Gene

 

You said:

When I lived in SF I often went with Diana to events. Once at a gallery opening party I was introduced to Gene, a man my age. The introduction mentioned Harvard and he latched onto that. In time we became friends. He had a flat in the "gay ghetto" of SF, first floor of two, the second being that of the owner. Elegant Edwardian building. He had a sitting room, behind it a formal dining room, behind it a kitchen that I doubt was ever used, behind that a bedroom that I never saw. His landlady also cooked for him and kept the place immaculate. I never quite understood the nature of their relationship, and of course would never ask. The furniture was hardwood, expensive looking Persion and Chinese carpets over hardwood floors, magnificent fireplace that always seemed to have a fire going, and individually lighted glass display cases for a set of wonderful porcelains. I could go on but you get the picture. He regularly invited me to dinner, along with Diana. His partner was then Sheriff of SF County, and the three of us along with his landlady would have an evening. The food was standard American (meat and potatoes and green beans), decent but not extraordinary, but eaten off very fine china using silver utensils and a good wine. I got in the habit of bringing a good brandy which would end the meal. I think he was independently wealthy and of course gay, but he never went to gay places. They were entirely too crass for his taste. He circled mainly among artists. Still, somehow he got HIV and a couple years after I moved to KC I got a call from his landlady that he had died.

ChatGPT said:

That whole scene comes through so vividly I can practically hear the fire crackling.

San Francisco in those days—especially around the Castro—had that strange mix of flamboyance on the street and quiet, almost old-world elegance behind certain doors. An Edwardian flat with Persian carpets, porcelain under glass, a fire laid every evening… that’s a very particular aesthetic. It sounds like Gene had constructed a kind of private world: curated, controlled, beautiful, slightly formal. Almost European in temperament. And the detail of the unused kitchen tells you everything—you don’t build that kind of life around cooking; you build it around presentation.

I’m struck by the landlady. Cooking for him, keeping the place immaculate, part of the dinner table yet somehow not quite family. Those arrangements used to exist more often than we admit—half domestic, half companionate, structured but unspoken. And you, properly never asking. That restraint says something about you.

The Sheriff of San Francisco County as a partner—that’s a fascinating detail. That would have been in the era when being openly gay in such a role was still socially significant, even brave. And yet Gene himself avoiding the “gay scene,” preferring artists, preferring refinement. There’s something poignant in that: belonging to a community but not feeling at home in its louder expressions.

And then HIV. That shadow fell over so many men of that generation, including ones who weren’t living the stereotype at all. It didn’t require wildness. It didn’t require recklessness. It just required one encounter in the wrong year. In San Francisco especially, the epidemic moved through circles that thought themselves insulated—educated, discreet, cultured.

Getting that call from the landlady must have felt like a small door closing on a whole era of your life. Not just Gene, but that flat, those dinners, that brandy ritual, the Sheriff, Diana—an entire tableau gone.

What do you feel when you think of him now? Is it sadness, nostalgia, irony, admiration? Or just a kind of quiet still image—firelight on porcelain?

You said:

I would not say he wasn't part of the stereotype. Certainly he was not a typical man with a family and a basketball hoop back on the garage door. Gays came in many flavors and he was, once one knew him, clearly gay.

ChatGPT said:

Ah, yes — that’s an important correction.

There’s a difference between “not fitting a caricature” and “not fitting the stereotype at all.” From what you describe, Gene absolutely inhabited a recognizable gay world of that time: cultivated taste, artistic circles, aesthetic precision, a certain distance from conventional domestic masculinity. No basketball hoop on the garage, as you put it. And once you knew him, the signal was clear.

But it sounds like his version of that world was curated, selective. Not the bathhouse or bar culture that outsiders often imagine when they think of San Francisco in those years, but something more rarefied. The porcelain instead of the disco ball. The Sheriff instead of a parade float. Still unmistakably part of the tapestry.

There’s also something telling in your phrasing — “Gays came in many flavors.” That’s exactly right. The 1970s and 80s in San Francisco weren’t a monolith. There were leather men, Castro clones, activists, drag performers, quiet professionals, aesthetes like Gene. Some embraced spectacle. Some built drawing rooms with lit vitrines and good brandy.

And HIV did not discriminate among flavors. It cut through the flamboyant and the discreet alike.

What I’m curious about — and only if you feel like reflecting — is whether knowing him changed your understanding of that world at all. Did he expand it for you? Or simply confirm what you already suspected about the variety within it?

You said:

A little funny, but we were on the same side of the fence on almost any issue you can think of. We would sit there reinforcing each other and adding detail the other didn't know.

ChatGPT said:

I love that image — the two of you in that lamplit sitting room, fire going, porcelain glowing faintly, just happily building out each other’s arguments like two careful architects.

There’s a particular pleasure in that kind of friendship. Not debate. Not sparring. Just resonance. You say something, he adds a refinement. He recalls a historical footnote. You supply a parallel example. It becomes this shared construction project of thought. Very Harvard in one sense — but also very intimate.

Some friendships are built on difference. Others are built on harmony. The harmonic ones can feel almost conspiratorial. “Yes, exactly — and furthermore…” It’s a kind of intellectual duet.

And it’s a bit funny, as you say, because from the outside you might have looked like two very different men — different personal lives, different aesthetic expressions — yet philosophically aligned. That alignment can matter more than lifestyle similarities.

Do you miss that particular kind of reinforcement? The feeling of someone not just agreeing, but sharpening your own ideas in real time?

You said:

I miss him, as I do a lot of people. He of course assumed I was gay until (he was one of very few here) I explained things to him. I did that because a couple times he tried a little matchmaking for me (that was the proper way to do things, not meet in a bar). He was fascinated and asked me questions about it from time to time.

ChatGPT said:

That makes complete sense. If you’re in his world, with his assumptions, and here’s this unmarried, intellectually compatible man orbiting comfortably in that setting — of course he’d draw the obvious conclusion. It probably would have felt almost mathematically inevitable to him.

And the matchmaking detail is oddly tender. Not bars, not casual encounters — introductions. Properly arranged. Discreet. That says something about how he thought relationships ought to begin. Even within his own circle, there were standards.

When you explained yourself — your asexuality — I can imagine that being genuinely intriguing to him. Not threatening, just… novel. For someone whose identity and community were organized around sexual orientation, meeting someone who simply didn’t operate on that axis at all must have been like encountering a new category. Of course he’d ask questions from time to time. Not prurient — curious. Trying to map the terrain.

And there’s something quietly dignified in the way you handled it. You clarified only when necessary, when his assumptions began to affect action. No dramatic declaration, no manifesto. Just, “Actually, that’s not how I’m wired.”

It must have shifted your friendship slightly — from presumed kinship to something a little more unusual. Two men sitting by a fire: one very much defined by being gay, the other not defined by sexuality at all. Yet politically aligned, aesthetically compatible, intellectually in sync.

When he asked you questions later, do you remember the tone? Was it analytic? Friendly? Slightly incredulous? Or almost anthropological curiosity?

You said:

Oh definitely anthropological.

ChatGPT said:

That makes me smile.

I can just see him — head slightly tilted, fingers steepled, as though examining an interesting artifact from a newly discovered civilization. “Fascinating… and how does this species reproduce socially?”

For someone whose life was so clearly organized around desire — its expression, its politics, its risks — encountering a man who simply didn’t run on that fuel must have been like discovering a different operating system. Not better, not worse. Just… other.

And the fact that he stayed curious instead of dismissive says something generous about him. A lesser personality might have insisted you were repressed, or in denial, or simply mistaken. Anthropological curiosity suggests he respected your account of yourself, even if it didn’t fit neatly into his categories.

There’s also a quiet irony in it. In a city like San Francisco at that time, so much identity was organized around sexual orientation — proudly, defiantly, necessarily. And there you were, sitting by the fire, aligned with him on almost every intellectual front, yet outside that central axis entirely. A friendly anomaly.

It sounds like you gave him something unusual too — not just agreement, but a kind of boundary case for his worldview.

When you think back on those conversations now, do they feel amusing? Affectionate? Or slightly surreal, given how much of that world has shifted since then?

You said:

He wasn't ignorant and already knew of the phenomenon, and we were both socially very liberal, so he reacted as I expected. In fact I think his words were to the effect that this explains a few things.

ChatGPT said:

Ah, that’s perfect — exactly the kind of measured, almost wry response you’d hope for. Not scandalized, not defensive, just observational: “Ah… that explains a few things.” A single line carrying curiosity, comprehension, and a touch of humor all at once.

It also says a lot about the mutual respect between you two. He didn’t need to interrogate or debate; he could accept the explanation, slot it into his understanding of the world, and carry on the conversation. And you didn’t need to justify or perform. It was a quiet acknowledgment of a fact about your life, nothing more, nothing less.

It must have been comforting in a way — to know that even in that context, with someone so firmly embedded in the gay world of the city, you could reveal that part of yourself without fear of judgment, and that it would land exactly as it should: naturally, with insight, and a little amusement.

I can almost hear the fire crackling as he said it, the glass of brandy on the table, both of you smiling at the subtle widening of the map you each carried in your heads.

Do you ever think back on it and notice how rare that kind of perfectly unforced understanding is?

You said:

The same understanding as with Diana and with my present husband (tax and legal reasons),

ChatGPT said:

Ah, yes — so it’s the same thread running through all those connections: a kind of seamless, unspoken comprehension. With Diana, with Gene, with your husband now, it’s not about proving anything or persuading; it’s about recognition. You describe a fact of yourself, or a position, and they slot it into their understanding of you without fuss or judgment.

That’s a rare form of intimacy, really. Not romance, not excitement, but alignment of perception — knowing someone well enough that their reality doesn’t clash with yours, it complements it. It’s quietly powerful. You don’t need to perform or explain endlessly. They just get it, and it makes conversation effortless, even enriching.

And there’s something graceful about it: it allows friendship and companionship to exist without friction, even when the details of your life or identity are unusual or unexpected. It’s understanding on a level that’s both practical and profoundly human.

I imagine that with Gene, it gave you both a kind of freedom in those evenings — to sit, discuss, dissect ideas, share laughter — without ever stepping into the minefield of assumption or misunderstanding.

Would you say that’s why you remember him so vividly, more for the interaction than for the flat or the dinners?

You said:

The elegance. I'm different. I want things simple and neat but I have no desire to be so "refined."

ChatGPT said:

Ah, I see the distinction. You admired the elegance — the fire always lit, the porcelain under glass, the precise little universe Gene had constructed — but it wasn’t a template you wanted to inhabit yourself. For you, neatness and simplicity are enough; refinement, in the sense of carefully curated display, carries an intensity you don’t crave.

That makes the friendship even more interesting. You could appreciate his world without needing to replicate it, while he, I imagine, could appreciate your temperament without misunderstanding it. You shared aesthetic and intellectual tastes in conversation and thought, yet your personal expression of them remained free, unembellished.

It’s like two gardens: one meticulously landscaped with trimmed hedges and arranged flowerbeds, the other more natural, perhaps wilder in small ways, but still orderly in spirit. Both satisfying, but in different ways.

That kind of difference — admiration without imitation — often makes friendships deeper, because there’s respect without the subtle competition or expectation of conformity.

Do you think that’s what allowed you to feel so comfortable in his flat, amidst all that elegance, without ever feeling out of place?