The Front Runner

not going to get anywhere."
    We spent a couple of nights down in New York City. I figured that being up late a night or two wouldn't hurt Billy (that's how much I was getting humanized). It was the quiet time of year, with cross-country over, and outdoor track two months away, and we weren't going to any indoor meets. And I couldn't deny John a good holiday time with his son.
    The Saturday before New Year's, we ate dinner at a restaurant downtown whose name I won't mention because we don't want all the straight tourists piling in there. I can say only that it's on the second floor, is dim and comfortable, with old red velvet chairs and fakes of Old Masters in heavy gold frames, and big
    chandeliers, and waiters who are young studs dressed up in Renaissance tights and jerkins. They serve very good steaks and chops and Italian food. And since my idea of cuisine is a steak this thick, or lasagna at Mamma Leone's for a trackwriters' lunch, I really enjoyed this place.
    John and I ate steaks, medium rare, and Billy ate a plate of baked potatoes and a salad. John got a little drunk on red wine, and Billy and I got drunk on milk. We laughed and kidded around. John had on a black Cardin suit and a wide brocade silk tie. I was wearing my very best gray suit bought on sale at Barney's, and a white shirt, and my best black tie. Billy, from somewhere in the depths of his dorm closet, had produced a brown velvet suit and a white silk ruffled shirt. He didn't look at all foppish. Somehow it accentuated his slender hardness and his male-ness.
    After dinner we caught a cab uptown to the Continental Baths on West Seventy-fourth Street, to catch the midnight holiday show. It was an all-star bill of gay favorites, Bette Midler and the Sequins, and the new rock singer Jess Collett, who was being called the gay Jimi Hendrix.
    "No picking up anybody now," I teased Billy. "You're in training."
    He looked just a little annoyed with me. "I don't cruise," he said.
    I kept after him. "No middle-aged hustlers."
    I hadn't been to the Continental Baths for years. In fact, this evening would be the first time in four years that I had appeared so openly in gay society, and I was just a little nervous about it.
    I hardly recognized the place. The Baths I remem-bered had been a hard-core refuge for gays who wanted to cruise naked meat. (In bars, everybody has clothes on, which can be regarded as an inconvenience.) In my absence, the straight radical chic crowd had started going there to take in the entertainments. They did this, I suppose, to show how broad-minded they were, but I suspect that they were simply curious and out for kinky thrills. The entrance was so full of women
    and straight celebrities that we could hardly wrestle our way in The prices had gone way up—seven dollars just to look around.
    "I can't believe this," I said.
    "Neither can I," said John, a little sorrowfully. "It's really changed. Oh well, the Divine Miss M is always good."
    But once we got downstairs, we saw plenty of gays. No doubt a lot of them were getting the thrill of making straights look at their bodies. Most were cruising nonchalantly around wearing the classic towel wrapped around their hips. A few reckless souls were lounging nude in the wicker chairs, among the palms. Or they were swimming nude in the big pool, and the straights were looking at them avidly. Back in the underground days, I had taken plenty of swims in that pool. For a moment I had an urge to defy the world and do it again, but I couldn't do it in front of Billy.
    We hadn't been there five minutes before a famous TV came rushing up to John.
    "Cheri!" he cried.
    He threw his arms around John's neck and bussed him on the cheek. He hugged him and bussed him back. He was a slender black man in his early thirties. He was wearing a black seal maxi coat with rhinestone buttons and a white satin gown. His woolly hair was cut very short, and he had on cascading rhinestone earrings and carried a little rhinestone bag.
    "Cheri, it's been ages," said the TV, squeezing John's hands.
    "In town for a little business," said John warmly. "How's Irving?"
    "Irving," said the TV pleasantly, "is merde. Is this your son? My god, cheri, how he's grown. Comme il est belle." He kissed Billy on the cheek. Billy laughed and pecked him back. "He's ravishing, John."
    "You stay away from my boy now," grinned John. "He's in training."
    The TV raised his eyebrows archly. "Yes, we know all about that. We read the papers too,