My first job was in publishing. I had two bosses—one a gay man, the other a lesbian. The gay man groomed me to advance. Making a book deal was, he said, “the part that gives you a hard-on.” I was not so aroused.
I left for a display job, ironing shirts in the basement of a store in Herald Square. That basement opened the door to a career in high-end fashion—designing window displays and merchandising showrooms from New York to Milan.
After years of flying business class to fashion week, I became disillusioned with the industry’s wastefulness. I took a job as a receptionist at a mannequin company, where everything was handmade. I eventually managed their Brooklyn factory for nearly a decade, advocating for better working conditions for its mostly Latin staff. When the business folded, I worked as a stylist. When the pandemic hit, I transitioned into internal communications at a nonprofit.
All the while, I was writing and editing on the side: evaluating manuscripts for a film company, developing copy for a spiritual healer’s website, and reading for literary magazines.
It didn’t matter what the job was. I was always observing. Watching how people moved. How power operated. How stories were told. And writing it all down.
Writing about gay topics—books, identity, memory, desire—became its own kind of advocacy: a way to affirm the emotional complexity, depth, and dignity of the gay experience.
