She looks at the copyright date, amazed it was published near the end of the last century. Some of the words are archaic but this does not discourage her from reading it. Once she gets started, she becomes engrossed in the story, oblivious to the passing of time.

Chapter Two

I bet you do, Bud Lite says, teasingly.

Chapter Three

Still feeling somewhat stressed, he lowers himself into the jacuzzi for twenty minutes before drying off again, and getting dressed, putting on a clean, soft, one-piece, denim, casual suit and a comfortable pair of slackers.

Chapter Four

I love you too, Bud, Colt replies without hesitation, holding him tightly in his arms. I always will, no matter what.

Castro St.
Memories

Private Nation
Reunion
Second Crossing
Ed Dean is Queer

PLACE AN ORDER








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The phone was ringing when I unlocked the door of my apartment. It was Jeff calling to tell me some friends of his had arrived unexpectedly from Ohio, asking if Michael and I would postpone our trip to the Island until another time. Even though he wanted to see us, there was absolutely no room in the house where he was staying.

Of course, I said yes, despite my disappointment at not being able to spend a weekend away from the noise and unbearable summer heat of the city. So instead of the Pines, Michael and I went to Riis Park on Saturday.

We took the IRT subway to the end of the line at Flatbush and Nostrand, then hitched to the beach. By noon we had staked our claim to a small patch of sand on the already crowded gay section and after settling in, looked around to see who else was there.

I don't remember now who we saw there that particular day, since we always ran into people we knew, often noticed men we dreamed of meeting and invariably witnessed at least one entertaining spectacle which highlighted the continuous drama being played out around us. And during the three years Michael and I were lovers, we may even have provided a few public scenes ourselves.

We lay in the sun for a while, went into the water to cool off, swam out to the wooden float and back, later watched ships passing in the distance and walked along the wet sand. By mid afternoon, people were folding towels and blankets, rolling up mats, packing their belongings for the trip home. As the crowd began to diminish, the beach became quieter, more peaceful.

copyright ©1988 by N. A. Diaman

What bothers me, Jon says, is that you didn't tell me about Forrest before.

It was a painful period of my life I had almost forgotten.

Andrew, I love you very much. We've been together for almost two years now. I don't want this man to come between us.

He won't, Jon. What happened between Forrest and me is over. It was over ten years ago.

Then why is he coming here now? Why did he send you this letter?

I don't know.

And why did you invite him to say here?

Because I was curious about him, I guess, after all this time.

I put my arms around Jon and pull him toward me. We kiss and make love. But I sense something in Jon's expression, something in his movements, which suggests he is not satisfied with my explanation, that he is still bothered about my relationship with Forrest.

Jon and I lie in bed listening to music. I kiss Jon on the side of the neck. He turns his head and looks at me with a hurt expression.

What's wrong? I ask.

Jon looks away.

Nothing, he replies.

Why did you look at me like that?

I was just thinking, that's all.

About what?

What you said when Michael moved out, about not wanting to live together because you wanted time to be alone.

It's true.

But you invited Forrest here.

It's only temporary. Just until he gets settled in the city.

How long will that take?

I don't know. Two or three weeks.

But you don't want me to live here.

Look Jon, we talked about this before. I thought it was all settled.

So did I. But I didn't know about him.

Please, Jon. Try to understand. He means nothing to me. I don't know. Maybe it was a mistake inviting him to stay here. But I've done it and it's too late to change that now. He'll be here in a few days.

copyright ©1988 by N. A. Diaman

Long stretches of darkness interrupted by the white glow of approaching headlights becoming brighter before disappearing with a sudden flash into darkness again. Clusters of red, white, yellow, green, blue neon sighs advertising motels, restaurants and bars at the outskirts of silent farm towns. Periodic stops in drab, gloomy bus depots where people are perpetually waiting.

I am awake most of the night, restless sitting for such a long time, as the bus moves northward through the Great Central Valley, aware that this journey between two cities is also a transition between two periods of my life. Los Angeles, where I spent the last four years in college as a humanities major, is finished and behind me. San Francisco, where I will soon be arriving without a job or a place to live, lies ahead of me as a yet undefined, hopefully promising adventure.

copyright ©1988 by N. A. Diaman

Benita Ryan knew something was terribly wrong when she turned into Orange Blossom Court and saw the house ablaze with light. The gate was already open and three police cars were parked in her driveway. She got out of her car, hurried across the front lawn and rushed up the front steps toward the man in blue uniform standing by one of the pink columns which flanked the entrance of her home.

What happened?

Now don't you worry, Miss Ryan. It's nothing serious.

What do you mean, nothing serious?

Looks like someone broke into the house while you were away.

Broke into my house?

Well, I don't think they had enough time to take anything of value. Probably some kids by the looks of it. Out for kicks. The usual vandalism.

How long ago did it happen?

I'd say about an hour ago. We got here right after the alarm went off. Whoever it was was gone before we got here. Must have had ten minutes or fifteen at the most.

Have you looked for them?

We've searched the whole house and the grounds. Now if you have any more trouble tonight, just call this number and we'll send someone out right away.

She walked through each room to reassure herself that they had really gone and to take inventory of the damage. On the first floor everything seemed to be in its place except for the broken window through which they had entered the house. On her way up to the second floor she bent down to puck up a child's crayon on the stairs.

All her cosmetics and toiletries had been dumped into the bathtub in her dressing room. The dresses had been pulled from their hangers in her closet and lay in a heap on the floor. And the rest of her clothes had been pulled out from all her drawers. She wanted to scream then and there but restrained herself.

Her husband's study was a shambles. The desk and files ransacked. Papers and books scattered everywhere. And on the wall in bright red crayon someone had written, ED DEAN IS QUEER.

copyright ©1988 by N. A. Diaman

He is a native and long-time resident of San Francisco.

I've primarily utilized the historical periods I am familiar with. The late fifties, the seventies, and the eighties. PRIVATE NATION, however, is set in the 21st century, so it presents my own imaginative projection of what San Francisco might be like a hundred years from now.

Readers of your first book ED DEAN IS QUEER will recognize some of the elements of a future San Francisco from its final chapters. Would you classify PRIVATE NATION as science-fiction?

Well, there are no space ships or time machines. I prefer to call it future-fantasy. But it's really a hybrid of genres. It resembles a road movie in part. Combines sex and spirituality. Adventure and romance.

What inspired you?

Surprisingly it was the Republican agenda. I was so angry at the callousness and inhumane plans proposed by Gingrich and his allies. I thought about writing a dark satirical piece, but was not able to stomach such a project. Instead I embarked on an erotic journey, which shows both the dangers of a totally privatized economy and the persistent hope for a better world.

It reminded me somewhat of the SATYRICON.

I've never read Petronius, but I did see the Fellini film. I suppose there are some parallels. Both works involve a pair of young lovers, and both deal with a political situation. Questioning the values of the society. PRIVATE NATION was not written as an imitation or updating of SATYRICON.

There are also parts of your book that seem to be set in the Dark Ages.

I think when any civilization is destroyed, it tends to revert to a more primitive time. The Medieval era is a prime example. Many of the amenities of the Roman and Greek cultures which preceded it were forgotten. It's quite possible that a technologically advanced society existed before but was entirely destroyed and forgotten. It can happen again.

There is a lot of sex in PRIVATE NATION.

Yes. Probably more than my other five books combined. The two main characters are eighteen when they first meet. Sex is a prime focus of eighteen year old guys. It's a beautiful thing. I believe in celebrating our sexuality, developing our intellectual potential and our spiritual dimension as well.

How do you go about writing a book?

I usually begin with a concept or situation, and the characters take over the direction of the work. Perhaps all writing is channeling at some deeper level of being. Trusting in a voice which demands to be heard.

You have a rather unique way of writing.

My style is deceptively simple, the writing almost conversational, but it is not just raw material, or diary entries. It involves a deliberate crafting which takes into account the order of words in a sentence, the tense of the verbs, and the rhythm of daily speech.

How did you come to pursue writing rather than some other form of artistic expression?

I suppose one of the reasons I chose writing as a creative discipline was because of my difficulty speaking. My frustration as a stutterer. This is still a problem from time to time. Hemingway and Updike stuttered too, I discovered.

Where do you get the material for your books? From your own experience?

Of the six novels I've published, only one is autobiographical.

Which one is that? CASTRO STREET MEMORIES?

No. SECOND CROSSING is based on my coming-out experience, but even that book is not entirely factual. I didn't want to reexperience all the pain of that period in my life while I was working on the book, so I smoothed out some of the emotionally rough parts.

So are each of your novels a mixture of fact and fiction?

More or less. Facts themselves are not sufficient to produce a work of art. Writing involves a lot of shaping. Characters are usually composites of various individuals. Situations are also a blend of various strands both real and fabricated. The imagination plays a big part in the telling of truth, which is a more important goal.

What is your mission as a writer?

To tell an interesting story in a very visual way. To ask questions rather than provide answers, and to provoke readers to evaluate their lives, society, the assumptions of the status quo.

How does being gay effect your writing?

Profoundly. I cannot deny what is such a basic part of my being living in a society which is not always willing to accept that. In all my books I affirm the naturalness and beauty of our sexuality as part of the rich human diversity encompassing all genders, races, ages, as well as other creatures and the earth itself.

Are you hopeful about the future?

I'm an optimist. Hopeful despite the difficulties we face as gay people, as a society, as a planet of interconnected creatures. I believe our ultimate survival depends on our capacity to love.

Are you currently working on another book?

Not at the moment. The next book to be published is already finished. It takes place in Mexico during the seventies. A novel based on a three-month journey I took in 1975.
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