In the twentieth century, we were a tribe of nomads searching for coordinates that didn’t exist on any respectable map. Long before the internet or the casual safety of a neon bar sign, our geography was built entirely on a secret telegraph of whispers—a trusted acquaintance who knew a guy, who knew another guy, who passed along a location like a coded dispatch to the front lines. If you wanted to find men like yourself, you learned to navigate this shadow network, decoding the subtle cues: a lingering glance in a flickering movie house, or the "Friend of Dorothy" shorthand dropped into a polite conversation like a velvet passport.
And then, of course, there were the tea rooms—those damp, silent cathedrals of the desperate and the brave that men only dared mention in conspiratorial undertones. A widening of the stance, a rhythmic tap of a loafer, and a symphony of unspoken intent played out in a public stall, while the rest of the world washed its hands and checked its tie in the mirror, blissfully unaware of the revolution happening six feet away.
By the mid-eighties, I was a starving student at UAB, living on a diet of academic nerves and a gas credit card tethered to my parents’ bank account. I had a car, a tiny apartment and I was always up for travel and adventure.
Just after my Spring semester finals, I ran into Billy at The Rage.
He was the kind of beautiful that made you ache to look at. A golden-blond creature with a grin that could charm the scales off a snake. He was the architect of our "Caring Brotherhood"—the man who could organize an AIDS fundraiser with the same military precision most people reserve for a small invasion. He didn't just meet people; he recruited them into a lifelong commitment to serve.
"It’s Memorial Day Weekend," he declared, hovering over his drink like a bird of prey."And there’s a little strip of Pensacola Beach I can hear calling my name. Let’s all road-trip down tomorrow. Sun, fun, and the kind of trouble our mothers always prayed we would never find."
"Billy, I’m poor," I protested. "I barely have money for food, rent, and my bar tab."
"Oh bother…” he mocked “Come on, John. Live a little! You can sleep on our floor. There are only four of us in the room. It’ll be fun, like a little gay submarine…only with better outfits. Just contribute some to the gas.”
He paused and took a drink of his vodka tonic “I mean, if you're gonna starve and go thirsty anyway—why not do it on a beach where the scenery is better."
I said yes.
I mean, why wouldn't I? I had a gas card, a free floor to sleep on, and the protection of my own glittering praetorian guard—even though I was still a bit pulled-up, I was definitely hungry to immerse myself and learn about this secret world of the gay.
"Six A.M. sharp tomorrow," he barked. "We have to arrive by PTH."
I blinked. "Is that the Pensacola airport code?"
"Prime Tanning Hours—10 a.m. to 2 p.m., you silly man!” He paused, then reached out, grabbed my cheeks and squeezed. “You have so much to learn, and we’re gonna take you to finishing school!"
The next morning, I arrived ten minutes late to find Billy’s 1983 Toyota Corolla humming with the energy of four grown men packed inside and another outside trying to stuff his bags into the trunk. Billy had clearly done some midnight recruiting.
"Just throw your bag in and jump on someone’s lap!" Billy chirped from the window.
My heart sank.
"I think I’m gonna pass," I said, backing away from the crowded sedan. I definitely wasn’t cut out for a five-hour drive in another man’s lap.
Billy leaned further out the window, looking at the hesitation on my face. "Well, would you want to drive, too?"
“That sounds more like it,” hardly giving it a thought, “I'll just follow you,” I said, pointing back toward 'Inga,' my road-worthy 1976 Volvo station wagon.
After a flurry of theatrical negotiation, we split the troops. I inherited Sonny and Mark, while Billy, Stan, and Randy remained in the Corolla. Sonny raised his voice above the fray of the re-do: “I brought a cooler of Barley Pop!”
Randy, a muscly little number already settled into the back of the Corolla, looked at my Volvo like it was a garbage scow. "If they’re following us in that, can we at least make sure Mark doesn't try to bring every wig in his collection?" he shouted. "We’re going to Pensacola for the weekend, not New York for a Broadway residency! I only packed a toothbrush and a bikini—in a fanny pack!”
Mark didn’t even look up from the cooler he was trying to wedge into my way-back. "It’s called ‘packing for options,’ Randy. Something you clearly gave up on when you picked out that same old ratty tank top."
With the troops officially split and the Corolla's taillights receding into the distance, a strange, quiet peace settled over the Volvo. The chaos stayed with Billy, leaving us with nothing but the open road and a cooler of beer.
Sonny was asleep before we hit the highway, so I turned to Mark. “Are you from Birmingham, Mark?”
“Missy,” he corrected instantly, checking his reflection in the passenger-side vanity mirror. “Everyone just calls me ‘Missy.’ ‘Mark’ sounds too much like my mother—or worse, one of the nuns from my school.”
I paused to take that all in. “So, are you from here, ‘Missy’?”
“Jonesboro, Georgia, just below Atlanta.”
“Nuns? Was it a Catholic school?”
“Yes, unfortunately. My mom and dad are almost broke paying for all of us.”
“‘All of us’?” I questioned.
“There are thirteen of us.” He rattled them off like a grocery list he’d been forced to memorize under duress—no breaths, no commas, just a rhythmic purge of a past life:
“Maria-Joseph-Lucy-Anthony-Rosa-Domenic-Francis-Peter-Elena-Vincent-Sofia…and the baby Paulie.” He added with a dry punctuation: “And then of course, me. The Martinos. Tah dah!”
“Are you all close?”
“No,” he sighed, picking at the label of a beer he was already hugging. “We all just lose touch once we leave home. We talk, I guess, but we don't really say anything. It’s all ‘How’s your job?’ and ‘Did you go to Mass?’ Out here...” he gestured to Billy’s Corolla swerving ahead of us, where I could see Randy and Billy mid-argument through the back window, “...out here, Randy can tell me I’m an over dramatic queen, and I can tell him he’s a boring gym-rat, and ten minutes later we’re sharing a vodker drink. In a way, it feels a lot more honest than Sunday dinner at home ever did.”
That honesty was tested an hour later at a Stuckey’s near Montgomery. Randy jumped out of the Corolla before it even fully stopped, marching over to my window.
"Missy, if you tell John to motion for us to slow down one more time, I'm going to unpack that boa of yours, shut it in the car door, and drag it along I-65," Randy snapped.
Mark didn't blink or even look up. As we all shuffled into the air-conditioned hum of the shop to check out the pecan rolls, Mark said out loud, as if to no one in particular, "And if ya’ll don't stop driving like escaping criminals, Randy, I will be too nauseous to even sit upright when we get to the beach. Some of us have constitutions that aren't made of iron and spite."
They stood staring each other down for a beat—the pragmatist and the drama queen—before Randy rolled his eyes, snatched up a bag of pecans, and tossed a pack of cigarettes to her. "Fine," he muttered. "But hurry up. We're losing PTH."
I just watched—fascinated.
I had become more and more distant from my own family—everyone except my mother, of course. But Mark had a point— there we all were—like boys from the land of misfit toys—off on a mis-adventure together. Little did I know that Mark, Randy —all of us would become brothers, a chosen family in which we would hold each other together years later when we began losing each other and the world seemed to be falling apart.
We tore down I-65 like we were being chased by vice. Just past Montgomery, Billy’s blinker signaled near Exit 114, as he frantically gestured out the window toward the roadside emergency lane. I pulled over, expecting a mechanical disaster or an urgent potty stop, but Sonny and Mark’s heads popped up in my mirror like jacks-in-the-box and they were out the door before the tires stopped spinning.
"Georgiana Starlington!" Mark shrieked, racing toward the highway sign.
"Who in the hell is Georgiana Starlington?" I yelled over the roar of passing semis.
"It’s the name, John! Look at the sign!" Billy beamed, striking a pose that would have made a Ziegfeld girl weep. "Georgiana Starlington. It’s only the best Southern Belle drag name EVER! Imagine her," he said, gesturing like a director framing a shot—"All dolled up on aisle 3 at the Piggly Wiggly—a legend in marabou and sequins. What a hoot!"
“She wouldn’t wear marabou at the Pig, Billy, honestly,” Mark scoffed, adjusting his sunglasses. “Georgiana is strictly daytime sequins and a sensible pump. She has standards.”
“Standards…” Randy muttered exhaustedly, leaning against the Corolla with his arms crossed. “Can we just take the picture and get this show on the road? I’m getting tan lines on my tan lines.”
After we took a few pictures, Billy turned, and walking back toward the cars he said aloud, “This is tradition, boys. We never pass this sign without a picture.” He looked lovingly at Stan, “Stan and I have a gallery of these on the mantle—they’re our family vacation photos"
After a couple of quick stops for gas and caffeine, we finally hit Pensacola around 10:15, vibrating from Vivarin, Diet Coke, and the sheer, jagged adrenaline of the high-speed chase.
The hotel room wasn't ready. But Billy wasn't about to let a little thing like room availability derail our dash for PTH. He flirted with the hotel desk clerk, leaning against the counter and posing. After negotiating a noon check-in, a room with a better view, and a late check-out for Monday, he flashed that devilish, high-noon grin, pointed to the horizon and chirped, "Let’s make like a baby and head out!"
We scurried into the lobby bathroom like the Rockettes on a quick-change between sets. I stood back and watched the frantic, semi-coordinated circus—two and three grown men to a stall, a chorus of giggles echoing off the tile. It was a tangled, theatrical choreography of peeling off denim and shimmying into Speedos, short-shorts, and tank tops, all while performing a mid-air ballet to avoid touching the questionable graffiti’d walls.
The tiny room echoed with the sound of zippers and frantic maneuvering. “Randy, move your elbow, you’re poking me in the kidney!” Stan yelled from behind a metal door.
“If you didn’t have to bring half a pharmacy in that massive toiletry bag, we’d have room to breathe!” Randy fired back.
From the next stall, Billy’s voice rose above the din, serene and authoritative: “Now Boys! Beauty means sacrifice…and sometimes discomfort.”
I hung back, my butt against the cool marble of the sinks, feeling decidedly out of place. I was the conservative gay who wasn't yet comfortable with the constant girl-ing around or the casual ease with which they traded female names. I was still clinging to my polo shirts and my dignity, watching this explosion of camp with a mixture of awe and skepticism.
Randy stepped out of his stall, already half-changed, and caught my eye in the mirror. No one in the group knew that Randy and I had already had an encounter or two back in Birmingham. In the hierarchy of the car trip, he was the muscly pragmatist and I was the academic "good boy," but in the reflection of that lobby mirror, there was a heavy, unspoken history.
"You okay, John?" he asked, his voice lower than the theatrical chirping happening in the stalls.
"Yeah," I muttered, moving toward the only empty stall left. "Just trying to figure out how I can put on my swim trunks without touching anything."
"Good luck with that," he chuckled, as he slipped into the cramped space behind me.
We changed together in that small, pressurized square of tile and metal. There was a brief, charged moment where our shoulders brushed—a reminder of those nights in Birmingham—then we both looked away, focused on the task of becoming beach ready.
Ten minutes later, we emerged together, walking back out to the parking lot where Billy's car was already revving. Billy leaned out the window of the Corolla, his sunglasses slid down to the tip of his nose, with a grin wide enough to catch flies. He looked at me, then at Randy, then back at me.
"What took you boys so long?" he asked, his voice trailing off with a knowing lilt that made my stomach do a slow roll. He didn't say anything else, but the glance and nod he gave Stan in the passenger seat was a silent headline.
"I checked your bag with ours, John. Let’s make for the beach!"
I jumped into Inga and turned to find Sonny and Mark already installed in the back, smelling of coconut oil, cheap beer, and impending mischief. "Let’s roll down these windows and drink in this Florida air."
As we drove away, I heard Mark quip to Sonny, “Did Pam cut your hair?
“Yes”
“Well honey you need to do something different next time. You look like Friar Tuck.”
Sonny snapped back, “It’s called a Caesar cut!”
Mark replied, already cracking open a fresh beer for the road, “Well, honey, you need to render unto Caesar what is Caesar's—and tell Pam you want your money back.”
Our Gay Kingdom
We crossed the bridge into the Gulf Breeze speed trap—a town so dry and conservative they probably banned sex for fear people might think they’re dancing—and we kept on driving. Over the Sound—paid our tolls—two miles, 5 miles, and then, before we knew it, the condos vanished and there was nothing but sugar-white sand and the blue waters of the Gulf to our right, and dunes, sea grass and the shimmering Santa Rosa Sound to our left.
We finally pulled into a gravel lot by a lonely cinderblock bathhouse. It was Opal Beach near Navarre.
The beach was beautiful, quiet and pristine like a nature preserve, the sand so white and fine. After we all walked to the cool wetness of the tide line, the water licking our feet, the waves breaking with a soft, shushing sound, without speaking a word, we all sat down just taking it all in.
Then Billy popped and shouted “Let’s unload these wagons!”
Billy’s car was a magic trick of high-camp luxury. Like a magician working a Vegas matinee, out came chairs, umbrellas, a round card table and two telescoping twenty-foot poles to fly our rainbow flags. A linen tablecloth followed, topped with a spread fit for a coronation, washed down with champagne and "barley pop.” Tucked behind a spare tire, Billy unearthed a relic from the previous October—Mark’s glitter-encrusted plastic wand topped with a star, left over from his turn as Glinda the Good Witch.
“Is that my wand?! Mark squealed. “I wondered where that went.”
“A better question is ‘why’s it behind the tire in my trunk’” Billy said, continuing to unpack.
Randy snatched it up and ran. “Hey!!” Mark yelled, but Randy ran off - down to the water’s edge to set up his perch, waving the wand around over the backdrop of the sea and sky.
With the camp set up, Mark walked out into the surf to cool down, diving into the waves and surfacing like a playful seal. All the sudden, Randy let out a theatrical shriek, 'Oh, for god's sake, Mark, bless your heart, come out of that water. You look like a drowned rat!' and playfully hurled the wand.
Mark dove into the seventh wave and the wand hit the water right on top of him. Mark emerged and grabbed it “My wand!” “You f*ckin’ little garden gnome! Why would you throw it in the water?!” as he walked out from the foam toward Randy, spluttering and indignant.
Billy, ever the peace-maker interrupted “Ok kids. Don’t make me have to pull over this car!” They both looked up at him startled, then everyone laughed. Mark trudged back to the sand and, with a mock-solemn bow, handed the wand to Billy as he passed by to set the table.
Billy didn't skip a beat. He accepted the wand with the gravity of a monarch receiving a scepter. 'Thank you, honey,' Billy chirped, standing up and waving the glittered wand toward the horizon. 'The Lady of the Lake has spoken. Consider this beach officially consecrated.'
After we got things set up, Mark wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, turned up his empty solo cup, and shook it with a flourish. 'Honestly, Billy,' he chirped, 'who’s a girl gotta f*ck to get a drink around here!?' Billy didn't skip a beat. He popped a cork with a theatrical bang and handed Mark and the rest of us a plastic flute of bubbles.
We had a feast: chilled shrimp that Billy had somehow kept frozen in a nest of dry ice, wedges of Brie that were sweating in the Florida heat, trays of fresh cut fruit, and enough beer and champagne to float a boat.
It turns out, this was a long standing meeting place. Men who had sex with men from all over the region, from Pensacola to Navarre were drawn here to this remote, small cinderblock bathhouse in the middle of nowhere to enjoy nature and the Gulf of Mexico in the buff—and encounter other like-minded men. On this day, nude bronzed and statuesque male bodies were scattered here and there across the beach and the dunes.
“Is this legal?” I asked Billy. But he obviously thought it was a rhetorical question, quietly staring off into the horizon.
I was shy, intimidated by the sheer 'outness' of it all. I don’t think I ever even took off my t-shirt—and I definitely avoided the public men’s room, preferring to wade waist-deep into the emerald water to 'smile' in private.
I sat there on the edge of the blanket, clutching my plastic flute of champagne like a shield. I was quietly taking it all in - watching them flit around taking in the "unseemliness" of it all with a mixture of awe and a cold, tight knot of embarrassment in my gut. I thought to myself ‘Why are they hell bent on pretending to be something they aren't?’
And like a bolt of lightning out of nowhere, I heard “Why do you seem so uptight, John?" Randy asked, his voice losing its playful lilt and sharpening into a razor. "You’re so quiet. Whatcha thinkin’ about?"
Mark stepped in, his face tight. "He’s embarrassed, Randy. Look at him. He’s sitting there in a fetal position, fully clothed in the middle of a sunny day on a neked gay beach. We’re in the middle of nowhere and he’s still afraid somebody’s gonna see him and report him to the UAB dean’s office - or worse yet - tell his mother." He turned his gaze on me, cold and direct. "You think you’re better than us, don’t you? You think because you can pass for 'straight’ you’re better. You look at me, and you see some queen that calls himself 'Missy’ - a sissy little fag boy with a girl’s name prancing around in the sand with pumps on - and you think I’m the weak link."
"I don’t know what you mean," I stammered, but of course I knew - and he had hit a nerve. Why couldn’t I even just live and let live. Why did I have to be so judgemental?
"Is that why you haven’t gone to dinner with me?" Randy snapped. "You’re ashamed? You’re so busy trying to act 'straight' that you’ve forgotten that your own sense of ‘straightness’ is a lie. You’re a fag, John. Just like the rest of us. You’re no different. No better. And let me tell you—your 'Mary' is just as big as any of ours, and you’re scared to death of her.”
“Just lighten up a little, John,” he said with a half smile. “You’re like Eeyore—so miserable and serious all the time."
Mark leaned down, his shadow falling over me. “You seem so afraid someone will see who you really are and judge you—that they’ll hate you. The thing is, John, you seem to hate yourself."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The waves crashed, but no one moved—no one spoke. I felt small. I just wanted to dig a deep hole in the sand and crawl in.
Then, Billy popped another cork. The bang shattered the tension like a glass brick.
"Oh, for God's sake!" Billy shrieked, throwing his hands up. "Someone get this man a fainting couch and a string of pearls to clutch! Mark, you're being so dramatic—save the soliloquy for the stage. And Randy, put that wand down before you poke someone’s eye out.”
Sonny chimed in from the cooler, not even looking up. "Anybody want another barley pop?"
“No,” Missy said, “pass me the bubbles. This undisputed champion has another game of ‘Toss the Pump’ to win. You’re up, Sonny!"
I felt the air rush back into my lungs. It had all ended as quickly as it had started—I was still shy, still mousy, still clutching my champagne—but the boundary had been drawn. I realized then that they weren't angry with me. They were just saying what they saw—and what they saw was that I was the only person on that beach who was pretending to be someone he wasn’t.
The quiet types along the beach - those who had come for a private afternoon - gave our loud and flamboyant circus a wide berth, retreating down the shore as Billy straightened up the laundry basket and produced another pair of pumps.
'Time for another round of Toss the Pump!' he announced.
Billy walked back and sat next to me quietly for a few seconds, then leaned in, his voice a consoling but conspiratorial whisper. “You’re ok, John. You’ll come to it in your own time.”
After we sat quietly for a few minutes, he turned and asked “What do you think of our little spot? This is our own gay Kingdom. ‘Is it legal’, you asked? Who cares? Either way, it’s ours.'
'It’s so beautiful,' I replied.
'Yes, it is,' he said with quiet contentment. Then he bolted up, snatched a size 12 stiletto from the sand, and barked, “Now—are you gonna sit there all day, or are you gonna show these girls how a gentleman handles a heel?'"
Little did I know how prophetic Billy was that day. This was a mere seed of the miracle it would become. In future years, our cars would multiply into a seemingly endless line stretching for miles down both sides of Hwy 399 as the word spread through caring brotherhoods across the South.
Soon, the Boys of Atlanta (BOA) would arrive with their own marquees; the New Orleans Boys (NOB) would bring the Mardi Gras spirit to the dunes; and the Men of Memphis (MOM) would stake their claim in the sand. But on that day, it was just us—the Men of Birmingham (MOB)—the self-appointed arbiters, jesters and knights of a court that was only just forming.
By mid-afternoon, the sun had done its work. We packed up our rainbow flags and retreated to the hotel, leaving the beach beautiful, quiet and pristine, exactly as we’d found it. It was my first pilgrimage with the Men of Birmingham. But it certainly wouldn't be my last.
And Here’s to Billy
Billy R. Cox was a force of nature—the gay Pied Piper of the Deep South. He’d play a tune, start a rhythmic march through the streets of Birmingham, New Orleans and any other city in the South, and before you knew it, we were all falling into line behind him.
I became his disciple and his friend. I watched him. I studied the way he spoke to people as if they were the only person in the room; the way he deployed a smile like a tactical weapon; and the way he organized, well, everything, but especially the fierce precision with which he led us through Pride Parades and AIDS fundraisers, showing a marrow-deep commitment to our community when few others seemed to care.
He was in many ways the architect of the world we still inhabit in Birmingham. He helped form BAO, birthed the fundraisers that saved lives, and traveled the South teaching other men how to turn their own grief into a revolution. He was named grand marshal of the Alabama AIDS Walk, and, in the final months of his life, opened up for a series of stories in The Birmingham News that documented his fight with the disease that would rob him of his life at 37.
Billy’s health began to decline and he died on November 25th, 1994.
But the music didn't stop—it just changed keys. Because of him, we all learned how to strap on our own armor of smiles and charm to do the work that had to be done. I learned to find my own light, my own rhythm, and eventually, I looked back and realized people had begun following me, too.
He showed me the way out of the shadows. He taught a shy boy from Birmingham that you don't have to wait for an invitation to be fabulous—you just have to plant the flag and wait for the rest of the world to catch up.
And he was right, of course. By 1994, CNN would report a million of us swarming the shores of Pensacola Beach on Memorial Day Weekend—a great gathering of the tribes under a single sun.
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