When I was 19 years old, I visited New York for ten days on the way to London. I was flying from New Zealand, that small island nation in the South Pacific where all sexual acts between men were still illegal. My body was naive and innocent, but my mind had somehow (partly through conversations with older, less naive students at Auckland University) absorbed essential knowledge about gay life happening elsewhere.
Gay life happened in London, in Paris, in San Francisco. But more than anywhere else, it happened in New York. I was terrified. What would happen to me, in those sinful cities of the plain? With any luck I would be corrupted, and thoroughly de-moralised.
It was November 1982, and Manhattan was freezing, especially after sub-tropical Auckland. On my first day, I walked ten or so blocks south from my hostel in Chelsea to Greenwich Village. My knees trembled, but still they carried me towards my goal. The theme tune from Sesame Street went through my mind: “Come and play, everything’s A-OK, friendly neighbours there, that’s where we meet, can you tell me how to get, how to get to Christopher Street?”
