Donnie Ward 1270

In 1971 I drove taxi to pay for my college education. The Boston Cab Company had its garage on 72 Kilmarnock St. The split was 50/50 for booking over $100 in a night. Tips added another $10 to the equation. Average income for a family of four was $10,000. I wasn't rich, but I had buying power and one summer night I picked up a drunk man at Fenway Park. "$10 if you drive me to the 1270." "That's a gay bar." I was a radical. We didn't call anyone 'fags' or 'queers'. "And?" He introduced himself as Bruce. His mustache was thicker than the shaved tail of a Lipizzaner stallion. "And nothing." I had seen his type around Boston. 1971 was the height of the Sexual Revolution. All that mattered was getting off. "Nothing. I know your type. You think you're straight, but you look at the girls in this town and think that there's nothing you want to fuck." "Wrong." I was a stud. "Then you have no problem coming into the bar. I'll get you a girl as long as you don't say you're straight. The fag hags love men on the razor's edge. Drinks are on me. The Red Sox won in the 9th." I parked the taxi in front of the bar. Bruce and I entered without paying the $2 cover. Beers were a dollar. The DJ was playing Sly's SEX MACHINE. A black boy came up to me. "I've never seen you before." He was the handsomest man in the world. "I'm new." "You ever dance with a man?" "No." "I won't bite." And he never did. Donnie Ward was a good friend and so was Bruce. They respected straights who respected gays. "