Donald and I spent a lot of time together that next week, walking all over the city. He knew areas I’d never ventured into: Tribeca, Turtle Bay, Alphabet City, and—of course—Greenwich Village. We had drinks one evening in Stonewall, the bar where the riots had started in nineteen sixty-nine, the riots that had planted the seeds for the movement that became known as Gay Rights. And Saturday, because Donald didn’t have a play that night, he insisted on what he called a very special outing.
"I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve never seen Rocky Horror. But now that you’re determined to be yourself, it’s a requirement."
Rocky HorrorSo we stood in line that night, starting at around eleven o’clock, outside the 8th Street Playhouse, surrounded by people in the most outlandish costumes
