Wandering Heart: a Gay Man’S Journey: Book Three: Harbors

By John Loomis M.D.

As the only child of troubled parents, author John Loomis was isolated from his peers and grew up shy, bookish, and knowing from an early age he was different in a seemingly serious and unacceptable way. Gradually, he made peace with being gay and continued his search for love, leading to many adventures, much happiness, and some heartbreak. He shares his story in the Wandering Heart trilogy.

The first volume discussed his early years and young-adult life. In the second volume, Loomis continued his story, describing how his battle with alcoholism and recurring depression made his path more difficult, particularly after he became involved with a handsome and gifted young man who revealed he was married, a male prostitute, the son of a well-known actress, and a heroin addict. After trying to make this relationship work, Loomis admitted defeat, as the addiction was too powerful to allow space for other human beings.

In this third volume, he shares how he met another more positive partner and how they have now been happily together for more than thirty-five years. Filled with an array of photographs of people and places, Wandering Heart: A Gay Mans Journey narrates how Loomis has experienced a series of rewarding relationships and additional adventuressome fantastic and others supernatural.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532015472

John Loomis M.D.

John Loomis is a retired psychiatrist and businessman. He graduated Phi Beta Kappa with a B.A. in Philosophy from the Rice Institute in Houston and with an M.D. from the Cornell University Medical College in New York City. He lives in New York City with his partner of twenty-eight years.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A New Start

IN SEPTEMBER 1981, ABOUT two years before the breakup with Bert, but in one of our increasingly frequent disengagements, I had met a younger man, Steve, very intelligent and attractive and obviously interested in me. We met in the same gay bar where Bert and I had met, and I wondered if this was an omen of some kind. He had heard a good report about me from his roommate, whom I had met in the same bar, the Cowboy, some months before. In those days, many roads started in the Cowboy. Steve was forthright, serious about his work, independent, and a good conversationalist and had a fine curiosity and optimism about life in general. He was twenty-four, and I was forty-eight—exactly double his age. The age difference didn’t make any difference then.

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Sutton Place Park, New York City

But after a couple of meetings, which had, of course, included exciting physical pleasures, Bert reappeared in my life in his usual captivating guise, and I became enthralled again by him. Steve was somewhat disappointed to see me drifting away but stood by patiently, smiling and waving when we met occasionally by chance in the bar.

The final break with Bert, following police involvement as a result of his burglary of my Danbury house, occurred eighteen months later, in February 1983. That sordid and frightening episode is outlined at the end of volume 2 of this memoir.

By mid-1983, my life was again assuming a semblance of normality, or at least the usual routines were again being followed. I saw friends for dinner; continued to practice the piano; went almost every weekend to Roadside, my beautiful house in Danbury, Connecticut; checked on the business very carefully; talked on the phone with distant friends; and gradually became able again to concentrate on reading, financial concerns, and my usual chores. My emancipation from the fierce obsession with Bert was very slow.

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Author in Copenhagen

Steve and I got together occasionally, perhaps every week or two, for an increasingly exciting and pleasurable experience. We fell into the custom of having dinner beforehand, and so the evenings became significant events for me, much more even than the fine frolics that marked the beginning of our relationship. Not yet recovered from the traumatic experience with Bert, I was not eager to fall in love again, or even to start anything more than a very casual relationship. Months passed by pleasantly, and I began to recover from Bert and feel much better. Steve was always polite, pleasant, reliable, cordial, handsome, interesting, and stimulating to be with—in most ways, the opposite of Bert’s lying and unreliable nature (although Bert was always very handsome and often really stimulating to engage with). Very promising, I thought of Steve. He was always enthusiastic and energetic, which caused me to feel that perhaps I was a desirable partner, at least in the mind of one particular person.

Yet, I was able to rein in my enthusiasm and refrain from letting myself become deeply involved. This was a pleasant, casual relationship, I thought, but I neither craved nor dared to let myself think of anything deeper or more long-lasting.

But something very ominous had appeared on the horizon.

The AIDS epidemic was gathering speed and force and was killing many of my friends and acquaintances. The cause was still unknown, and the social opprobrium was enormous. It seemed this was an always-fatal disease, solely afflicting gay men. Was it spread by using cocaine? Or amyl nitrite? Or drinking contaminated water? Or by some other substance? Was it contracted from toilet seats? Or by using common eating utensils or drinking glasses? Or by kissing? Or touching an AIDS patient? Was it safe to eat from the same dishes used by an AIDS patient, even if the dishes had been thoroughly washed, or even sterilized?

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Author’s study, New York City

Nothing was known, much was suspected, many theories circulated, and an increasing number of gay men were coming down with the disease, which could be fatal in as few as six weeks from first symptoms. A diagnosis of AIDS was effectively a death sentence. The medical establishment, the government health bureaucracy, and the general public were beginning to be aware that a new and mysterious killer disease was spreading through the gay community. There was very little official interest in the matter, as gay men were expendable; perhaps it was even a bonus that their numbers were being reduced, some secretly thought. The New York Times refused to use the name of the disease.

I had two close friends in Connecticut, Alden and his partner, Rolf. One day Rolf showed me an extensive and terrible-looking rash—inflamed, irritated, oozing, and weeping—on his right arm, which he said was poison ivy. I believed him. The condition was so painful that he soon had to consult a physician, who diagnosed shingles, but his case affected five dermatomes (nerve distributions), an almost unheard of extreme case. Rolf was very sick.

Rolf lived with his partner, Alden, at their house at Brookside Farm in Danbury. Alden was Rolf’s primary nurse for the first several weeks. Rolf’s young friend Joe also helped to take care of him. Joe lived at my house, Roadside, as caretaker, also feeding and looking after my two little wirehaired dachshunds, Delilah and Rover. Rolf and Joe were often together, had often gone to the gay baths together, and had close physical relationships. They were both quite promiscuous—frequenting bars, back rooms, baths, public toilets, and highway rest stops and picking up sex partners where they could find them. They were together enough to be regarded by those of us who knew them as quasi lovers. Alden didn’t seem to care, as he was preoccupied with his new boyfriend, but in addition, he occasionally also had relations with Joe.

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Steve on the terrace, Fort Lauderdale

Rolf and Joe particularly liked to go to a gay bathhouse in my neighborhood in New York City. I passed by the place frequently but had never ventured inside. It had a reputation as a somewhat sleazy establishment, with lots of booze, dirt, and rowdy patrons.

After Rolf’s severe rash had first appeared, he languished at home for several weeks but didn’t improve. In fact, his breathing began to become difficult and labored. He was moved to the Danbury hospital, where it was found that he had an unusual form of AIDS: leukemia with all types of white cells overgrown and proliferating wildly. These cells had filled up his lungs and made breathing almost impossible. His doctor inserted a breathing tube and put him on oxygen, but even so, it was still too tiring for him to use his clogged and stiffened lungs effectively, so he was put on a respirator. This was so uncomfortable that he was connected to a morphine drip, which was designed to make him more comfortable, although it also made him unconscious.

A week passed with no change in his condition. Because his breathing was done by a machine, no one really knew whether he was fully alive or was only being carried by the machines. An attempt was made to lower the morphine dose to see if he might regain consciousness, but he began to moan loudly and thrash about, appearing to be in tremendous discomfort. The morphine was increased again, and he again became still and remained unconscious and unresponsive.

Rolf’s sister, who had been following all these procedures very carefully, finally took action after two more weeks. She was Rolf’s closest living relative and so had the legal right to speak for him in making medical decisions. She said to the doctors, If you don’t disconnect all the tubes and machines so we can see if my brother is still living, I will bring an immediate lawsuit against you and this hospital.

This energized the doctors, who reluctantly and slowly detached all the tubes and machines from Rolf’s body. His heart was still beating, but he was not breathing on his own and had no electrical brain activity. His heart stopped three minutes later, and Rolf was dead. His ordeal was over.

Rolf had a beautiful funeral service conducted by Alden, who by that time had been ordained as an Episcopalian minister. A large reception was held immediately afterward at the home of Rolf’s friend, Freddie Haight, in Litchfield. Freddie’s mother was the first cousin of Queen Mother Elizabeth of England, and the reception was attended by many elegantly dressed people. Rolf would have loved the party, as this was the group to whom he had gravitated. Perhaps he was looking on from the next world.

Two years previously, his mother had died, and he had inherited a beautiful emerald ring from her, as well as a large and valuable set of sterling flatware. While Rolf was very sick, Alden had taken these items from Rolf’s possession and hidden them at my house. He asked me innocently, May I keep a few little things with you, since you have a burglar alarm?

Sure, I said. Put them away somewhere safe, but where you can find them. I didn’t ask what the items were or why Alden wanted to hide them. His motive became clear later on. He hid the ring and the silverware in my house.

A few weeks after Rolf’s death, Rolf’s sister asked Alden if he had any idea where the emerald ring was—it was a family heirloom and had great sentimental value.

Oh, no, Alden said. I haven’t seen it. He went through the same routine with the sterling tableware set.

I was disgusted by his lying and avarice, but he was an old friend. As a priest, I suppose he was able to forgive his own sins, if he recognized that he had any. Some years later, I asked him if he had ever returned the emerald ring and the sterling to their rightful owner—Rolf’s sister.

Of course not, he snapped, not wanting to be bothered with such a trivial question.

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Steve in Germany

Joe had continued visiting Rolf in the hospital all through Rolf’s final illness. Joe himself had developed some dark skin lesions, and when they were biopsied, the report came back that they were Kaposi sarcoma. Joe knew this meant he also had AIDS. He tried to tell Rolf about this, but he received this knowledge only on Rolf’s last day of life. Rolf was unconscious and so never knew that his friend Joe was just behind him in line to leave this world.

I invited Joe to continue to live at Roadside as house watcher and dog caretaker, at his usual salary, for the remaining months of his life. He enjoyed watching his goldfish swim lazily around their bowl, and my two dogs would sit in his room, also watching the goldfish. Joe would sometimes tell me stories of what the fish had said to the dogs and what the dogs had replied. It was quite an inventive and elaborate fantasy—we all enjoyed his dog-fish stories. He and the dogs had always been friendly, and now they were keeping him company as he died.

He was sick for several months, but eventually he had to go to a local hospital and then on to a hospice when he needed more intensive care. He died quietly there. His family was devastated, and all who knew him mourned. He was a sweet, kind boy.

Interestingly, my dogs saw his spirit for several months. They would suddenly rush into the entrance hall where he used to come in while he was still alive, would stand looking up into the air and whining while wagging their tails, and could not be called away from the spot for a while. I feel sure Joe had come for a short visit and that the dogs were happy to see him again.

And so the two friends, Joe and Rolf, died close together.

But previously, Alden had been having sex on a more or less regular basis with Joe, who had already been infected with the HIV virus but showed no symptoms at the time. The sex was in a safe form, so that Alden was not apt to contract the infection. Alden’s friends were suspicious and anxious about the possibility that Alden was having sex with Joe. When they asked Alden from time to time whether he was having relations with Joe, Alden always answered, Oh, no. Certainly not. Lying to his friends about such a life-and-death matter as being exposed to AIDS and possibly passing it on apparently did not bother him.

One of our friends described Alden precisely by saying he was an extreme opportunist. This, combined with his severe avarice, made for a serious character defect in the reverend father. Saintly looking he was too, in his beautiful ecclesiastical lace garments and his large silver cross and chain.

* * * * *

I had been drinking far too much, having more severe hangovers, and was getting frightened by my increasing inability to control my alcohol intake. I felt better after a month’s sober trip to Africa with my medical school classmates, but upon returning home, the drinking rapidly progressed again. I talked with Alden about it. He had at that time been in Alcoholics Anonymous for about three years and said he felt much better.

He made the only comment that would have had any effect on me: If you don’t want to drink, go to AA. It will make it easier.

It was the easier which sold me on giving AA a chance. The following week, Alden drove into New York and took me to my first AA meeting. He could be genuinely helpful.

The speaker at that meeting was a woman who had a manic-depressive disorder, which she said was kept in check by regular doses of lithium, as prescribed by her physician. One of the other members spoke up, angrily accusing her of using mood-changing chemicals and told her she was dishonest and had no right to speak to the group. I was shocked at this piece of hostile misinformation used as an attack but just stayed quiet. The member needed to think about her own hostile and ignorant bigotry. But, after all, it was my first meeting, and I didn’t know the routine regarding speaking up. As time went by, I began to attend more meetings, and on a regular basis