Don't ask, don't tell, don't fall in love

It's hard to grasp the intensity of the paranoia gay officers feel about exposure without actually experiencing it. Most of Brett's buddies ran for cover the moment they discovered a journalist among them at Hide & Seek, Colorado Springs' only gay bar.

For weeks I had failed to coax a single active gay service member to talk, despite the best efforts of intermediaries like the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network (SLDN), the major advocacy group for their cause. "It's just too risky for them," says executive director Michelle Benecke. So the first Friday in February, I drove down to approach them in person.

Like most small-town gay clubs, Hide & Seek tries to accommodate a diverse and sometimes antagonistic clientele. It has adopted a separation strategy, walling off bars and dance floors for cowboys and lesbians, a narrow alcove for pool players and a deserted basement for leathermen. The niche quarters surround a center mainstream room, dominated by a small, tacky stage lined with footlights, and projecting a wide catwalk well into the cramped audience.

The main dance floor alongside it stands idle most of the night Fridays and Saturdays, while the same small band of local drag queens performs the same tired routines. Once or twice a month, the monotony is interrupted by a male strip troupe shuttled in from Denver. No one in town seems very happy with the arrangement, but it's the only arrangement they've got.

The GIs were as easy to pick out at Hide & Seek as they would be weeks later at Thursday Night Club: same high-and-tight buzz cut, same military bearing. They were laid-back, warm and inviting, until someone asked what I did for a living.

When I said journalist, most of the pack bolted, but Brett stood his ground to interrogate, a couple of buddies on either side. Who are you working for? What do you want from us? What did Jack tell you? They weren't even buying the journalist line; suddenly I was an interloper, smuggling out classified information.

You're an informer, aren't you? Who sent you? Jack, what did you tell him?!

"No, I swear, I'm gay!" I yelled. I patted myself down as though I'd find some kind of gay ID card, when suddenly I realized I sort of had one. I whipped out my membership card from a gay dance club in Denver. "Look, my Bent card! With my name on it. Here, check out my driver's license."

That calmed them down, but Brett remained wary until I joined them on the dance floor a few hours later.

I spent the next four months as a participant-observer inside Brett's social circle, which includes several closeted gay officers and a healthy network of civilians -- but very few women or enlisted men, and not a single straight GI. I became a regular at their barbecues and dinner parties, hung out at coffee shops, hiked into the mountains, slept on their couches and enjoyed dozens of rich, satisfying conversations.

Next Page: The most important decision of his life

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