Gay Club DJ

The story is essentially true. The author welcomes comments.

You might say I went straight from high school to a gay nightclub.

The key word there is "straight."

At least that's what I thought.

When I was in high school in South Carolina, I played the guitar in what you would probably call a boy band. It was a bunch of us from school -- all reed-thin except for our portly drummer -- all of us with long hair and androgynous features, just like the big-time rock bands.

None of us, unfortunately, with much talent.

After high school, the band dissolved, and we were probably the only ones who noticed. We all went our separate ways. For me, that meant college in upstate New York, which I have to tell you was quite a departure, weather-wise, from what I'm used to in South Carolina. I love my folks dearly, but I felt like if I didn't get out of that small town, I would burst. The college had a good music and theater program, and was about a four-hour ride from New York City. That's where I wanted to perform someday when I got good enough at the guitar.

I didn't see any reason why I couldn't be a star someday. I was voted "best-looking boy" in my high school senior class, and even though there were only about 50 boys graduating that year, I still got my picture in the yearbook under "Best Looking." I'm about 5-foot-8, very thin, and I haven't cut my straight, blond hair since junior high. I usually wear it in a pony tail, and it goes down past my shoulder blades.

Other than my lack of great talent, there is one other thing that could hold me back.

My name. It's Wendell.

Granddad was a big Wendell Wilkie supporter in the '40s, so he named my dad, Wendell. Dad somehow thought it would be a great idea to name me after him, so I became Wendell Jr. It wasn't so bad growing up, because everyone in town knew me as "Junior." But going off to college with a name like Wendell was tough.

Once I got to college, I looked around for a part-time job to help make ends meet. It wasn't easy, because all I know is music. I looked all over, but the only place hiring was McDonald's. Nothing against flipping burgers, but it wasn't my dream job.

Then I noticed a small classified ad in the local newspaper for a disc jockey to play music each weekend at a local club. It seemed perfect. If there was one thing I knew a lot about, I thought, it was music. I called the phone number in the ad, and someone with a gruff voice told me to come by that afternoon and gave me directions. It was a good thing, too, because I never would have found the place. It was about 25 minutes from my campus, out in the middle of nowhere, a lone, large building off a hilly country road. As I parked my car in the spacious lot, I wondered what kind of business the club could be doing at such an out-of-the-way location.

The door was open, and I was pleasantly surprised when I walked in. There was a hallway with large photo portraits of movie and music stars like Judy Garland, Barbra Streisand and Madonna. I peeked into the ballroom. It was quite large, and I could see that it had modern lighting and an expensive sound system. Off to one side was the DJ's station with what looked like an impressive collection of CDs and a microphone. Not far from there was a spacious bar with lots of glasses hanging up in front of big mirrors.

Down the hall from the ballroom entrance was a heavy door with a sign reading, "Private." I knocked, and soon I heard footsteps. The door opened, and I was greeted by a tall, heavyset man who very well may have had the saddest face I'd ever seen. It was hard to tell how old he was, but he looked at least 60. (I was later to learn he was 62.) He was bald on top, with brown-gray hair on the sides. He had combed a few long hairs over his bald area in a vain attempt to cover up his baldness. He had three or four jowly lines that ran from his plump cheekbones to his double and triple chins. He was dressed nicely, though, with expensive slacks and a golf shirt under a button-up sweater.

He looked at me a bit disapprovingly.

"You're ...?"

"Wendell," I said. "We talked on the phone about a job?"

"Right, kid," he said. "C'mon in."

I was led into a well-furnished living room in what was obviously his apartment. He told me his name was Les Blanchard, and he was the owner.

"So," he said. "you're a DJ, huh? How old are you, kid?"

I told him I would be 19 in a couple of months, and he asked me about the music young people liked nowadays and what I thought of it. I told him I liked most of it. He said he liked Sinatra, Tony Bennett, '50s music and songs with words you could understand, but that "the young folks today, they like to listen to crap, so that's what we give them while they dance and work up a thirst" to buy drinks at the bar.

The pay wasn't great, but he said if I did the job well, I'd get lots of tips. I would work from about 6 p.m. until the place closed at 2 a.m. every Friday and Saturday night. He noticed what he called my Southern accent (actually, I don't have an accent -- everybody up North just talks funny), asked about my background and told me he needed a DJ right away because the last one had gotten a job out of town and quit without giving notice.

"If you can start this Friday night, kid, the job is yours until you screw up, OK?"

I told him I wouldn't screw up, and thanked him for the opportunity. I asked him how I should dress, and he advised me that the less I wore, the better my tips would be.

I looked at him with what must have been a puzzled expression.

He smiled for the first time.

"Kid," he said, "you do know this is a gay club, don't you?"

I felt my face start to get very red.

"Uh ... gay? Oh ... sure. Sure, I knew. I ... I guess I'll see you Friday night. Bye."

I walked quickly out to my car. I had no idea it was a gay club, but I guess it made sense.

On the drive back to the college, I wondered what it would be like to work in a gay club. I have nothing against gay people. With my long hair and slim build, I'd been hit on several times by gay guys when the band had a gig. They were all pretty nice, understanding when I told them I was straight. A couple of them had said what a waste it was, telling me how pretty I am.

When I got back to the freshman dorm, my roommate was out, probably with the girlfriend he brought with him from his Long Island high school. With my door locked, I removed my shirt and took off the rubber band holding my hair in a pony tail. My hair cascaded over my bare shoulders as I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered if any gay men would be hitting on me while I worked at the club. My features were almost feminine, with soft, but toned, arms, no chest hair, and, as I stood in profile, a pronounced concave from my rib cage to my very thin waist. If you had seen me from behind, with my long, blond hair and curvy figure, you'd have assumed I was a shapely, pretty girl.

"I'd better stop," I said to myself with a rueful smile. "I'm starting to turn myself on."

I showed up at the club early Friday night. I decided to wear khaki pants and a plain, white T-shirt. My first night really was a lot of fun. For one thing, the place was mobbed by 8 p.m. Obviously, this was the kind of club that didn't need to advertise. Every gay person for miles around must know about it. There were all kinds of people there. Gays, lesbians, even some straights. Nobody hit on me, although a few men in their 20s or 30s tried to make eye contact with me. The tips weren't great, but not bad. People would come over and put dollar bills in a big glass in front of me, particularly if they had a specific music request. As the music played over the gyrating throng on the dance floor, I started to get into it and did a little gyrating myself. Les tended bar with two bartenders, Derek, in his 50s, and Don, in his late 30s. I found out later that they were lovers and lived together.

After we closed at 2 a.m., Les retired to his apartment to count the receipts while Derek, Don and I picked the place up a bit. The main cleaning crew, I was told, would be in the next afternoon to get the room ready for Saturday night. I was back that night and every weekend for several weeks. I got to know Derek and Don a little bit, talking to them as we cleaned up and walked out to the otherwise-deserted parking lot. Derek, I learned, had worked for Les a long time.

"I helped him move into this place 13 years ago." Derek said one night. "It was about a year after his wife died. Car accident. She was a lot younger than he was. I never knew her, but my, how he must have loved that woman. The second bedroom in his apartment is filled with all her stuff -- dresses, shoes, pictures, everything. He doesn't ever talk about her, but he's never gotten over her. I haven't been in that room since I helped him move in, but I saw her picture, and she was a pretty woman, very trim and tall. Les wasn't a bad-looking guy back then, either, when he had some hair and was much thinner than he is now."

As the weeks went on, I got to be more and more comfortable working at the club. It was a nice change from my classes at the university, and I got to know a lot of the regular customers. My tips got a lot better because they seemed to like me, and also, I think, because I started dressing differently. My normal outfit was a cut-off sweatshirt that revealed my midriff from my ribs to my cut-off shorts that I wore low on my hips. The top of my sweatshirt was cut widely enough to bare one of my shoulders as I bopped around to the music. After an hour or two, I'd usually really get into it and let my hair out of the pony tail to bounce around on my shoulders.

Men were making eye contact with me all the time now, and I would usually smile and hold their gaze for a few seconds before turning away shyly. OK, so maybe I was flirting with them just a little to get them to put money in my tips glass. Sometimes, Les would look over at me from the bar, holding up a Pepsi for me to come over and take with me. When he caught my eye, I sometimes found myself pushing my bare shoulder forward and smiling gratefully at him. This flirting thing was new to me, and maybe I was subconsciously doing it to the old man. Anyway, his sad face never indicated that he thought I was flirting, which was a good thing, because if I didn't find all the young, muscular men on the dance floor attractive, I certainly wasn't going to have my first gay experience with my elderly, portly boss.

I got pretty friendly with two lesbians who frequented the club. Beth was what you would call your classic bull dyke. She was about 5-foot-6, very short hair, round-faced, heavy, and always wore a black motorcycle jacket. Her girlfriend, Amanda, was one of the most beautiful and feminine women I have ever seen. Tall, with a regal neck and beautiful figure, her long, straight brown hair fell softly around her trim shoulders. She had the sweet face of an angel and a personality to match.

Beth was very possessive of Amanda, always with her arm around her. They made an incongruous pair. One night when Beth went to the bathroom, I just had to ask Amanda what the attraction was. Amanda's beautiful green eyes sparkled.

"You want to know why I'm with Beth?"

I nodded.

"Well, for one thing, men smell bad, they make gross noises when they eat and when they digest what they eat. And one of them," she said as her eyes got a little glassy, "raped me when we were on a date. Beth has never done anything like that to me, and she is very dominant in a gentle way.

"Besides," she said, taking a sip of her drink, "I don't like penises. They're disgusting. Do you like penises, Wendie?"

Everybody at the club called me "Wendie." I kind of liked it. At least it was better than "Wendell." Meanwhile, I didn't know how to answer Amanda's question.

"I like penises," I said, shrugging. "I mean, I like my own penis. I don't know any other penises."

"You could," she said. "You could know a lot of them. I've heard men around the club talking about you. Half of them want to fuck you. The other half want to give you a blow job."

Beth came back from the ladies room, dropped a five-dollar bill into my glass, put her arm around Amanda and guided her to the dance floor. Amanda smiled mischievously at me over her shoulder as she was led away.

I had been so busy playing CDs and talking to Amanda that I hadn't noticed Les trying to get my attention so he could give me my nightly Pepsi. For the first and only time, he delivered it to me. My back was to him as he moved around me in the close quarters, and he casually placed his hands on my bare waist to steady himself. I wasn't sure whether he was copping a feel, but I didn't think so. Les had never come on to me, and based on what Derek had told me, I wasn't even sure Les was gay or even bi. What I was sure of is that my whole body tingled when sad-faced Les put his hands on me.

I didn't like what I was feeling when he touched me, and the next day, a Sunday, I made it a point to chat up Linda, a cute girl from my dorm who seemed to like me. We drank a lot of wine, one thing led to another, and before too long, we were naked in bed together.

Then, for the first time in my young life, I couldn't get it up. It was so embarrassing. Moreover, I was starting to have feelings of sexual ambiguity. I couldn't possibly be gay, but an hour after Linda, who was really very nice and sympathetic, left my room, I got an erection while masturbating. I found myself fantasizing about being taken by some man I couldn't quite picture.

"I wasn't gay," I told myself. Still, I couldn't get it up for a pretty girl like Linda, and I was feeling more and more like a sex object for all the gay men at the club. It bothered me a little that I so easily fit into the gay atmosphere at the club, even though I was straight. I would compare myself to some of the young, svelte men on the dance floor and subconsciously wonder whether I was more attractive.

"You're a guy," I told myself. "You're straight. If you're prick-teasing, it's because of the tips."

And so it was.

The weeks went on, and the weather turned very cold and snowy. Still, the crowds came and danced every Friday and Saturday night, and I was making a lot of money for a college freshman. I found myself liking most of the people who came to the club, and I had come to terms with my sexual feelings.

Basically, I had none. After Linda, I decided to cool it for a while with the girls on campus until my head was totally straight. At the club, I flirted mildly, then went home with my tips. One seemingly routine Saturday night, Derek, Don and I walked out to the parking lot to go home. Since there were two of them and only one of me, they finished brushing the snow off their car before I did mine. I gave them a wave as they drove off, leaving me alone in the parking lot. It was cold, because although I had a long coat on, I was still wearing shorts and just a sweatshirt underneath. I finally finished with the snow-removal, settled into the driver's seat, turned the key and ... nothing.

The car revved, but wouldn't start. I let it rest for awhile, but it still wouldn't turn over. Finally, the battery started to drain, and I knew it wasn't going to turn over. I trudged back to the club entrance and knocked on the locked door, hoping that Les could hear me. After awhile, the door opened, and I told Les about my situation. I told him I wanted to call Triple A to see if they could get me started or tow me somewhere near the campus.

Les told me to use the phone in his suite because the one near the entrance was a pay phone. When we walked into his living room, I noticed the dining room table had two settings with fine china and two ornate candlesticks with unlit candles. I was too upset about my car to wonder who he might be expecting at 2:45 in the morning or whether he was just expecting a guest tomorrow. I called Triple A and was told it might be an hour because of the snowy weather and it was the middle of the night. I told Les about it and said I might as well go to the ballroom. I figured I could reorganize the CDs and pass some time while I waited for the tow truck. Les said to go ahead.

I was in there for about 40 minutes before sad-faced Les came in carrying a CD. I had taken off my boots and overcoat, so I was there in my sweatshirt, shorts and socks. He had changed into a pair of comfortable slacks and a loose-fitting, button-up shirt over his heavy torso.

"How ya doin'?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. I kinda shrugged, and my one side of my sweatshirt slipped off to reveal a bare shoulder. I let it stay there.

"You ever hear any Buddy Holly?" he asked.

I told him I had.

"You know," he said, "I see all you young people doing what you think is dancing every week, but I don't think you'd know what to do with real rock 'n' roll like what Buddy Holly used to sing."

I looked up at him and smiled.

"I don't suppose that's a Buddy Holly CD in your hand right now?" I said.

"It is," he replied.

"Give it here, then," I said. Imagine him thinking I couldn't dance to Buddy Holly. It was time to put the old boy in his place, boss or no boss.

He handed it to me, and I put it into the CD player. It began playing "Oh Boy," maybe Holly's most lively song. I had the whole ballroom floor to myself, so I really was able to let loose. I guess I had a lot of pent-up energy and frustration, what with college classes, the end of a long week, the lousy weather, my impotence with Linda, and now my car problems. I began to gyrate all over the floor, my blond hair flying, I was shaking and twisting around as if trying to physically expel all my mental demons.

I was so into it, I had almost forgotten that Les was there, watching. And when the song ended, I was so out of breath that my chest was heaving up and down over my bare midriff as I slowly walked back toward Les, who had a sad, sardonic smile on his heavily lined face.

"Not bad," he admitted. "But let me show you how we used to do it in my day."

The next song on the CD was "True Love Waits," a hauntingly beautiful, but very slow, song.

"Les opened his arms.

"Come here," he said with an assuring expression on his face.

I hesitated, puzzled, not knowing what to do.

"Come here," he said. "Please. ... I won't hurt you."

I moved closer to him. He put his right arm firmly around my bare waist, and engulfed my smallish right hand with his meaty left one. I could feel his hefty belly as he held me close. I put my left hand on his shoulder because I didn't know what else to do with it. I felt small and frail next to his big body.

Then we started to dance.

It was a little strange, having never danced with a man before. He was surprisingly graceful as he led me in little circles. He began to sway side-to-side and released my hand.

"This is how we used to do it," he whispered in my ear, and ran his hand down to my tiny, bare waist, holding me there now with both big hands. My sides tingled from his touch almost as if I were being tickled. My mind was in kind of a blur. He wasn't being rough. If anything, he was tender and strong at the same time, but I felt inexplicably overpowered. I placed both my hands around his neck while he moved me from side-to-side. Then, he leaned down so we could dance cheek-to-cheek.

Soon, the song ended. A fast rock tune would follow. Les kept his hands on me and looked into my eyes.

"Rewind it, Wendie," his deep voice said firmly. "Play that same song again."

He let me go. I turned to the CD player and pressed the appropriate buttons. "True Love Waits" began to play again. Les opened his arms, and still in kind of a daze, I walked into his embrace.