“I’m so happy for you Curly. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m so mixed up right now. I don’t know if I’m gay or straight. After being with a woman in New York and Vegas, it changed my way of thinking. Sex with men was work to me, but sex with a woman is pleasant because I don’t feel like I have to work for the money. I’ve never felt like I was in a hurry with a woman, like I was with a man. When I was with a man I just wanted to do and say sexual things to him, to get him off quickly, get the money and return to the bar. It was a game, and I’d become a slave to it all.”
“That’s too bad Janie. I’m glad you got away from that straight world,” he said.
“You know Curly, we were so high and drunk but I always hated them for asking me to do that. Especially Johnny, because I thought he loved me. Or at least I wanted him to tell me he loved me, and be jealous and want me for himself. But then I realized that he was just like all the fucking tricks. He didn’t care about me any more than the tricks did, and the women understood my needs more than any man ever did, because men are always thinking about their dicks and how to get pleasure for themselves. However, I’ve learned that women are much softer and gentler than any man could have thought of being and the intimate relationships seem more heartfelt,” I told him.
We met a couple more times, then Curly got a job in Chicago and he packed up his car and left the City of Orange. I was sad to see him go, but I continued to visit the Happy Hour Bar on my own.
As weeks passed, I didn’t have any luck finding a job, and with Curly gone I no longer had the luxury of him picking me up and buying me drinks. Mom wanted me to get out, so she began to leave me some cash on the kitchen table before the two of them left for their cabin on Big Bear Lake, California.
One night, an eye-catching, “soft butch” woman walked into the bar. I liked her dark wavy razor cut hair (a man’s hair cut). She was a skinny five-foot-eight, twenty-something-year-old who slightly made-up her eyes with black mascara and a touch of pink rouge on her cheeks. Her belt buckle was pushed to her left side of her tightly fitted blue jeans. Her breasts silhouetted through her taut navy blue T-shirt. She sat down at the bar and unrolled her right sleeve then removed a pack of Camel cigarettes.
I walked over and stood next to her. I inhaled the pleasant fragrance of Old Spice cologne and said, “You sure smell good.” She smiled back, put out her right hand and introduced herself as Shelby Cranston. Shelby told me she was new in town and that she was working with a group of women contractors, installing light switch plates in new homes. After a few drinks, we danced and at the end of the night she drove me home, gave me a kiss on the cheek and asked me for my phone number.
A few days later Shelby called, and we started to talk every day on the phone for the next two weeks. I really liked her. She was honest and we enjoyed each other’s company. Then one night she took me out to dinner and afterwards we went to the Happy Hour Bar. It was a Saturday night and the bar was wall-to-wall with women. When My Girl by the Temptations came on the jukebox, everyone rushed to the dance floor and Shelby and I joined the crowd. All the women sang aloud, some as couples and others in circle groups and every time the song’s lyrics came to “I guess you’d say, what can make me feel this way,” “way” was replaced with “gay.”
“My Girl, My Girl, My Girl, talkin’ ‘bout My Girl . . .”
Everyone’s spirits rose during the continuation of the song. Suddenly two young men from the street barged through the front door and shouted, “You’re a bunch of fuckin’ queers! We’re going to show you what we think of you queers!”
With force the two of them marched up to a couple of gals sitting at the bar, grabbed their belt buckles from behind and threw them onto the floor. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Seconds later two gals that were sitting at the bar got up and rushed over to the men, one of them jumping on top of one of the guy’s backs and slugging him in the face while the bigger gal grabbed the other guy and started punching him in the gut. Within seconds four more gals jumped in on the action, tackling them both to the floor. The two women bartenders rushed in to help and they dragged the guys out the back door and into the alley, where they continued to beat the shit out of them.
I’d never seen anything like that in my life. I was so shocked after seeing that kind of hatred—I never realized how dangerous it was to have fun in a crowded gay bar. And of course, when it was all over, no one called the cops to report the assault because everyone knew that the cops wouldn’t do anything to help us gays anyway.
It was the first time in my life that I’d ever seen a group of women coming together to defend their rights. It made me feel proud to be around them, because they defended all of us in the Happy Hour Bar, which was one of the few places in town where we could be ourselves.
Minutes later, more than a dozen of the young lady warriors returned to the bar and everyone joined around the courageous fighters to cheer their bravery. A couple of the gals, who had blood on their hands and shirts, described how the “bastards ran for their lives” after taking a few blows. No one knew who the guys were, but conversations generated around the room about other gay bashings that had happened in other bars around the country, with some hate stories ending in mutilation and death.
By the end of the night everyone reminded each other to play it safe by never leaving any gay bar alone. For me, this was a new age of acceptance that I wanted to be a part of. I felt that I belonged, and my feelings were leading more and more towards this strange unacceptable lifestyle. That was the first time I went home with Shelby, and she was wonderful to me all night long.
The next morning Shelby drove me home and I invited her to come in and meet Mom. She was sitting in the backyard by the pool drinking coffee when the two of us walked out to join her. I was nervous at first to introduce Shelby because she dressed so “butch,” but Mom was a “people person” and she greeted Shelby with respect. After Shelby left, Mom told me she was happy to see that I had taken an interest in someone nice, and that she wanted to see me be happy.
After a few months of dating, Shelby convinced me to come with her to Indianapolis, Indiana, where she was going to work. Our relationship seemed to be going well, and my daughters were living safe, supported lives with their grandmother, so I felt okay packing up my few belongings and going with her.
When we got to the outskirts of Indianapolis, Shelby pulled into to a gas station to call her friend. She learned that her friend had been assigned to another job site in some other state. Shocked by the news Shelby convinced me that she’d find another job and that we’d get an apartment and live on the money she’d saved.
We rented a one-bedroom apartment and I made it feel cozy with the used furniture Shelby purchased. After a week of job searching, Shelby came home and told me she’d been hired as a cocktail waitress at Andy’s Bar, a local “straight bar” across town. That same week I was thrilled to be hired as a hat-check-girl in a nice dinner club down the street from our apartment. For the first time in my life, I was so happy; I had a real paying job and I would not have to turn a trick to pay for food and rent.
Our life together became routine. Every afternoon the two of us woke up together, showered, ate breakfast and went to work at four in the afternoon. When we got off work at ten o’clock, we’d meet at the Townhouse Bar and party with our friends and the bar owners, Belle and Connie.
One night after work I went to the bar alone because Shelby had to work late. I started talking to a friend, who told me that Shelby was working in the “message parlor,” which was across the street from Andy’s Bar.
I threw my hands up in the air and screamed, “Oh my God! Are you trying to tell me that Shelby is a prostitute?”
“Yes,” she said.
I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. Here, all this time, I thought I was in a mutually happy gay relationship with a hard-working gay woman. But I now realized that for the past nine months, I’d been sleeping with a cheating liar who’s been turning t
ricks in a low-life massage parlor. The whole thought of her touching a man then coming home to touch me made me sick to my stomach. I was so distraught over the news that I left the bar early and went home. Furious, I waited for her to come home so I could ask her if she was a prostitute.
Later that night Shelby came home drunk. When she walked into the apartment I stood up in the living room and sternly looked her square in the face and said, “Where are you working?”
“At Andy’s Bar,” she replied.
I yelled, “Oh no you aren’t! Now tell me the truth. You lied to me. You’re working in a massage parlor as a prostitute aren’t you?”
Looking down at the floor she said, “I didn’t want to tell you that I was working as a hooker, so I told you I worked at Andy’s Bar, which is across the street from the massage parlor.”
I lifted her head up and looked into her eyes and said, “I was so happy to be with you because you said you were happy that I didn’t have to turn any tricks any more. And then I find out that you’ve been lying to me and turning tricks behind my back.”
“I’m sorry Janie. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I only did it for the money. I don’t care about those guys!” She pleaded.
“You have no idea who you’re talking to, do you? You knew that I used to be a high-class call girl from Vegas who made a half-a-million dollars a year doing that shit. And when I met you I thought I’d gotten that shit out of my life, but then you, of all people, are turning tricks, possibly bringing home diseases to me and worse yet, lying about it behind my back. I hate you for lying to me and I can’t stand the thought of being around you anymore.”
Shelby started crying and then she left. I cried off and on all night because my heart had been broken again.
A week later I saw her getting into a car with California license plates in front of our apartment. She had a big bag full of her stuff and I figured it was her old girlfriend’s car. She took off and left me in Indiana.
Devastated, I sat in the apartment and stared out the window looking over the street and watched the few cars that drove by. I cried and cried, wondering how I would ever get out of here, wondering how I’d ever tell my kids that I was a prostitute that turned gay, wondering about the consequences of Bob finding out. I remember how brutal he and his navy buddies were when they beat up and robbed a gay man back in Seattle. I knew that he hated gays and feared that he might do something to stop me from seeing my kids. The Devil had me in Hell, and the thought of being queer “in society’s eyes” was worse than being a prostitute.
This town was nothing compared to Vegas. The bars closed up at midnight and the streets were dark and dead. Boy was I mad to be stuck in a town working as a coat-check-girl where nothing was happening. I had no way to make any fast money, and there were no “big spenders” in the town.
When Saturday arrived, I decided to go back to the Townhouse Bar and I told Belle and Connie about my stranded situation. Without hesitation they graciously offered me a spare bedroom they had in their home.
I can’t tell you how happy and grateful I was to have their support and a place to stay. The two older bar owners never asked me for a dime. They helped me move and they took me in like I was part of the family—because God knows I was at my wits end!
One morning I was at the kitchen table looking for a job in the paper and thinking about how lonely and messed up I really was. I didn’t think my girls would love me after they learned that I’d been a prostitute and worse yet, a lesbian. I had no money, no drugs, no friends, no children, and couldn’t even turn a trick in this town to be able to buy a car and get out of here.
With all that going on in my head, I looked around the kitchen and saw a large bottle of sleeping pills on the countertop. I had nothing to be proud of. I didn’t want to be a burden on anyone. With tears pouring down my face, I grabbed the pill bottle and swallowed about thirty pills. I went to the bathroom, got dressed and walked out the back door to the stream where I’d lay down and go to sleep forever. I figured no one would ever have to know what I had been through and the hell I had to live with, because I’d be dead!
I thought I’d fall asleep right away, but I didn’t. I waited and gazed at the soft cool water, listened to the birds chirping, hearing all the abuse playing in my own head over and over again.
I had horrifying thoughts of sexual abuse, of abortion, of physical abuse, and of me losing my children—the most important thing in my life. Although I loved them with all my heart, I couldn’t help but think they would be better off never knowing their mother was a prostitute, and never knowing she was gay—never knowing the real me. If I just went away quietly, I could ease not only my pain, but their potential pain, the pain of knowing the hard and sad truth. In my state of depression, this seemed like the only logical option. It scared me, but I didn’t know what else to do.
Realizing that I was still alive about twenty minutes later, I decided to go back to the house. I walked into the bathroom and saw a Gillette razor sitting on the shelf by the sink. I picked up their razor, unscrewed the razor housing with my fingernail and removed the double-edged stainless steel blade with my left hand. I ran it lightly across my right wrist, barely breaking the skin. Seeing that my wrist wasn’t cut enough, I took the razor blade and pushed it down hard against my wrist and in a single pull I slit my wrist wide open. Red blood squirted all over the sink and onto the bathroom floor. Concerned that I was making a big mess, I stepped into the bathtub and sat down. Through the blood flow steadily streaming from my wrist, I could see the bone inside my arm. I thought, “Oh my God, what have I done?” But seconds later, the sleeping pills knocked me out.
When I woke, at first I thought I was in heaven. Seconds later, I realized the ghosts were my girlfriends and the angel was a doctor who was stitching my wrist. At the same time, the straps on the bed held my arms and legs in place while another doctor pushed a tube down my throat and into my stomach. The doctor instilled a balanced salt solution into my stomach, followed by suctioning the drugs out. He repeated the procedure until my stomach was empty. The process was so painful that I regretted trying to kill myself.
The next day, a police officer came to my room to ask me some questions. I had a hard time just sitting up. My body quivered, my throat was dry and raw, and my stomach ached from dry heaves.
At the end of his ten-minute interview he asked me why I tried to kill myself. I told him that I’d made a mistake and I’d never try to kill myself again.
Later that day, Belle and Connie told me that they found me in the bathroom and they rushed me to St. Vincent Hospital. Thanks to Belle and Connie, I was alive, and a few days later, they took me back to their house.
As I thought about my life over the next few days, I came to believe that nothing was worth taking one’s own life. I felt I had a lot of life left in me and realized that I had to pick myself up and get back in the race.
For the next couple of weeks, Belle and Connie were busy organizing a bus trip to Chicago for the Gay Pride Parade. They invited me to join them, so with that opportunity I called Curly, who was living in Chicago. I asked if I could stay with him for a while and he welcomed me with open arms.
The bus trip to Chicago was a two-and-a-half hour drive. I was having a blast being with a bus-load of fun gay people. Music blared and booze flowed throughout the trip. It felt so good to be a part of a group of hard-working people who wanted to celebrate Gay Pride Parade in 1966.
When the bus pulled into Chicago I called Curly and thanked Belle and Connie for all of their help. They’ll always be in my heart and I’ll always be grateful for their support.
Chapter 22
Chicago and Curly
I went into the hotel’s bar, ordered a drink and wondered if Curly’s personality had changed since he’d gotten a boyfriend and moved to Chicago. I knew how people could change their ways when they had a lover.
Before finishing half of my screwdriver Curly walked into the bar and I could see that he was s
till the same amusing gentleman. Dressed in a bright blue golf shirt and navy pants, he pulled his billfold from his back pocket, slapped a twenty on the bar and ordered us a drink.
For the next hour we filled the room with pure excitement as we rehashed our past with Carol and Bob, our ex’s. We laughed about the night that he’d asked me to show him what my “around the world” was. It was never personal to either one of us but I do know it boosted his alter male ego back in the days before he’d come out. I knew it was a “man thing,” because I knew whether you were straight or gay, men always think about sex!
After finishing a couple of drinks, Curly grabbed my two small luggage bags and took me on a short tour of downtown Chicago before ending up at his and Ted’s two-bedroom apartment. He showed me into the neatly organized second bedroom and dropped off my suitcase. I wanted to freshen up and I decided to change from my slack suit to a simple skirt and blouse.
“Do you have anything nice to wear to Saturday’s Gay Ball?” he asked as he fixed us a drink in the kitchen.
“No. The nicest thing I have to wear is this skirt and blouse. Johnny burned all of my evening gowns just before I left Vegas and he’s got all of my money and jewelry.” Then I started to cry and explained how horrible my life had been in Indiana where I almost killed myself.
Curly hugged me and moments later he swung his hands up in the air and said, “Well then, you better wipe those tears away because we’re going shopping!”
I looked at him with my teary eyes and said, “Thank you Curly. I’ll pay you back some day!”
“Well Janie, I can’t have you looking like that at the Gay Ball. That’s not the Janie that I know! Put your shoes on and let’s go!” In the next instant Curly took me to a rental store in search of an evening gown.
He sat in a corner chair next to the dressing room while I proceeded to try on every beautiful evening gown that they could muster up for me. Laughing and lifting my spirits, I felt like a glamorous Las Vegas woman again. After several changes I chose a black full length, silk-lined slip-on ball gown that had a low-scooped neckline. The top of the dress had a sheer overlay at the bodice with a beaded wave pattern and solid lining with three-quarter-length diamond point sleeves. I rented black high-heels to match and I looked like a million dollar babe once again.
Rat Pack Party Girl: From Prostitute to Women’s Advocate Page 22
