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from Books & Reviews
Not Afraid to Change:
The Remarkable Story of How One Man Overcame Homosexuality
by John Paulk (with Tony Marco)
This new, autobiographic account is written with vivid, humorous descriptions which offer a window into the gay world from the point-of-view of someone who was once an intimate part of it. Euphoric with the discovery of a new sense of belonging, John, age 18, becomes completely enmeshed in gay life, embracing a new identity as the drag queen "Candi." But he soon falls into prostitution, drugs, alcohol, and depression, and is unable to extricate himself despite the help of a gay-affirming therapist.
Change, however, does eventually come. Today John is married and a parent. He describes this remarkable odyssey in a book that reveals something of the process of growth and change.
An excerpt of the opening chapter:
As the door to the K swung open, the music's near-deafening bass assaulted me like a huge, muscular hand. I must have hesitated for an instant, because I felt Richard's knuckle nudge my backbone, and I edged forward into the K's huge mass of sound, light, and smoke. I'd never been to a gay bar before. I had known since my early teens that I was sexually attracted to men, and I had thought often about being held in their arms. But even my two best friends, Richard and Sarah, who'd brought me here for my eighteenth birthday, knew nothing about those feelings and fantasies. And I had never really attached the label of gay to what I'd felt about men.
Still, I wasn't surprised that Richard and Sarah were taking me to a gay bar. Richard had told me he was gay. Sarah said she wasn't gay, but she loved to dance. Back then, in 1981, kids at our school thought it was cool to have gay friends, and Sarah said there was no greater place to dance than a gay bar. She'd been to the Kismet (nicknamed the K) with Richard dozens of times.
Suddenly I felt overwhelmed, plunged into what might as well have been a giant, surrealistic pinball machine: gleaming, refracted disco lights with frenzied bursts of every color imaginable...ultraviolet lights, fluorescent tubes and neon shapes twisted like flying phantoms...mirrored balls spun out spattering starbursts...beer and alcohol fumes, tobacco, and other smoke mixed in a pinkish haze.
But most thrilling of all, muscular male bodies--more than I had ever imagined seeing in one place at one time. Men leaned against walls, each one more striking than the next, holding cigarettes and drinks, walking smoothly as on ball joints, their proportions dramatically enhanced to maximize other men's admiration. Tight-fitting clothes, like form-sculpted T-shirts, were the norm. Some men had stripped off their T-shirts; others wore button-down or dress shirts open nearly to the waist. Below the waist, pants were various colors and fabrics, but all of them were tight as a second skin. Footwear varied from cowboy boots to tennis shoes. How well do I fit in here? I wondered.
Two weeks ago I had bought off-white Yves St. Laurent pants and a matching shirt with purple piping, plus a pair of ivory, suede Frye cowboy boots--all of which I was wearing for the first time on this special occasion. I had guessed at how to dress, and I had guessed right: I fit.
Sarah and Richard gently guided me deeper into the K's inner sanctum. I passed men playing pinball machines while other men clustered around as spectators. I passed still more men, leaning against a long ledge, their belt-buckle-thumbed hands framing their groins, as they flexed sweat-slick, sinew-defined forearms. As my hungry eyes drank in the scene, my mind drifted back to Sarah's warning on the drive downtown to the K.
"Prepare yourself," she'd said, as the three of us sipped Asti Spumonte from champagne glasses she'd snuck from home. "You'll see fabulous-looking men everywhere, the most gorgeous men you've ever seen in your life." She giggled. "I wonder where they hide them all. You never see men like these walking the streets; they only seem to appear at the K. I know they don't care about me, but I sure have fun flirting with them!"
She was right. Just moments ago, in the corridor by the front door, a heavily muscled, shirtless guy had been sitting on a stool in a blacked-out window. Thick black hair glistened on his broad chest as his dark eyes scanned my body from head to toe. He tried to lock his gaze on mine, but I looked away. When I glanced back at him, he winked. Then he reached out, stamped my hand, and pressed a little voucher into my sweating palm. "That gets you a courtesy drink on the house," he grinned. I could feel his eyes follow me as we moved past him.
A pang of anxiety clutched at my chest, and I reached out awkwardly for Richard's arm. "Don't walk so fast," I called, looking over my shoulder for Sarah. To my relief, she was close behind and I drew her beside me. Nearly every man I passed looked at me like the man at the door: Alert, curious eyes fondled me up and down, trying to rivet my eyes to theirs. Richard and Sarah steered me to the right, and we came to a small nook marked "Check Room." Behind a dutch door sat a shirtless, sweat-rivuleted man. He was looking right at me.
"Check your coat?" he boomed. I tried to open my mouth; it was bone dry. I tried to say, "I'm not wearing a coat," but no sound came out.
A little smile curled his lips. "Check your shirt, maybe?"
"Thanks anyway," I giggled. "I think I'll keep it on."
He laughed and I pushed Richard in front of me. "Where's the bar?" I asked. "I need a drink!" We maneuvered through ever-tighter clumps of men. Everywhere, eyes slipped from others' to find mine. As arms and backs touched mine, I breathed rainbow welters of exotic colognes mingled with liquor scents and a variety of tangy body odors.
We reached the bar. "What'll it be?" a light tenor voice asked. I was eighteen that very day, April 13, 1981. I knew I looked it and so did the bartender. I ordered two 3.2 beers, knowing that was all he would sell me here in Columbus, Ohio. A beer mug in each hand, I turned my back to the bar and swiftly spilled cold, wet fizz down my dry throat. Richard, toting a beer of his own, turned to me and yelled, "How're you doing, John?"
"Great, cool!" I didn't want Richard to know yet just how excited I was to be here. Mixed with the earlier champagne I'd had, I hoped the swift second beer would help me relax. If I felt looser, maybe I could start gazing at men more intently, catch more glances and hold them longer. I loved the looks I was attracting, and I knew I would love looking back--once I could muster the courage. Even now, though I couldn't yet fully let myself go, I was savoring a brand-new, delicious feeling of contentment. I felt special here, like I belonged.
I never wanted to leave.
Winepress Publishing. Cost of book: $19.95 plus $4.95 shipping. To order, call Books, Etc. at 1-800-917-BOOK.
Updated: 8 February 2008
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