Be Still, My Dear Gay Heart

We took the train to Tallinn and on November 2 checked into a non-descript hotel, again the designated residence for foreigners. The room was rather long and narrow, with a sofa and chair at one end and two single beds at right angles at the other. I immediately noticed two strange features of the room. The sofa and table were separated from the bedroom area by a curtain, but the curtain rod did not have a curtain. And the little knob on the door lock did not work, so the room could not be locked from the inside. Again Dick reassured me that there was nothing to worry about, and we made ourselves at home, setting Dick’s radio on the coffee table so that we could follow the buildup to the elections in the U.S. We had more vodka and caviar and, after smoking some grass, stowed it away in the brief case, which we put in the closet. We made love in my bed and then slept separately because the beds were so narrow.

The Old Town of Tallinn was indeed charming and beautiful, and the food was good. We made a reservation for 8:00 p.m. on November 4 at what the guide book said was the best restaurant in Tallinn. On both our second and third evenings we went to a Russian bath across from the hotel and then had a drink at the hotel bar. On the second night we made love and then, because the Russian bath was a bit enervating, had a nap before going to dinner. On the third night we followed the bath and drink with a brief listen to the news to find out if Eugene McCarthy would throw his support to Hubert Humphrey on November 4, the eve of the election.

We were just getting undressed in my bed for making love when there was a great racket at the door, with people shouting orders that I didn’t understand but Dick did; he later told me that they were saying “Get that door open.” “Quick, open that door.” Dick leapt out of bed, hiding his erection with a pillow, as four men burst into the room, one of them with a flashing camera. I stayed in bed with my under shorts on until I was ordered to get up. I soon made out that they were the manager, a bellman, a translator who was also wielding the camera, and a man in a long black overcoat whose Moscow accent Dick construed and identified and who turned out to be a member of the KGB. Through the translator, they ordered us to move to the sitting room area while they did the “protocol of the room,” which meant a thorough inspection of the bed. They found a tube of KY lubricant and a handkerchief that they suspected was stained with cum. As they ordered us to get dressed, I managed to say “All of this because you were sitting on the side of my bed discussing whether or not McCarthy would throw his support to Humphrey”—telling Dick the line I was going to take. They ordered us to be silent and led us to a jeep-like vehicle that took us to the “medical expert.” He ordered us to remove our pants and under pants and proceeded to inspect our ass holes and penises for evidence of cum. Had they burst into the room ten minutes later, he would have found some, but because they were premature, he didn’t.