“Welcome to Port Authority, New York City. Please watch your belongings as you exit the bus,” the bus driver’s cheery voice announced.

I stepped through the glass doorway of the bus terminal into the sidewalks of Times Square just two weeks after my 19th birthday. It was 12:30 on a Saturday night in late September 1975. It was warm but not stifling hot like it had been in Florida. I didn’t have much of a warning for the bombardment of people, flashing lights, and signs that hit me everywhere I turned. It looked like something right out of a TV show. I was tired from the bus ride but felt a rush of energy as life gushed all around me. Across from the Port Authority on Eighth Avenue below 42nd Street was a chorus line of girls, wearing the shortest skirts and the highest heels I had ever seen, grabbing at men as they walked by. A half a block down I saw a hotel sign hanging on a hinge over the doorway. I slung my backpack on and walked across the street to the hotel. Just as I reached for the doorknob, a girl, not much older than me, with a feather boa draped around her neck, grabbed my upper arm.

“Hey, Cutie, you goin’ in there?” She surprised me. “Yeah,” I said.

“You need a date?”

“No thanks. I need a room.”

She looked puzzled. “You mean you’re going in there and you don’t need a date?”

I was getting irritated. “This is a hotel, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sure it’s a hotel. But…” She paused. “But most people don’t go in there without a date.” She looked me up and down. My backpack was getting heavy. “You just get here or something?” She nodded her head to the bus station and asked, “From where?”

“Miami.”

“You ever been to New York before?” I shook my head no.

“You know anybody here?” I shook my head no.

She smiled at me, not her working-girl smile, but more like the way my sister Lucy smiled at me just before she left me out on the highway in Florida. She pulled me close to her and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Listen, you take care, sweetheart.” She grabbed another man as he passed us by. “Hey, wanna date?” She disappeared into the river of people on the sidewalk.

It was dark inside the door of the hotel. A steep flight of stairs led up to a bulletproof window. The wooden steps creaked and moaned as I climbed to the top. The rail wobbled in my hand. A big guy with a big stomach and faded tattoos on his forearms came up to the window and looked down at me. He seemed surprised when I told him I wanted a room for the night.

I said for the second time in the last five minutes, “This is a hotel, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, wait, hold on a minute.” He left his booth. I could hear him talking to someone. When he came back to the window he said, “20 dollars.” I thought that was kind of expensive since the night before I’d paid $17.99 at a Motel 6 just outside of DC, and it was in much better shape than this place. I pulled out my Traveler’s Checks and started to sign my name.

“You have to watch me do this.”

“Do what?”

“You have to watch me sign this check or else it’s no good.”

“Oh shit. We don’t take Traveler’s Checks.”

“Why not?” I asked. “It’s good. You can cash them anywhere. I thought everyone took Traveler’s Checks.”

“Let me see some ID.” I pulled my driver’s license out of my wallet and stuck it under the slot beneath the bulletproof glass. He looked at me and then the picture of me on my license. Then he examined my signature on the check. He had a washed-out tattoo of a heart with a knife going through it on his forearm. Blood dripped off the tip of the knife. He slid my license back to me underneath the thick glass window.

“You from Kansas City, kid? I was there once. On my way to LA. Stopped and got gas. Had some of the best damn barbecue I ever ate there.”

He stuck a clean white towel and a key with a room number scratched into it under the thick glass window, and then buzzed me in through a big beat-up metal door.

“Up one flight and down to the left.” He nodded with his head towards the staircase.

My room was big enough for a bed and an old, rusted, white porcelain sink. The window had bars over it and faced a brick wall about two feet away. I tried to open it but couldn’t because it was sealed shut with nails and layers of paint. My fingers turned black from the dust and soot on the windowsill. As I rinsed them off in the sink a roach shot out from underneath and ran up the wall. I pulled my transistor radio out of my pack and propped it up on the edge of the sink. I found a Top 40 station and stretched out on the bed. The sheets smelled like fresh laundry. Downy fresh. The mattress was lumpy. Every time I moved, the bedsprings groaned and pressed into me. An R&B song came on the radio that I knew from the Miami station. Guys singing you sweet sticky thing in high falsetto voices. I liked that song.

I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. It was still warm out, the middle of the night, and the streets were full of people. The sky was black but it felt like daylight because of all the storefronts, streetlights, and movie marquees. 42nd Street was lined with porno shops that had pictures of nude people having sex in their front windows. Kids about my age tried to sell me drugs, but I didn’t want any. I walked down 42nd Street from Eighth Avenue to Broadway and looked at Times Square. One thing I liked about New York was that it didn’t look like other American cities. My first disappointment from hitchhiking and traveling around the country was that almost every city looked exactly the same, only the landscape was different. There were McDonald’s, IHOPs, and Denny’s in almost every suburb across America. Once you got through the miles of ranch-style homes, shopping centers, and fast food restaurants to the heart of the city, a small cluster of skyscrapers, there was nothing to do. Downtowns were dead after 6:00 pm. Anyone out on the street after dark was a sitting duck just asking to be harassed by the police. But New York wasn’t like that. It was piled on top of itself instead of spread out. You didn’t need a car to get around. From the minute I arrived I was surrounded by the feeling of life everywhere. It was like I had been plopped down in the middle of a giant school of fish and had to swim fast to keep up.

I woke up early in the morning ready to get out of that hotel and go look for the Empire State Building. I threw my backpack over my shoulders and headed down Eighth Avenue to 34th Street. The city didn’t look like the same place in the daylight. It was a brownish-grey, and the streets seemed almost deserted. All the flash and excitement of the night before had disappeared. I stopped and pulled a sweatshirt out of my pack because it had cooled off during the night. No more warm tropical Miami breeze. Fall was in the air.

A tall man with a camera around his neck walked up next to me and said, “You look like you’re either lost or you don’t know where you’re going.”

“I’m looking for the Empire State Building.” He laughed and said, “Look up.”

I looked straight up and realized I was standing at the base of the Empire State Building. It was so gigantic I hadn’t recognized it close-up. The man watched me as I took off my backpack and tilted my head, looking all the way up the sleek, tan building.

“If you think that’s tall, you should see the World Trade Center. It’s twice as tall.”

This was tall enough for me. Besides, the World Trade Center was new. I wanted to see this old building that I’d heard so much about since I was a kid.

“You should go to the top to see the view.” The man pointed to a revolving brass door, so I walked over and gave it a push. It was locked. A sign in the window said tours started at 10:00 am on Sunday. It wasn’t even 9:00 yet.

“You wanna go get some coffee?” I turned and looked at him. He was big with curly dark hair. He held up his camera and snapped a picture of me. “I’m a photographer. How about you?”

“‘How about me what?”

“What are you up to? You look like a runaway or something with that ugly-looking pack you’re carrying around.”

“I’m not a runaway. I’m just looking.”

“Looking? At what?”

“New York.”

“Oh. Well. Do you want to get some coffee with me or not? You don’t have anything to do until the building opens anyway. Come on.” He put his arm around my shoulders and tugged at me. I shrugged his arm off. He seemed nice enough. I wasn’t getting any weird vibes from him so I gave in and followed him down the street. At 34th and Fifth Avenue he pointed to a McDonald’s. People sat looking out on the street from tables on the second floor, above the entrance. I’d never seen a two-story McDonald’s before. Yellow cabs honked as the guy ran across the street in front of oncoming traffic. We went inside and got two coffees. I ordered some hash browns, too. He took the tray and led me up the stairs to a table by the window. It felt like I was in a foreign country.

“What’s your name?” “Joe. What’s yours?” “Bud.”

“Hi, Bud.”

“Hi, Joe.”

We shook hands. The sudden formality made me nervous so I laughed a little.

“I don’t mean to stick my nose in your business, but what exactly are you doing wandering around with that backpack?”

“Like I said, I’m just looking around. I’m on my way back home to Missouri from Miami and thought I’d stop by to see what New York was like.”

Bud stared at me. He lit up a cigarette. I looked down on the street at the people walking by. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. Why wouldn’t I be? Haven’t you ever known anyone who’s gone traveling before?” I poured two nondairy creamers into my coffee and watched the white cream swirl around.

“Sure I have, but most of the people I know want to leave New York, not come here.” He exhaled a big cloud of smoke. “You know what? I’m not doing anything today. If you want, I can show you around. I’ll be your tour guide.”

I thought about it for a while. He asked too many questions. I liked looking around by myself, but I had no idea which way to go, really. All I knew was how to get back to the hotel and that was one place I didn’t want to go.

He said he would take me on a tour, but first he needed to go by his apartment to pick up another camera. We rode in a cab over to Ninth Avenue and West 20th Street. His apartment, on the 11th floor, was small. The entryway had framed pictures of him with Bette Midler and Carol Channing and autographed covers of programs from Broadway plays. There was barely enough room in the kitchen to walk around a table that was covered with dirty dishes and The New York Times. The other room, the living room/bedroom, was as small as the kitchen. At McDonald’s he told me he had a one-bedroom apartment, so I asked him where the bedroom was. He said I was standing in it. In the daytime it was a living room. At night the couch pulled out into a bed and it was the bedroom. From the window above the couch, I could see the Empire State Building over the roofs of the Chelsea district.

He dug around in a closet and found the camera he wanted. Then, when he was ready to go, he told me I should leave my pack there. I said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would mean I’d have to come back here later.” I figured he had ulterior motives and I wasn’t going to set myself up for another awkward situation. Men only wanted one thing.

“Okay, if you feel like carrying that thing around all day, it’s up to you. But you don’t have to.”

We took the subway down to the Staten Island Ferry and rode across for a quarter each. He paid for me and said, “My treat.” I said, “Big spender,” and he ruffled my hair. When the ferry passed the Statue of Liberty I was disappointed. I expected it to be gigantic, the size of the Empire State Building. But it was much smaller. A strong, cold wind blew across the water and into us. The skyline of Manhattan got smaller and smaller as we got closer to Staten Island. We stayed on the ferry and rode back without having to pay again. Bud knew lots of little tricks like that about the city.

After we rode on the ferry, Bud took me to Greenwich Village. We walked down Christopher Street and he explained to me the different types of homosexuals who hung out in that neighborhood. He said they preferred to be called “Gays.” “I don’t know why they chose that one,” he muttered. “There’s nothing ‘Gay’ about it, really.” This was 1975 and the Gay Liberation period was in full swing, so a lot of people were coming out of the closet and dressing flamboyantly. I saw a guy dressed as a cowboy in red leather chaps, a blue vest, and a white cowboy hat. Someone else was dressed in army fatigues, like he was a soldier. Bud pointed out a couple of men dressed head-to-toe in black leather and told me they were into “S and M.” I didn’t know what that was. He said they liked to beat each other up. He told me most guys weren’t as extreme as the ones we saw. There were lots of regular-looking guys who dressed low-key, like in blue jeans and bomber jackets. It seemed like all of them had mustaches and short hair.

Bud knew a lot of people. When he walked me through the Village, he introduced me to his friends. They were open and seemed genuinely glad to meet me. They didn’t act like it was bizarre or “wrong” for me to be traveling around by myself. No one asked me why I wasn’t in school, which was the first question I got from most of my hitchhiking rides. A few of them gave Bud a knowing wink. People were nice to me in New York. Even though I’d just arrived there, I didn’t feel weird like I did back home in Missouri. No one stared at me like on the bus in Baltimore. This city felt comfortable. Bud asked me if I wanted to go into a Gay bar. That made me uneasy. I didn’t really. He said it would be good for me to see what one was like and that it was no big deal. He walked me to one of his favorite bars called the Ninth Circle on a little side street. We stood at the bottom of the stone stairs that led up to the bar. I didn’t want to go in. I was afraid if I went in I’d turn queer and I didn’t want to be a big fag with everyone laughing at me. I didn’t want to be a lecherous old queen with a Southern drawl like that guy in Jacksonville Beach.

Bud laughed but then got serious when I told him this. He turned, facing me, putting his hands on my shoulders, and said, “Joe, what about all the guys I’ve just shown you walking around the Village? Do they look like big fags?”

I said, “Yes, a lot of them do.”

He argued, “But not all of them. Right?”

I had to admit that a lot of the Gays he showed me looked fairly normal.

Inside the bar “Fly, Robin, Fly” by the Silver Convention played from the jukebox. That was another one I knew from the radio. The bar itself was long and narrow. The walls were covered with a light wood paneling. Past the bar was the jukebox and then a bench with little café tables that ran around the perimeter of the bar. There was space to stand out in the middle. Through the back door was a garden patio with people eating hamburgers at tables covered with giant umbrellas. Heads turned and guys looked us up and down as Bud and I stood in the doorway. Downstairs was a pool table. Bud said that’s where the hustlers hung out. I went down and looked around. Some guys were shooting pool and hanging out. There was nothing dangerous or sinister about them like the word “hustler” insinuated. They reminded me of my friends back in Missouri. Back upstairs, two men sat at the bar in a locked embrace, kissing. They were so engrossed they looked like they were going to tip off their stools at any moment. I tried not to stare but couldn’t help it, so I hid my face in the jukebox and read the entire list of selections. I found my song, “Sweet Sticky Thing,” and noted that it was by the Ohio Players. When I got back to Missouri I wanted to buy a copy of that record. The song that played the most was a disco tune called “Do It Any Way You Wanna.” It seemed like every other person who went up to the jukebox played it. There were no words except the title repeated over and over. The rhythm and beat of the song sank into me. I liked it. I liked the song and I liked hearing it at that bar. Bud brought me a beer in a big glass. The beer calmed me and helped me get over my nervousness about being in a Gay bar for the first time. Now that I was inside I didn’t feel so threatened. Like the song said, people were doing it whatever way they felt like. I felt a load lift off of my shoulders. Light, relieved. I started to relax.

Bud introduced me to an older guy who was dancing to the jukebox with a knit neck scarf like he was a burlesque dancer. He had a puffy face, droopy eyes, and a sweet mischievous smile. Bud told me that the guy was in some of Andy’s movies.

I said, “Andy who?”

Bud stopped and looked at me surprised. “You really are a hick, aren’t you?”

I said, “What do you mean?” It pissed me off that all of a sudden Bud was acting superior to me. I didn’t like being called a hick. I was raised in the suburbs, not the country.

He said, “Andy. Andy Warhol. Do you know who that is?”

I got defensive. “Of course I know who that is.” Bud glanced at me sideways like he wasn’t convinced. Thinking of Andy Warhol made me think about one of my favorite meals, a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup made with milk. I wanted to have that as soon as I got home.

The man danced up to us and said in a stoned nelly voice, “Ohhhh! My Quaalude is kicking in…” He wiggled around to the music and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. I told Bud that was exactly what I did not want to turn into. Bud said I had a long way to go. There were a couple of girls sitting at a table in the corner. That was another thing. I liked girls and didn’t want to quit hanging out with them. Bud said just because he didn’t want to sleep with a woman didn’t mean that he didn’t like women. He just preferred having sex with men. That was the first that Bud referred to himself as being Gay. I tried to let that comment slip by but kept it in the back of my mind. I didn’t want him trying anything funny with me. The girls smiled at me and I went over and started talking to them. When I got close I realized that one of them was a boy with long hair and makeup. I was surprised for a little bit, but actually liked it. I thought he was brave. They seemed okay. I said hello and told them I was from Kansas City and had been out hitchhiking. They said they were from Queens, and Manhattan was as far as they’d been away from home. The guy turned to the girl and said, “Oh! You’re from Queens? I’m from normal parents!” Then they cracked up laughing. I told them they should go to Kansas City sometime, that it would do them good to get away. They asked me who I was with and I pointed out Bud to them.

The boy said, “Ooooo, better watch out. I think he likes you ‘in that way.’”

The girl winked at me. “I think your friend’s cute. I wouldn’t mind liking him in that way.”

We all laughed.

“Are you two boyfriend and girlfriend?” I asked. They laughed even harder.

She said, “No, honey! Excuse me… What are you thinking? I’m his fag hag, not his girlfriend.”

I’d never heard the term “fag hag” before and was shocked. Why would anyone call themselves something like that? A hag? She didn’t look like a hag to me. I was slightly appalled, but figured it must have been okay because no one was calling her a hag. She was the one who said it. People told me weird stuff all the time when I was traveling. I filed this term away in that category and pretended like I didn’t hear her.

Bud and I went back to his apartment. He made spaghetti for dinner and then pulled out the couch in the living room, turning it into the bedroom. He seduced me while we watched The Carol Burnett Show on TV. I didn’t move. I just lay as still as possible and let him give me a blow job.

I stayed there for a couple of days. The second night I loosened up. We had sex and I let him fuck me. I was on my stomach. It was kind of boring. His body was about the same size as my dad’s. Kind of big and soft, but not hairy, and his stomach wasn’t as fat as Dad’s. I enjoyed sleeping next to him with his arm and leg draped over me much more than I did having sex with him.

I wandered around the city by myself in the daytime and then met up with Bud in the evening. I ate at a Chinese-Cuban restaurant on Eighth Avenue. I went there because after Miami, the Cuban was something familiar to me. But even there I had never been to a Chinese-Cuban place where the Chinese waiters and cooks spoke Spanish to each other. That was a bizarre mix to me. English was the Chinese guys’ third language. The rhythm of the city was starting to make sense to me. No matter how out of place I felt in Missouri, I felt completely normal in New York. ♦

Excerpted from TRAMPS LIKE US by Joe Westmoreland. Published by MCD, an imprint of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Copyright © 2001, 2025 by Joe Westmoreland. All rights reserved.