Roots

It's not easy making money for charity. Nobody wants to fork over their cash for nothing: they want a plaque, a goody bag, an evening's entertainment in return.

So, charities have been forced to get creative. They write names on rubber ducks and release them in a river, and first across the finish line wins a prize. They have Vegas nights, with the usual gaming tables, and whoever wins the most fake money wins a genuine gift. They have bachelor/ette auctions, where attractive people strut around onstage to prompt bids from singles who wouldn't mind spending a few hours with them.

Several years ago, some gay men in Los Angeles decided to hold a leather-themed bachelor auction to benefit charity. They rented a bathhouse, lined up attractive volunteers, and publicized the event as a "slave auction." It proved a rousing success. The place was jammed wall to wall, donations piled up by the bucketful, and a great time was had by all.

Until the police arrived.

I was a volunteer on the Gay Community Services Center's suicide prevention line, and I was working that night. At around three a.m. I got a phone call. I couldn't believe the man was serious. The auction had been raided, he said. Over a hundred police officers had burst in, with Police Chief Ed Davis in the lead. They'd brought battering rams, helicopters, and dogs. Dozens of men were arrested.

And charged with slavery.

Slavery. You know. Owning somebody against their will. Forcing them to work for you. Beating them when they don't. Selling them when their work is done. Doesn't exactly match up with scantily-dressed volunteers dancing lasciviously and begging people to buy them, but maybe these cops had never seen Roots.

"Lawrence" was absolutely frantic, pleading for my help. It was a madhouse, he said, and the police were beating up the arrestees. They needed lawyers. They needed doctors. And they needed a certain priest.

Father Richard lived near the Center, Lawrence said, and he asked me to fetch him and send him to the police station. I closed up shop and went. I walked as fast as I could up Highland Avenue, went left on Hollywood Boulevard, and found his apartment building in the shadow of Mann's Chinese. He opened the door tentatively, unsure who'd want him at three-thirty in the morning. I told him what happened and he said he'd go.

I went back to the Center and sat by the phone until my shift ended, around six a.m. I had plenty of time to wonder about what had happened, since I didn't get another call. Was it really just a simple auction? Why would somebody hold a "charity" event at a bathhouse? Why were a hundred policemen needed to arrest two hundred men? Being young and reasonably sheltered, I couldn't get the pieces to fit.

A few days later, Lawrence dropped by the Center while I was there. He was a nice-looking, middle-aged man. He thanked me for my help on Raid Night, and told me again how crazy it was. He said the raid had cost the city hundreds of thousands of dollars, but now every charge against every man had been dropped.

Before he left, he asked me if I wanted to go out with him. Evidently he was innocent, but there was still no way that I could. I mean, imagine being in a relationship with him. Getting that phone call in the middle of the night. Hearing he's been arrested for slavery.

Heck, I've dumped old boyfriends because they bought shirts without consulting me.

Gay History Minute

Gays are shortchanged in terms of history. Blacks have a whole History Month in February, and a lot to celebrate: the underground railroad, Sojourner Truth, the end of slavery, Martin Luther King. Jewish history goes back thousands of years, with some of its top stories even making the Bible.

And then there's the gays. We've got Stonewall. And . . . and . . .

Well. That was quick!

See, here's the problem. Progress with most minority groups involves speeches, or protests, or sit-ins. But some of the biggest strides made in gay equality were made by dudes who just wanted to get laid. These aren't exactly inspiring, heartfelt stories you can teach second-graders: "It was a man named Barney Fluehardy who filed the protest with the ACLU, because he thought, dagnabit, red-blooded Americans have an inalienable right to hide in bushes and service hunky truckers."

Two names that should be boldfaced in our history books are John Lawrence and Tyron Garner. They're the couple who overturned the Texas sodomy laws. Since the details didn't make the history books, it's impossible to confirm the real story, but here's the oral history being passed around. (All dialog is fabricated.)

John Lawrence and Tyron Garner meet in a gay bar in Austin, Texas, and pretty soon they become serious. They are both intelligent, attractive, and politically active, and they hate how gays are second-class citizens in Texas. They live under constant threat of the oppressive sex laws: the police can burst into their homes at any time, hauling off even two consenting adults for "crimes against nature."

One night the pair are celebrating their first anniversary at a fancy restaurant when Mr. Lawrence touches on the subject. "I hate how the law forces us to live in fear," he complains. "But I'm not afraid! I want to tell the whole world that we're in love, and if they don't like it they can go to hell! I want to challenge the sodomy laws, and tell America in no uncertain terms that we have an inalienable right to express our love."

"I applaud your bravery, darling," Mr. Garner replies, savoring the grassiness of his Chardonnay. "But that's impossible! I mean, how could we get the police to arrest us while we're making love?"

Mr. Lawrence chuckles. "Yes, I guess you're right," he replies. The question circles his mind until the waiter brings their crème brûlées, and finally a bolt of inspiration hits. "I've got it!" he barks. "When we're in bed, we'll call the police and say there's a disturbance. They'll have to come out! We'll say there's a burglar skulking around outside."

Mr. Garner's face lights up. "And we'll leave the door open! They'll have no choice but to come in and investigate, and they'll find me with my dick up your bum. Then we'll get to the Supreme Court, and we'll get to fight for our love!"

Mr. Lawrence gasps in amazement. "That's why I love you, my darling," he declares. They ping their wineglasses together as a question darkens Mr. Lawrence's glow. "Wait. Your dick up my bum?"

The pair enlist a sympathetic neighbor to call the police, since being old-school gays Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Garner aren't used to phoning people while they're having sex. And the plan works like a charm. Two officers enter the house with guns drawn, and in the bedroom they find Mr. Garner's penis inside a rather testy Mr. Lawrence. The pair are arrested entr'acte and dragged to jail, where presumably they're put in separate cells. They doggedly fight their case for five years, all the way to the Supreme Court, and in 2003 the sodomy law is overturned.

You'll never see this episode reenacted on Law and Order. This is a story you'll never see on some network's Gay History Minute. This will never be made into a movie starring Will Smith and Tom Hanks.

No, it's folks like Rosa Parks who get all the press. Who get sculptures in public parks, and their faces on stamps. Maybe I'm biased, but I think Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Garner are even braver than she was.

Because when Ms. Parks decided it was time to change history, she just had to sit on a chair.