The Beautiful Man on Charles Street

(Reposted from Gay New York in the 70s and 80s FB group)

(from the Instagram page, @larry_stanton_art)

So in 1975, I was an extremely sexually precocious 16-year old living in Mount Vernon, New York, just north of the city. A straight-A student with close friends in the Drama Club, I managed to convince my parents that I had fallen in with a group of Julliard students in New York, one of whom was a rich kid with an apartment in the city, and when I wanted to slip into Manhattan on a Saturday night, I told my mother that’s where I’d be. I don’t know what amazes me more looking back, that I could lie with such unblinking facility, or that my parents could be satisfied with the wispiest of details. “Just put the number where you’ll be on the refrigerator,” instructed my mother, and with the utter ballsiness of a very horny young man intent seeing the inside of a gay bar that night come hell or high water, I would make up a 212 number spun from whole cloth. My parents were not uninvolved or distant; they just couldn’t conceive of me spinning such a grand lie, any more than they could conceive of me being gay. (Or rather, they could conceive of it all too well, and their willful blindness was in direct proportion to their desire that what they inwardly knew to be true was not.)

Somehow I remember that it was April, so 50 years ago almost exactly. As usual, I walked the two miles from my leafy suburban house to the 241st street end-of-the line-stop at the most northern tip precinct of the Bronx. Then, for 50 cents, I could take the #2 train all the way down from to 14th street, and from there walk to my very favorite bar in the world, the Ninth Circle, which I'd discovered barely two months prior. I could buy 4 beers for 75 cents each, (leaving a quarter tip) and still spend exactly $5 for the entire night. (This is what I’d make in a night of babysitting at the Willingers next door.)

I’m astounded that I had no back up plan in case I didn’t actually get invited back to someone’s place, but I never had any trouble getting picked up, and zero fear about meeting a Mr. Goodbar type. I took one precaution, though. I would make sure we kissed passionately at least once before leaving the bar, because I figured instinctively that a serial killer would recoil from any display of affection. (Plus, they would want to kill you in your place, not theirs, right?)

Three beers in, I was getting a little nervous at the late hour, only having had a conversation or two with guys that just weren’t the right fit. Then I noticed a wickedly sultry blond I had seen on my last visit, and had filed under “out of my league.” I was cute enough, but he was just one of those 26-year-olds who could effortlessly throw on a t-shirt and some rumply jeans and jump right to the front of the sexy-as-fuck line.

Somehow, this night, I caught his eye and he came up to me. I’m sure he told me he was a painter, I’m sure I told him I was in high school, but he was fairly buzzed and in the mood to get out of there, not ask me what my major was.

He took me back to his place on Charles Street, which was always one of my favorite blocks in the West Village. Whether the sex was good on its own or good because I was so damned excited at landing my first “10”, I can’t tell you, but he fell asleep almost instantly after coming. Although he hadn’t actually invited me to stay over, I was not about to take the train home, through the Bronx, at 4 in the morning. But it was a single bed, and rather uncomfortable, and I didn’t drift off for hours.

In the morning, he made a phone call, evidently agreeing to meet some friends for brunch. I was too new to trick etiquette to take the hint, and sort of hung out there until I could leave with him. Right in front of his building were three friends of his, waiting. Larry pointed with his thumb over his shoulder and said “We’re headed this way,” but distinctly did not add, “Why don’t you join us?” So I simply responded instead, “I’m going this way. Thanks for last night.” He winked and joined his friends, who made it less than a few brownstones down before one of them stage-whispered, “Jailbait much, Larry?” causing them all to burst into laughter.

This makes me cringe, 50 years later, not at the wiseguy but at myself, for standing there like a dolt as they walked away, for even being in earshot when he made that crack. I didn’t understand yet how sacred it was for four close friends to go to brunch and speak frankly about the tricks they’d all had the night before, their fraternal rapport being so much more important than politely inviting the clueless new kid on the block to breakfast, the one who probably only had $1.75 in his pocket, anyway, and couldn't even cover the cost of his meal.

So I turned and found my way to the Christopher Street station, buying a New York Times for a quarter to keep me company on the 90-minute ride back home. By the time Larry Stanton’s name had appeared in its obituaries, ten years later, I think I had picked up that he was an up-and-coming painter, but really had no idea the depth of his talent until someone from this site asked if I knew someone else who used to live on Charles Street. I didn’t know the name he shared, but Larry Stanton on Charles Street immediately came to mind. I thought I’d see how much I could find about him on line. A fair amount it turned out. I had no idea of how good he was, of what a loss his death had been to art.

Somehow, I felt the need to share here the story of our brief encounter, perhaps to somehow expiate my guilt at having momentarily resented his inability to see me as the adult I utterly wasn’t. In some minuscule corner of my memory, I’d actually held on to that.

I hereby officially let it go.

Take a moment to appreciate the impressive talent of this beautiful man from Charles Street.

MCO 2025