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 Copyright © 2022 Gerald Hannon
This edition copyright © 2022 Cormorant Books Inc.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access
Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.

We acknowledge financial support for our publishing activities: the Government of Canada, through the Canada Book
Fund and The Canada Council for the Arts; the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Arts Council, Ontario
Creates, and the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit. We acknowledge additional funding provided by the Government of
Ontario and the Ontario Arts Council to address the adverse effects of the novel coronavirus pandemic.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Title: Immoral, indecent & scurrilous / a memoir by Gerald Hannon.
Other titles: Immoral, indecent and scurrilous
Names: Hannon, Gerald, 1944– author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220219206 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220219265
ISBN 9781770866027 (softcover) | ISBN 9781770866034 (HTML)
Subjects: lcsh: Hannon, Gerald, 1944– | lcsh: Gay activists — Canada — Biography. LCSH: Gay journalists — Canada —
Biography. | LCSH: Journalists—Canada—Biography. LCSH: Sex workers — Canada — Biography. | LCSH: Gay men —
Canada — Biography. LCGFT: Autobiographies.
Classification: LCC HQ75.8.H36 A3 2022 | ddc 306.76/62092—dc23
United States Library of Congress Control Number: 2022936240
Cover design: Angel Guerra, Archetype
Interior text design: Tannice Goddard, tannicegdesigns.ca
Printer: Houghton Boston
Printed using paper from a responsible and sustainable resource,
including a mix of virgin fibres and recycled materials.
Printed and bound in Canada.

cormorant books inc.

260 SPADINA AVENUE, SUITE 502, TORONTO, ON M5T 2E4
www.cormorantbooks.com
To Ed Jackson, life-long friend, comrade-in-arms, and fellow traveller, who did
more than anyone else to ensure the publication of this book.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Table of Contents
Preface
1 - Marathon
2 - Saint Mike’s and the City
3 - Graduation and First Sex
4 - A Year in Europe
5 - The Body Politic: The Beginnings
6 - The Body Politic: Summarized History
7 - The Trial
8 - Bathhouse Raids of 1981
9 - Making Ends Meet
10 - The Sex Ring That Wasn't
11 - Queer in the Headlights
12 - Coda
Acknowledgements
Land Acknowledgement

Landmarks
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Table of Contents
 Preface
Start of Content
Acknowledgements
Land Acknowledgement
Preface

I am, at least by reputation, a sex radical: gay activist dating back to the
Cretaceous period, defender of pedophiles, defender of (and participant in)
sex work, sometime porn actor and maker, shameless voyeur (no window is
safe if my binoculars are at hand), perpetual sourpuss on the subject of gay
marriage. I came of age in the 1960s and 1970s, an era when most of those
character traits and activities were illegal at worst and shameless at best.
Some still are. Others — gay marriage, for example — have switched sides,
transitioning from what many people thought of as an unthinkable and
illegal travesty to a ritual celebrated in a growing number of jurisdictions,
Canada included.
I am not by nature an activist or a theoretician, but I happened to be in
the right place at the right time: Toronto, in the early 1970s. A small-town
boy, I found the city exciting and challenging, but manageable. And, since
family was far away in northern Ontario, I could risk coming out of the
closet, which sounds strangely old-fashioned now but was so very important
then. You had to find others. You had to find your tribe. If you were a
twenty-something, as I was, it seemed as if the gay world you discovered was
exactly the same age, though I’d soon learn that it had a history going back
decades; like me, it was eager, horny, curious, not careful, open.
The people I met often had similar backgrounds to mine: small-town
boys, frequently the first in their families to go to university, not committed
to a career path, looking for sex, looking for love. It was a world of
possibilities, at least for white, cisgender young men — an imbalance it
would take decades to rectify. You might decide to join an organization,
attend two meetings, and by the third find yourself heading a committee or
carrying a banner at a demonstration. Like so many others, I got hooked on
empowerment, the transformation of the Helpless Queer with no history
and an unlikely future into Someone, into a group of Someones who
uncovered a history, who found heroes, who grabbed today and shook it
until tomorrow fell out of its pocket and there was a place for us.
Though not charismatic enough to be a leader or analytic enough to be an
ideologue, I eased my way into the militant tribe of early gay liberation by
being willing to write and willing to practise it until stories rang personal
and true. My eventual career as a mainstream journalist grew from the sense
that every official story has a hidden, truer tale buried in it.
That’s true of my story too.
But this book isn’t my whole story. It’s not an autobiography; it’s an
account of my sexual and political awakening and subsequent activism. My
goal here is to bring to vivid life some critical moments in the early years of
the struggle, sometimes moments that I helped make happen and
sometimes moments that happened to me. It’s not a full history of the times,
either. AIDS activism, the distinguishing feature of the 1980s and 1990s, makes
the smallest of appearances here, though the disease claimed several friends
and colleagues. I mourned and marched but played no organizing role in the
fight for treatment options or the politicization of the doctor/patient
relationship. Instead, I personalized the politics by joining a care team for
Michael Lynch, activist, poet, father, and friend, and by recording day by day
in my journal the ways a community can organize palliative care. Though
the struggle to legalize gay marriage eventually sucked up all the oxygen in
the room, I paid it no mind, persuaded that the proper strategy to achieve
equal marriage was to take it away from straight people. That wasn’t a
popular approach.
Even less popular was “Men Loving Boys Loving Men,” my attempt in The
Body Politic (TBP) to humanize and demystify intergenerational
relationships. The resulting police raid and criminal charges, which led to a
week-long trial, tested the support of the wider gay community for the frank
discussion of an unpopular subject. It was almost a testing ground for the
role The Body Politic would play after the 1981 police raids on Toronto’s gay
bathhouses, though in that case its role was to inspire resistance and create
support for equal rights — what some thought of as the “radical gay agenda.”
Is there a theme here? Perhaps it’s the importance of serendipity. As a
young man, I had no goals, dreams, or schemes (if you don’t count studying
to be a scientist, and I was a failure even at that). I fell into teaching English
as a Second Language because I needed a job, and there it was. I did not
ache to be a writer. I sometimes ask myself what my life would have been
like if I hadn’t been gay, and this is what I see: a teacher or mid-level
bureaucrat, married, two children, right of centre politically, content rather
than happy.
For a period in the 1990s, I did become a teacher, of journalism at Ryerson
University in Toronto. I was also, and had been since 1987, a working
prostitute, the revelation of which provoked a scandal that convulsed the
school for months and eventually led to my dismissal. I wasn’t content. My
life was in disarray, and my future was threatened. Yet I was happy. My life
was in disarray but remained congruent with my ideals as a teacher,
journalist, and activist.
Serendipity can sometimes seem like an organizing force in my life, but
my career was shaped and served by words. Sometimes savaged by them too.
Here are more.
 1

Marathon

According to my mother, the first words I spoke as a child constituted a

full, syntactically correct sentence. There was no earlier dalliance with
monosyllables. Till then a silent child, I stood up one day in my crib and
announced, “The man in the moon is a cowboy.”
The tale seems apocryphal. Surely, like most children, I must have tried
out words like “apocryphal” or “asymptote” before hazarding something so
complex as a reflection on the occupational status of a lunar personage. Still,
I like the story. Mother claimed the sentence was a phrase from a song she
used to sing to me. I like the sense that music, one of the consolations and
challenges of my life, had so early an impact. It pleases me to realize that I
was already entranced enough by words to want to weave them together and
to have done so correctly the very first time. The story also makes me seem
precocious, perhaps pretentious, and a little bit ridiculous — ways I like to
think of myself.
The first words I remember speaking to my father were said as I stood,
bewildered, on a tabletop in a dimly lit room in a house I’d never seen
before. “Who is going to undress me?” I said to him. “You, maybe?” He
would tell this story occasionally when I was older, secretly pleased that for
once I had turned to him rather than to my mother. He didn’t realize that I
wasn’t hoping that he would be the one to undress me and prepare me for
bed. I was dreading it. Even as a three-year-old, I feared him.
 Me in droopy drawers in Penn Lake, near Marathon, 1949. Photo:

Gerald Hannon

I was standing on the kitchen table in an ill-furnished two-storey shingled

house at 3 Armour Street in Marathon, Ontario, a town that was then little
more than a wound in the bush on the north shore of Lake Superior. I, my
mother, and my infant brother, John, had just arrived by train from Bathurst,
New Brunswick, where both John and I had been born (I on July 10, 1944) and
where my mother’s family lived. My father, who was from Nova Scotia (I
never did establish how he and my mother met), picked us up at the station.
He had moved to Marathon some months earlier to take a job in the pulp
mill that had opened in 1946, planning to earn enough money to bring his
family to him. The town, with its promise of jobs, attracted many
Maritimers, working-class men willing to take a chance on a remote outpost.
Educational credentials were not important — my father, I believe, had
completed grade nine; my mother, grade six. Of that first night I remember
only the dimness of the room, my wariness in the presence of my father, the
sense that my mother was bustling about, preoccupied, perhaps impatient,
probably forgetting that she’d put me down on the tabletop and left me there
while an issue of greater moment claimed her attention. I had no sense of
where we were, but, except for short vacations with relatives in the
Maritimes, I would live there at 3 Armour Street, and then next door, at 1
Armour Street, until I was eighteen years old.

My mother Yvonne Hannon and me, Marathon, 1945. Photo: Gerald

Hannon.

When I was twenty or twenty-one, at university, I began an epic poem

modelled on Byron’s Don Juan and based on my life. (I did mention
“precocious, perhaps pretentious, and a little bit ridiculous.”) I wondered in
one of the stanzas how much space should be devoted to one’s childhood
years — and this at a time when childhood years were about all I had:

I won’t say much about my early youth,

That Charlie Dickens stuff is such a bore,
But stick like Holden Caulfield to the truth
About my later years: now, do I hear a roar
From the psychologists’ camp, who think I’m most uncouth
To leave out all that Freudian, formative lore?
Well, Freud’s a name that trips a poet’s tongue,
And he says little of interest to the very Jung.

I was clearly showing off that I’d read lots of books and knew about Freud
and everything.
Even then, I feared boring the reader: every childhood is a web of
ecstasies and terrors. The proportions differ, that is all. I feared particularly
to produce yet one more boy-growing-up-in-the-bush story, ur-Canadian,
featuring much in the way of boreal flora and only moderately ghastly fauna.
I feared being able to engage the reader’s sympathies — I was desperate to be
cool and brittle and sophisticated because I had come to know I was not,
never had been, and, frighteningly, might never be like the people I was
beginning to read about and to meet.
For a child, though, there is no such thing as cool and brittle and
sophisticated. There is only the world, and as a child I could not imagine
that any people anywhere lived differently from me.
Perhaps that is not so true anymore. The lives of children and young
adults are media-saturated. I grew up before that time. There was no reason
for me to imagine that other towns were different from Marathon or that the
world wasn’t mostly bush. There was no television, just two available radio
stations, and my family had little interest in books or magazines. I saw
pictures of other places at school, but they had no more connection to
reality than the movies I saw on Saturday afternoons at the Strand Theatre. I
knew there were cowboys and deserts and oceans, men who could fly and
monsters from outer space, ships at sea and orchestras that played for men
and women in fine clothes, men and women who ate in restaurants and
drank cocktails and danced. They all seemed equally real to me. Or, perhaps,
equally unreal. Miss Carr, my grade one teacher, wrote in the report card
that would graduate me into grade two, “Gerald does quite good work, but
often seems to be dreaming.”
Marathon was not much older than I — a new town for a new pulp mill
built on a remote and sheltered bay that floated the booms of logs that the
mill would turn into a kind of crude cardboard and provided safe harbour
for the ships that would take that cardboard to market in the United States.
The mill itself was large, frightening, noisy, smelly. The town was drab. But
everything else was very beautiful. I wouldn’t have understood the reference
then, but it was like living in a Group of Seven painting. Everywhere was up
from Marathon, everything was higher — the Precambrian shield swelled
around me the moment I turned my head. Snow mountains had shadows
edged in pink and blue that vanished back into shadow when I looked too
closely. The night sky crackled with the swirling oceanic greens of the
northern lights, and I walked among them with the snow squeaking beneath
my boots and my head high, awed and reverential no matter how often they
appeared. Summer days sometimes disappeared in fogs so thick that the
town seemed wrapped in swaddling, and all was hush, and I thought I was
the only face on earth until another face suddenly appeared and I could
laugh about it. Wherever I walked, I might be the only one. Sometimes,
when I walked far from town, I would tell myself, “Every step I take now is
the first step any human has ever taken on this land.” At the time it didn’t
occur to me that those first steps had been taken by Indigenous peoples,
some of whom still lived on a reserve not far from town.
I pride myself on being very urban now, on having expunged every trace
of bush, but once upon a time it was everything to me. The forest — though
we always called it “the bush” — was everywhere, the town just a rough
space that had been crudely hacked from it. The bush began, in my earliest
memories, right in the backyard of our house and stretched uninterrupted
from there north to Hudson Bay. Almost every waking minute not spent in
school was spent in the bush. I knew it deep in my senses — I could, as a
child, smell a clearing before we came to it in our sometimes reckless,
raucous wanderings. The air carried the signs of it forward, carried them
into me, the smell of rocks warmed by the sun, of vegetation different from
what we were clambering through. Most often, this happened on the
Mountain.
That’s what we called it. It was at one end of our street, one of those great
peaks of the Precambrian shield, a looming presence that stopped the town
dead in its tracks. And it was the Mountain, I was convinced, that hid the
sun when it slept — after all, I could see that the sun slipped down behind it
each night. I was sure that if only we could reach the top at the right time in
the evening we would find ourselves at the edge of a cliff, and there below us,
in some great, swirling, unimaginably huge whirlpool of fire, would be the
sun, biding its time, waiting for day. I persuaded other boys to help me hunt.
We would gather and begin the climb, but it was steep and thickly treed and
provided so many opportunities for play and adventure that the gathering
dark would finally drive us back. One day, much later, we would reach the
top, but not while we were still young and ignorant enough to believe we
could hunt the sun to its lair.
We found the world, though. Perhaps, better put, we created it. Because
there was little reason to think that the world was anything but an endless
unravelling of trees and lakes and rivers, we made it ours by naming it. The
lakes and the rivers already had names. We named the rocks.
We named them because they anchored the thread of narrative we wove
through our childhoods. We named them because adults would never come
to find us there, would not even care to know of their existence, and that
made them ours. We weren’t particularly imaginative — there was Cave
Rock (it had a cave). There was Ten Foot Rock (we guessed it was ten feet
high). Sometimes we strove for more. There was Paradise Rock, almost
unfindable on a side of the Mountain we explored less often, rising from a
deep split in the rolling wave of granite that seemed to be the world’s very
floor, hidden by trees, carpeted in moss, so hushed and lonely and sun-
dappled that even noisy boys would sit and whisper. There was the Ice Pick,
a cave that even in the grip of summer held black slabs of the previous
winter’s ice. We could chip away at it. Hold it near our faces. Smell the tangle
of spruce and dank in it as we crouched there in the dark. There was Bum
Rock and Cub Rock and the Rock Cut and the Rock Pile — the naming of
each a matter of debate among us, though once settled the name was fixed
forever.
The other constant was water.

“And Marathon looks on the sea” — that’s not quite true,

Although I always thought of it as ocean.
Superior: sometimes an opaque, Wedgwood blue,
And you forget there’s such a word as motion;
A child may lift his head and see that view
And feel, perhaps, his first poetic notion
Slide through the shifting sandbox of his mind,
Where castles fall, and toys are left behind.

That’s me, channelling Byron. I was serious in that stanza. Superior was a
presence, visible from every part of what we called downtown, which
consisted of the Strand Theatre, the Everest Hotel, the Rec Hall, the Toronto
Dominion Bank, Chapples Department Store, and the police/fire station.
Above them all, at the top of the hill and on opposite sides of the street,
stood Holy Saviour Catholic Church and Trinity Anglican.
Superior is a lake that breeds monstrous storms, and it kills people. In
winter, it piles mountains of ice along the shore; they creaked and groaned
beneath us as we climbed them. In the summer, we swam in it, though we
were not so foolish as to swim anywhere near town. An open stream of
frightening chemical waste flowed downhill from the mill into the water,
coating it with a thick layer of brownish foam and sludge. The trees on either
side of that stream died, made a ghost forest for us, but we never played
there. We walked far down Pebble Beach to a place we called the Black
Lagoon in homage to one of our Saturday afternoon movies. Once, that
rocky beach (Pebble was a misnomer) was carpeted with monarch
butterflies, thousands and thousands of them, all facing the water, their
wings sending a slow sigh among the boulders, waiting for some mysterious
signal that never seemed to come. Any quick movement startled clouds of
them around us, the world a giddy and silent whirl of orange. Then they
would settle again, on our heads and shoulders if we didn’t move.
More frequently, we walked inland, away from Superior, which was
always very cold, to Penn Lake. It was warmer, not so dangerous, probably
less than an hour’s walk from home. And it had the raft.
We found it one summer, apparently abandoned, down at an end of the
lake far from where most people would go. It was too big and too well built
to have been made by kids, but we never discovered who made it. It became
ours, though, and we guarded it jealously. We would push it into obscure
little coves, cover it with branches so no other boys would find it. Head out
early in the morning so we would be the first to lay claim if we thought we
had left it not that well hidden. Once we laid hands on it, we poled out into
the middle of the lake, maybe a half dozen boys, and floated there the day
long, very Huck Finn–ish, naked much of the time, often flat on our
stomachs with our faces pressed close to the water’s surface, fishing for the
small perch and rainbow trout we could see weaving below, giving up and
plunging in ourselves when they ignored us, as they often did.
I see those images, but they are like silent movies. What did we talk
about? What do boys talk about? Comic books, for sure.Squabbles,
provocations, dares. Where best to re-enact the Saturday afternoon movie,
which we always did on the way home from the Strand. We argued about
who would get to play which character. Perhaps we talked of school
sometimes. Never about sex — which I don’t think existed for any of us,
even as a topic — or our families or religion. I know for sure, though, that
after the age of twelve or so, I began to talk to the other boys about Giuseppe
Verdi’s opera Aida.
 One day, my grade eight teacher brought a record player to class —
something I couldn’t remember her having done before — and set it up at
the front of the room, telling everyone to listen to the record she was about
to put on. Until then, almost all the music I had heard in my life consisted of
songs sung by Bing Crosby. My family owned a record player that played
only 78 rpm records. I didn’t actually know at the time that other kinds
existed. My father listened to Bing Crosby over and over, especially when he
was drunk. I often heard the songs that the Happy Gang sang on the radio at
lunchtime when I came home from school. Sometimes my mother sang to
herself.

Me (centre) in drag in a Marathon school performance. I always

liked to perform. Photo: Gerald Hannon

Now, at school, Miss Kenzie puts on her record. The music starts. The
other children sit politely and look bored or interested or curious.
Something different happens to me. It is as if the air has suddenly coloured,
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