I had a rich friend named Mickey whose Mom lived in New York.
He’d go visit her every other month and come back to Charleston
with a copy of the Village Voice.
It suddenly hit me: if straight can bash queers, queers can bash straights.
I was still pissed about that guy trying to shoot me at Battery Park.
I told Mickey what I was thinking and he said. “Let’s do it!”
We each strapped wide spiked belts around our waists.
Then we drove out to a tore up old convent and loaded the trunk of Mickey’s Impala with bricks.
That night we did a slow cruise around the Battery.
We watched a couple of known fag bashers enter the park.
Mickey swished by himself into the darkest part of Battery Park and when they followed him I snuck up and BAM! They got it with bricks!
We did that every day for a week and that Summer the Battery was safe for faggots!
There was only one gay bar in Charleston.
It was lost in a back ally behind the Old Slave Market.
At the Stardust gay folks got married.
An alcoholic ex-priest named Mother Rachel presided.
One guy wore a gown and the other wore a tux.
At the Stardust the Queen of Hearts Drag Pageant was a major event.
Drag Queens shopped for weeks and scandalized every dress shop on King Street.
On the big night the butch dykes wore three-piece suits and their wives wore gowns.
Mother Superior was always the emcee and he’d open every show with a report on where the vice cops were lurking that night:
“The Greyhound bus station is just hoppin’ with Vice! So ya’all be careful–OK?”
There was this one drag queen that always lip synced “My Life.”
At the end of the song he would defiantly sing in his real voice: “This is myiiiiiiiiii life!
Then he’d rip off his wig and fling it into the audience.
At the end Mother Rachel had everyone in the bar joined hands and sang, “There’s a Place for us.”
RG (c) 1985-2017