching at the front, coming out to the whole state?  "Um...well, what if one of my professors sees me on the news?  I could get expelled."

Thomas laughs.  "Don't worry, there won't be any tv cameras, or newspaper reporters.  The media ignores us.  We might get a write-up in The Daily Planet."  Drake University's student-run alternative paper.

I am still nervous, but more gay guys than I've ever seen in one place are looking at me, so:  "Ok, I'm in."

We move to the living room for sodas and snacks, and go over the plan:  Tomorrow at 1:30, we meet at Western Gateway Park in downtown Des Moines.  Dress casually, but nothing flamboyant, no leather or drag.  At 2:00 pm we walk the 13 blocks east on Grand Avenue to City Hall.  Forty gay men and lesbians have signed up, so we will march with a banner followed by six people walking three abreast, then another banner, and so on.

We discuss what to do if someone tries to engage, if someone attacks, if we have to scatter -- and if we are arrested.  We have a parade permit, so the police should be cooperative, but you never know.

Then Mickey and the other townies go home, and the out of town visitors bed down for the night.  It's  crowded: the two bedrooms are full, and four of us get sleeping bags on the living room floor (nothing erotic happens).

June 28th, 11:00 am:  Mickey and the other townies arrive for a brunch of pancakes, scrambled eggs,and sausages.  I'm slightly disappointed; I was expecting quiche and mimoses, the sort of gay cuisine I read about in The Advocate.

Mickey is wearing one of thse mesh half t-shirts popular at the time, with his pecs and shoulders visible behind the sheer mesh stuff, and your abs were completely exposed.  They only work if you have a perfect body.  A centimeter less than perfection, and they look stupid.  He doesn't look stupid.

After some discussion, Thomas decides that, although the t-shirt is hot, it's too flamboyant, and asks him to change into an Iowa Hawkeyes t-shirt.  "It's a football team," he explains.  "Turning Mickey into a wholesome all-American jock, the kind of boy you want your son to date."  Everyone laughs.

More Mickey after the break

2:00 pm:  Only thirteen gay men and four lesbians show up, 17 out of the 40 who promised, so we have to re-arrange the march structure a little.

Since the media didn't announce the march, no one knows about it except gay people, and they're mostly too closeted to come. Only spectators are the police officers watching us carefully to make sure we don't have sex on the street, and a few passersby, who stop and stare, open-mouthed.  A dad grabs his kid's hand and  ducks into a building, worried that we might do something.  Once a guy saw us from a store window and nudged his friends, and a group of about five rushed out to gawk and laugh.  I heard someone say "Look at the fags! But no one tried to break our heads

We were supposed to have a speech on the steps of City Hall, but the speaker doesn't show up, so we roll up our banners and pack them into Thomas's car.   "Great job, everyone!  We  let them know that we're not going to hide anymore!"

I'm depressed.  How can less than 20 gay people take on the homophobia of the 2.9 million straights in the State of Iowa? But Mickey is standing next to me, smiling, muscular. No use crying about it.  Carpe diem!  The theme song from One Day at a Time goes through my head:

This is it.  This is life, the one you get, so go and have a ball.

"I'm spending the night -- it's too late to drive back to Rock Island"  I tell him.  "Do you want to get together for dinner?"

"That'd be cool," Mickey says.  "Let me go home and change, and I'll meet you at my favorite restaurant in town.  Chicago Speakeasy, about a mile north of here on Euclid, say 7:00?"

5:00 pm;  Back at Thomas's house, I shower and change clothes. I go into the kitchen, where two of the marchers, Paul and Erik, are making lasagna.

"I won't be home for dinner," I tell them.  "I'm going out with Mickey."

"You landed Mickey the Muscleboy!" Paul exclaims.  "What's your secret?"

Erik adds "There's not a queen in Des Moines who hasn't tried to get into his pants."

Word of my "conquest" quickly passes through the group.  I hear hooting and hollering as everybody starts to tease "the kid."

"Go easy on him, huh?  Leave some for the rest of us."

"Be sure to ask if he has a brother for me."

"Find out if he has a big one!"

"Bring him back here afterwards, We'll have an orgy."

7:00 pm:  The Chicago Speakeasy is festooned with pictures of gangsters and bootleggers from the Roaring Twenties.  I ordered a "Dillinger Delight,"  a grilled chicken breast "wid all da grub": a baked potato and a side salad.

Now that we're alone, we both feel more comfortable revealing personal information.

Like me, Mickey figured "it" out during his senior year in high school.  He started learning Russian because it was deviant and slightly suspect: "What are you hiding?  Are you a Communist?"  So it would distract people from his real secret, being gay.  He's also studied German and Polish. He hasn't been in a relationship yet, although he's "tricked" with a few guys, mostly in Des Moines (it would be too dangerous to date at the college, where one of his classmates might out him and get him expelled).  He's out to his older sister, but not to his parents or straight friends.

I grab his knee under the table, and gently bring my hand up to his crotch.  A Bratwurst springs to life.

9:00 pm:   "Want to go to the Garden?" he asks -- one of Des Moines' gay bars, the "safe place" if we had to scatter.  "So we can, you know, kiss and stuff?"

"Um...I'm only 20, too young to get in."

"Back to Thomas's place, then?"

I imagine a roomful of guys teasing us and asking to join in.    "There's no privacy there.  Could we go back to your place?"

 I assume that he has his own apartment.

He stares into space for a few minutes.  Did I say something wrong?  Finally: "I guess.  Follow me home."

 He waits in his car for me to pull around, and then starts driving down Euclid, across the Des Moines River.  Suddenly he turns left without signaling.  I follow.

He drives faster and faster, swerving across a busy intersection, then turning right, again without signalling.

"Slow down!" I yell.  Of course, he can't hear me.

We're on 30th Street, zooming toward Drake University.  He's a block ahead.  Suddenly he turns right.  I follow, but by the time I get there, he's gone.

I didn't get his phone number.  Or his last name.  There's nothing to do but go back to Thomas's house and face the teasing.

"You're back early!  Didn't you hit it off?"
"Or are you just really fast?"
"Was he too big for you?"
"Or were you too big for him?"

As a consolation, Thomas and his boyfriend invite me into their bed.  I have never heard of a three-way before, but I had one that night.

A few days later, Mickey calls -- he got my phone number from Thomas.

"Sorry I bailed on you.  I was planning to sneak you into my room, but I chickened out."

"Don't you have an apartment?" I ask in surprise.

"Me?  No.  I'm home with my parents for the summer... but I have my own room in the grad student apartments in Iowa City.  In the fall, when classes start, come out for a visit, ok?  This time I promise I won't bail."

But I never went for a visit.  Too risky. -- his apartment mates might see us. Everybody was very careful in the 1980s.

Nude photos of Mickey and the guys on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

Des Moines Pridefest today: