When I was a freshman at a college near Boston (Cambridge), I needed a job, so I signed up at the work-study office to be a personal driver.
My employer turned out to be a professor at a state university.
It turned out he wanted more than a driver.
He was just a closeted white-professor.
I was not gay, but I was empathetic. I did one actual driving chore, and then we agreed to part amicably. No harm, no foul.
It was 1973 and that’s just the way things were done.
I’m from San Francisco, and grew up just a few blocks from Castro Street, and saw the evolution of my neighborhood. I thought I was gay friendly enough.
