David’s mother answered the door. When I introduced myself she, rather reluctantly I thought, showed me out into the small garden where David was sitting.

The building was an unpretentious duplex in Hollywood. David’s apartment was on the ground floor, modestly furnished, typical for a gay man around town on modest means. It had been eclectically decorated including a few remnants of erotic art, but the place showed signs of having been tidied, even sanitized. There may have been more sexual stuff around except that … his mother had moved in.

David had recently gone blind and was having other debilitating symptoms so he was not doing well at all. He was small with average looks and now appeared drawn and gray and older than his 34 years. He was sitting in the shade of a tree on an old outdoor chaise, a blanket over his lap. He was wearing the headphones of a Walkman which his mother unceremoniously pulled aside to tell him I was there.

He said a weary hello as I sat down beside him and I had a feeling I should keep my visit short. His mother hovered a bit, he sensed that and said,

“It’s OK mom, I can manage”.

She left and I pulled out my clip board. As we chatted about his life he slowly came alive, even funny, and I realized that here was the real David. The gloomy man, isolated by his Walkman, was recent. Previously he had been very much a man about town, and he related some of his adventures swimming in the shark pool of the gay ghetto. He was one of those boys who negotiates on his wits and his sharp sense of humor and had probably done quite well while in the right company.

Now, however, he was like a burned down party candle sputtering out at the end of the holidays. He was home. He had lost his sight a few months before, had painful neuropathy that made walking difficult, and was generally pretty sick. His mother had moved in when he became homebound and I asked how that was going.

“I couldn’t make it without her. She does everything for me. She’s always – right there.”

“Well, you’re her son.”

“Yeah, and she’s my mom.”

“And doesn’t let you forget it?”

“You could say that. Oh, she’s great but she’s kind of….”

“Taken over?”

“Kind of. I mean, I bet she’s changed the art work, hasn’t she?”

“It did look as if there had been a few changes.”

“Well, doesn’t matter. I can’t see them anyway.”

“Don’t you miss that?”

“In a way.”

“And the lack of privacy must really get to you.”

“In a way.”

“In a way?”

“This is – confidential – right.”

“Oh we never share this kind of information with other agencies.”

“I don’t care about other agencies. I mean my mom.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Well, see this Walkman? My mom got it for me, with a bunch of cassettes. Classical music mostly. See, I like classical but, not all the time. So…..”

“So?”

“I have this friend and I asked him to do me a favor. He has this collection of porn video and I asked him if he could record the soundtrack of a couple of them onto a cassette tape.”

“Oh….I see.”

“Yeah, well I can’t, but I can hear – and I’ve always had a great imagination.”

“Well, they say other senses take over.”

“Yeah, but you have to help them along. Anyway, he gave me the tapes and, when mom’s not around I slip out the classical and slip in the porn. Then I snuggle under this blanket and…..”

And he smiled the kind of smile that I imagined came over his face while he lay there, eyes closed, listening to his ‘music’.

The conspiratorial silence was broken by his mother coming back out. I realized my visit was over. I got up, bent down and hugged him.

“Enjoy the food, and your …”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks a lot for coming.”

His mother walked me out. I asked how she was doing and she said, stoically,

“Oh, bearing up. I’m glad I can be here. It’s not easy for him”.

“Of course not. But he seems to be comfortable.”

“He is. He likes sitting in the garden. And he’s always got his music.”