military service

I thought Don’t Ask Don’t Tell was dead when I saw a rainbow flag flying over the National Guard Armory on 16th Street, a brick fortress big enough for tank maneuvers. Then I remembered the building had been sold to a company making adult films. I guess the flag meant that they’d moved beyond porno movies of drunken heiresses raped by their big dicked chauffeurs to men sliding their dicks into other men’s greasy holes.  How appropriate that pornography, a big business, is moving out of the San Fernando Valley to a San Francisco neighborhood where more and more gay men and lesbians are living.  If I hear about a call for extras I’ll post it here.

Gay men and lesbians should be able to serve in the military.  I have no uniform fetish, nor did I want my balls shot off in some rice paddy when I was draft age.  Before I turned 28 I could tell the Draft Board I’m queer that I wasn’t ready to admit to myself or be sent to Viet Nam, so I signed up for the Peace Corps.  My tour of duty was building houses and handing out surplus American food in Santiago, Chile.  I made friends with socialists, saw American movies six months late and learned how to make ceviche and empanadas.  The draft system was so fucked I was already 28 by the time my appeal was granted.  The irony is that I got pardoned by Richard Nixon, not something you want on your resume.  I didn’t go back to Wisconsin when I left Chile and ended up moving to San Francisco, so in a weird way that crook sent me home. Now the historic Moorish Revival Armory building made of gorgeous clinker bricks is safely in good hands and Don’t Ask Don’t Tell may soon be history. Sometimes progress takes a long time.


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