This summarizes a journal entry from a terrible night in 1985. It came from the recovered writing I found on the battered old CD backup.
In 1985, in my 20s, I struggled in rural Montana thinking I was the only queer hippie/biker in the world. I was excited for the first ever gay/lesbian dance in Missoula. I was going to meet other gay men for the first time in my life.
On arriving, I didn't even remotely fit in. There was always a wide clear space around me as I stood alone next to a wall.
After a couple hours, a neatly dressed gentleman in his forties approached me. He introduced himself and proceeded to tell me everything I did wrong. He said I would never be welcomed among gay men until I cut my hair, shaved off the beard, covered the tattoos, abandoned the Harley T-shirts and leather pants. He was brutal in his criticism of my appearance.
I fled on my motorcycle, now knowing for sure I really was the only queer hippie/biker in the world.
It took me years to recover from that night.