Years ago, when I was a very young man of barely 17, I had to search for information, media, or news of other gay males in the world. I grew up in the sun parched, greed infected lands of West Texas, in a safe, but horribly mis-informed culture whom readily denied or ignored the existence of the outside world.
My creativities and interests were dark and odd. I devoured books on other spiritual cultures, taoism, wicca, qaballa, physics, metaphysics, science…
My paintings and writings took on a very dark and sometimes twisted hue which was very difficult for my family around me to understand. They only saw a young boy through man who was always seemed very happy, loving, and wanted nothing but the best for those around me who was manifesting into reality something dark and evil by way of art.
Now that the reader is aware of a very small part of what influenced me creatively, it will be easy to understand why the next bit of information creates a more complete understanding of my psyche and art.
The only bit of information on anything “gay” (short of religious counselors and quasi-psychologists who wrote on conversation therapies) could be found in the walls of the adult book stores.
Odessa (of “Friday Night Lights” fame) had three of these adult bookstores at the time and one of these was not far from my home. It was a small yellow metal building with a small dirt parking lot that was poorly covered from the outside world by a flimsy and bent, yellow metal barricade. I was told once that inside this particular building was a one way mirror where the perverted homos of our town would lurk and watch the book stores un-suspecting customers.
I thought if I could catch a glimpse of how horrible and disgusting these depraved homos were that I would be sobered away from any un-natural desires. So, one night, I set out as discreetly as I could to see for myself.
I walked in the tiny tin building, hands shaking, and heart pounding of fear. I moved briskly to the back where I saw this very small two way mirror behind the clerk. To the right of the clerk was a very small door. I saw two other men walk in, and I quickly followed.
before I submersed entirely into this dark corridor, I noticed there was a wooden frame hanging to my right that held 18 box covers. There were 9 on the top row and 9 on the bottom row. They were terribly outdated 8mm reels of pornography. The 9 on the top were straight porn and the 9 on the bottom were gay.
I ventured into the narrow hallway and saw 9 doors on one side. Most of the doors had small holes gnawed into them and strobing light emanating from inside the rooms spilled ever so frighteningly through these holes crossing the hall. The walls were black and seemed to sweat. I felt as if I walked into Freddy Kruger’s nightmare.
After composing myself, I finally gained the courage to walk into one of these rooms. opening the door to the vacant room, I only saw a very small 3 foot by 3 foot room, barely enough for me to fit into standing up. At the back of the room was a small crude quarter accepting device. I fed the machine and an un-familiar ticking and whirling sound that blossomed from a small hole where a film projector ran. I had to turn around to see this image which could only be seen on the back of the tiny rooms door. There was a very dirty white square painted on the door for viewing.
Then I found the switch by the door. I flipped the switch and a clamor of simple machines and a quick fade in and fade out of projector light let me see my first ever gay porn.
This was a very old, (silent of course) 8mm porn. It highlighted a very hot young man. He was smooth and chiseled, he was athletic and masculine. He was everything I was told gay men were not.
In that tiny nightmarish room is where I learned the truth. I was never more comfortable, more enlightened, more inspired creatively than I was in that moment. In this dark, old, creepy building with ghostly devices and eery pornographic films, I finally learned that it was ok to feel the way I felt.
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