I’m not sure why the first guy I was with insisted all gay guys have a diva. Perhaps in North Carolin in the early 80s, it was  some unwritten, but mandatory gay law. Having no clue what gay was supposed to be like at the age of 15, I spent hours in his mom’s apartment, listening to Barbra, smoking cigarettes and listening to him point out all that was great about her …

I foolishly thought Babs could be my diva, too, but like wearing a band t-shirt to the band’s concert, that simply wasn’t done.

I’m not sure why I picked ONJ. I loved Grease, and loved how she turned from good girl to leather jacket-wearing floozy. I wanted to flooze, too, but was unsure how.  All through junior high and most of high school, I felt like Sandra Dee. I knew worshipping  Babs, as powerful as her voice was, was not going to transform me the way putting on a leather jacket and giving John Travolta chills might.

So, I chose ONJ. She was my first concert and the pin-ups in my school locker. Even now, hearing her voice sends me back to the smell of stale smoke,  the dull sunlight through permanently drawn generic apartment curtains and the anticipation that maybe we would get around to more making out and less mournful crooning along to “The Way We Were” if we just changed the record to “Physical” …

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