My First Time in America: The First Experience
You always remember a first time, whether it was good or bad. You remember the place, the moment, and most of all, the person.
It might be the girl from the office when you were seventeen and she was sixteen, or the woman you eventually married. Some memories settle into the body and remain there, waiting to be recalled without warning.
The same was true of my first real experience with a man, away from the place where I had lived and worked for many years. It happened far from home, in a city that already carried a mythology for men like me.
I must admit that I have always been someone who kept little notes of memorable encounters. They were private fragments, hidden away in a box, waiting for the occasional evening when I would take them out and read them again.
In 1989, I went on holiday to the United States. Still mostly closeted, I decided that San Francisco had to be the place where the journey began, before travelling on to Denver to visit a friend who worked at the Alliance Française.
I had read so much about San Francisco and gay life that seeing it for myself felt almost necessary. At that time, it was a kind of pilgrimage. I had read every Armistead Maupin book I could get my hands on, and the life around Barbary Lane had taken hold of my imagination.
The city overwhelmed me: the openness, the freedom, the way people seemed able to express themselves without apology. To me, it looked like a small utopia. My week filled quickly with sightseeing and shopping, which in those days felt fabulous in that city.
I went to the bookshop on Castro Street, only to be touched by men pretending to have bumped into me. It was almost comical, and from friends I already knew a little of what happened in the Castro.
On my last afternoon, I went on one final shopping tour and ended up at Nordstrom, just around the corner from Union Square, where I had been staying. I was fascinated by the building, the openness of the space, the shops, and the sophistication of everything, including the prices, which gave me a shock. I must have spent two hours there before I ended up at the Ralph Lauren boutique. My eye caught a pair of slacks that had my name on them. They practically screamed, “Buy me.” So, I tried them on.
They were far too long, but I wanted a pair I could wear already in Denver. That made the decision difficult. Desire and practicality were arguing with each other in the fitting room.
The salesman was dressed to impress, impeccable suit, perfect tie, and a smile so bright it almost blinded me. He was a Black gentleman with an easy confidence, and he offered to arrange the shortening of the trousers. They would be ready by the following afternoon, he said.
I told him I was leaving early the next morning for Denver, which made that impossible. He paused, then said he would check with the seamstress. Within two minutes, he returned and told me the slacks could be ready before closing. If necessary, he would drop them off at my hotel himself.
That was service in America in the good old days, and that man seemed to me its perfect representative.
To my amazement, he was on time, waiting for me in the hotel lobby at six-thirty.
I offered him a drink in the lobby bar as a thank-you for the delivery, and he accepted. We talked easily. He was open about gay San Francisco and gave me all the useful tips for my next visit.
Before he left, he asked whether I would join him for dinner around the corner at a Chinese restaurant. Curiosity had already got the better of me, so I agreed. The diner was extremely busy, and he suggested we get takeaway instead and eat on his balcony. He lived only half a block away.
I still cannot explain why I accepted. It went against every rule in my book to go to a stranger’s home. I almost suggested we go to my hotel room instead, but somehow, I did not.
His place was small, a studio, but it had a balcony and a view that made the lack of space seem irrelevant. We sat on two barrels, eating Chinese noodles while the city changed color in the evening light. He, asked about Asia, where I lived, and where I originally came from, a question I had been asked many times. Even today, I still have my accent, which I like to call my personal touch.
I was unprepared, naïve, and did not see what was coming. Naivety, I have learned, can block a few necessary brain cells. After he disposed of the takeaway cartons, he said he was going to change into something more comfortable. He was still in his suit and tie, and I remained on the balcony with my water bottle, taking in the sunset over the city.
A few minutes later, he came back in shorts and a T-shirt and began massaging my neck. I froze. Looking back, I realise he knew exactly how to calm my nerves. We had already spoken openly about being gay, but I was still inexperienced, still watchful, still unsure of myself in a way he clearly was not.
In typical American fashion, he said, “Relax. It is all good. Chill, man.” The rest of the evening became something new to me: exciting, unexpected, and unforgettable. He introduced me to a side of desire I had imagined but never truly experienced, and the memory has stayed with me ever since.
I left the next morning for Denver with the new slacks in my luggage and an entirely different understanding of myself. San Francisco had given me more than a holiday. It had given me a first chapter I would never forget.
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My straight life in 11 gay chapters 