Jed Wolf

Thirty years ago, away from my girlfriend, I’d occasionally wind up in Greenwich Village at gay bars like “Boots and Saddle,” lovingly referred to as the “Bras and Girdle,” where my sensitive ear for music made me want to kill myself.

The only gay men I could relate to were closeted self-haters like me. Stevie Nicks couldn’t wash me clean at any of these bars staring at Scotch or driving home at dawn casting pathetic phone numbers out the window into the other dimly lit trash along I-95.

Being closeted in the prime of life, in the ‘80’s was unearthly and the “anything goes” soundtrack of that menacing era simply rubbed it in. As freer spirits began dying from AIDS, I condemned myself and others like me for our secret pall bearing. Madonna, Cindy Lauper and George Micheal spit in society’s face with hit after hit while all I seemingly did was become desperately moody.

I’d felt safe listening to Joni Mitchell’s neurotic genius until she abandoned me in her Mingus phase and though I secretly liked Hall and Oats’s music, they looked gay.

”Material Girl” was number one, but rather than tumbling down, my walls closed in more. It took Rock Hudson’s death and an attempted suicide for me to finally come out.

So I wasn’t surprised last Saturday at 11pm to be lurched awake by the merciless beat of Rick Astley’s ‘87 hit, “Together Forever.” I’d been flying midair off an overpass, reliving a nightmare questioning why he sings. “Together forever we too.” Instead of “us too,” when I realized where I was.

Neither Dave or I have ever been much for nightlife. These days we’re usually fast asleep by 10:00, but last Saturday we needed to get outa’ St. Dodge so we checked ourselves into a dingy little room at Parliament House, Orlando’s most notorious seedy gay “resort.”

Not far from the former Pulse nightclub, Parliament House is a 115-room, mid century modern gem of a motel on a smelly lake in a terrible part of Orlando only gays could keep from being condemned. Beyond the verge of bankruptcy, for decades, It’s been a dance/party social magnet for all kinds on weekends. Not the kind of place you wanna wind up during the week unless you’re desperate but the sheets are clean. With it’s original cigarette machines, and paint, the Parliament House isn’t for everyone, even on weekends but Dave and like camping, which a night at this huge, funky motel is akin too.

Last Saturday, jolted awake by the start of ‘80’s night, I lay gripped with dread and contempt for the growing scene outside. The room’s decor reminded me of shameful times spent in similar rooms so long ago in my prime.

Sleaziness is universal but in Florida where it remains hot at midnight, grunge bakes in. Pouring rain subsided as well over a hundred tattooed, pierced people of all shapes and sizes collected in puddles in the courtyard below. The line to get in stretched down the street.

Men in skinny jeans and/or heels, mingled with overweight straight women in hot pants. Sequined transexuals, truckers, homeys, hunks, hookers and geeks with man-buns mingled holding drinks, smoking cigarettes and vaping. Within seconds, the view from our upstairs motel window drove me back under the crisp sheets.

As my mind cast about for reasons to stay safe in bed, I lurched up and said, “It’s PTSD,” to Dave who was going through similarly disturbing emotions on the other side of the room. “80’s music is the soundtrack of Hell,” he said.

But there we were, so as we descended one of many, staircases to the central courtyard, I felt exactly as I had in my thirties. “like a long-tailed cat in a room fulla’ of rockin’ chairs,” Dave muttered in a southern drawl.

Wandering among straight couples, strippers and frat boys parading between bars and shops, Dave and I shared equally stressful stories and white-knuckle muscle memories. Strippers and high heeled drag queens performed impressive dance moves among the throngs traveling back and forth across the greasy courtyard between bars. As our anxieties dissipated, some began trying to lock eyes and flirt. We found two dry chairs and parked our sorry old asses to sit and watch.

We used to hate ourselves for being “watchers,” rather than participants, yet here we were – no longer young but damn lucky to be alive. As gratitude grew and strangers introduced themselves and sat with us, we met some wonderful characters. We carefully engaged and flirted a bit but didn’t dance.

I for one couldn’t bring myself to – not to those songs. It would have been like dancing on a teacher’s grave – a dishonoring of the hardest lessons ever learned to the soundtrack of sacred pain. Maybe next time.

I’ve learned everything from the bag of bones I carry. I’ve been urged to leave them somewhere but they seem to want to remain close – to remind me of who I am, what not to repeat and all I’ve yet to learn while I still can.

The vast majority of folks last Saturday likely knew someone massacred at the Pulse and though these people appeared free, the familiar frenetic dancing reminded me of nights at the “Bra and Girdle” – the current generation of Sufis whirling to transcend their mortal coils. I wondered what, if anything ever changes.

At 3:00am, after the last song, as Dave and I prepared to release our support of the dance floor walls, an impressive leopard skinned butterfly sashéd over to me. Batting her eyelashes like wings, she coyly flipped open her fan to hide her intention from Dave, then presented her cheek for me to kiss.

As a veteran, I’m truly honored to serve however I do.