When he punched me in the face I didn’t think “hate crime,” — I thought, “Why the fuck did he do that?” Hate crime wasn’t something I heard much about in 1990, so it never occurred to me that I may have been a victim of it.
I park my car a block from Spike, an old West Hollywood haunt, a seedy after-hours bar catering to an alternative gay crowd — one of my favorites.
Inside my car, I notice a guy standing across the street. As he walks toward me, I start lowering my window and my appeal begins to rise — even though I know nothing about this man or why he’s approaching my car. I think I’m getting cruised or that I might get a quick blowjob — I simply don’t know.
I take down my window only a few inches, sufficient to feel safe, yet enough of a signal to show interest. His footsteps are quick to reach his destination, me. Words aren’t exchanged and instantly his hand passes through the small window opening and turns into a fist, hitting my face, landing perfectly on my left eye.
“What the fuck?” I yell out and instantly roll up the window, turn the ignition and drive the hell out of there.
It hurts like hell. I’m in complete shock.
I refuse to look in the rearview mirror to see the damage. I don’t have to — I can feel it, inside and out. I hold my left hand…
