Page 408 - Gay San Francisco_Eyewitness Drummer
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388                                     Jack Fritscher, Ph.D.

            My sweat drips down on Thumper. Two space heaters run to warm the
            perpetual San Francisco chill off the cellar. Nothing worse in a scene than
            a discomfort not intended. A Top has to be sensitive. I figure to move the
            one space heater away from the rack. Over it I notice — fuck! — my best
            faded Levi’s hang on the heater’s edge, scorching. Without pulling out of
            him I yank my jeans free of the heat. I don’t care. All that counts is this
            man and me. Higher and higher.
               We may never see each other again. But for what it is, for now: bliss-
            out! Too much of a good thing is great. Less isn’t more. Only more is more.
            Ask any Medici.


            But, cuming, butt-cuming, with too much great sensuality, I think on
            this night before Christmas of the daytime street of that straight world so
            many gay men insist on functioning in so well, because we are — Thank
            God — not just creatures of the night. I hope people will be able to see in
            our eyes, in our fucked-happy eyes how we love the men we’ve laid and the
            men we’ve yet to lay; that they will see in our fuck-filled eyes what we have
            experienced, what we look and live for; that they will see in our eyes the
            dimension of human sex and sensuality and mutuality that we recognize
            in our gay brothers’ eyes when we pass them on straight streets; that our
            fuck-full eyes will be forever the badge of our identification to those who
            should know, and our badge of fulfillment to those who barely imagine
            where our heads are, but yet love us enough to hope we’re having a good
            time, the time even of our lives.
               The only fucking immortality any man can expect, after we play it
            as it lays, is to be a story told in beds around the world on nights before
            Christmas. And even nights after.
               Ain’t that right, Thump, old buddy?

               Editor’s Note

               The following poem, written August 14, 1957, offers a profile into the
               adolescent feeling and writing style of one teenager who grew up to be
               a formative editor in chief of Drummer. Jack Fritscher was an eighteen-
               year-old Catholic seminarian out in the world on summer vacation in
               Greenwich Village when he wrote this poem of shock and admiration.
               Many lines of the 1957 poem forecast a description of gay life in 1970s
               bars and baths, as well as give a nod to the author’s 1950s teenage

          ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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