Rick Kitzman’s American Queer Set to Satiate Readers Sexual, Spiritual, and Secret Needs

Rick Kitzman, author of the upcoming novel American Queer, out this June via OFM’s own Q Publishing House imprint, talks about the beauty of disco and the challenges he faced as a gay man who lived through the AIDS epidemic.

Self-described as a “Colorado native and a survivor of the AIDS epidemic in New York City during the 80s, he has been a corporate trainer, human resources director, and a club DJ.” Kitzman’s unique life inherently translates in his delightfully unorthodox and lyrical writing style. 

American Queer explores a reality that is both gruesome and beautiful, kinky and intimate, bizarre and innately human–and a reality that society has, and often continues, to try to hide in the shadows. 

While you were putting together American Queer, what was your main goal when putting together and writing a collection that spans your lifetime?

These stories were written over 50 years; they were always a reflection of where I was at that particular time, for the most part. And I’ve wanted to write since a very early age.

But I wasn’t necessarily reading the stories I wanted to—There were gay novels … I can think of The Front Runner, City Of Night, and those classics. And they painted a world I wanted to be a part of—the sex in particular, because I’ll admit it, I was a horny dude. And that was just such a driving force.

I was a pretty wholesome kind of guy. I come from a small town. I was naive. And, you know, I wasn’t really butch or sports-minded or built or anything like that. I was just sort of sweet and innocent. But I loved going to these dark places. I wanted to experience them. I wanted to be in that environment … There was something so romantic about it. And I don’t even know how to explain it … There was just something in the nitty gritty that was real.

I think when I was writing all these stories, particularly in the mids 90s, late 80s, when AIDS was going on, it was definitely a way for me to express what was going on in my world. And it was a very dark world. But there was also hope, light, expression, and life.

The “Story Lady in the Hatbox,” I wrote that in the mid 90s … and the story behind that is the movie called The Mechanic, starring Charles Bronson and Jan-Michael Vincent … the original was made in 1972 … and they wanted to make it more of a gay story between a mentor hitman; it’s about a hitman and his trainee, and when I heard about it and saw the movie, that storyline was so subtle, you reallllly had to use your imagination … It was so disappointing. 

So that was the reason for “Lady in the Hatbox,” because I wanted to see that story. And I chose the second-person perspective because I wanted there to be an immediacy to this very outwardly violent scene, but really it’s about two consenting adults, and they’re just kinky.”

Living in New York City and surviving the AIDS Epidemic in the 80s and 90s, you have a very inherent connection to the hardships and societal shift at the time. How would you describe this time in your life?

In the 70s, the city to be if you wanted to be where it was happening was New York. And so I felt really fortunate that, due to timing, I was able to live there in the middle of this cultural upheaval.

So I moved there in 76 … and New York was coming off almost becoming bankrupt. Crime was terrible … It was very dangerous. People were leaving, (but) there was always culture; there was always art and movies; there was always that. 

But it was when John Lindsay was mayor, and he asked the Feds for help because the city was going to collapse … and that was when Ford was President, and he basically told New York to go to hell, and so there was even more of this nitty gritty. I moved there with four other friends, two women and two other guys.  There were five of us, and we lived in a two-bedroom apartment … (and) when we moved there, the city was just coming back. So we were there right, probably, at its lowest point. 

And we were a part of, and a large part of that was the gay scene, becoming much more viable, visible, culturally significant. And I was very fortunate to be present when that transition happened. 

I basically came back to Denver to die. I thought I was going to die because all of my friends in New York were dying. And I still had very close ties with friends in Denver; they would come out to New York to party; when my parents were still alive, I would go home to Denver for the holidays, and I would always see them, and I would always go to The Ballpark and just have a great time. 

But then, AIDS hit, and people started dying right and left. And it was a struggle to get through every day; I mean, there’s no doubt about it. Obviously I survived, but looking back at those times, I know I was extremely depressed, but I have a naturally cheerful disposition, so most people would never have guessed. 

Much of your early work in the book explores the intimacy, glamor, and rough edges of disco in the 1970s and 1980s. How did your connection to the disco scene in Denver and New York and your work as a DJ impact your life?

I was thrilled with the danger aspect of it. My DJ name is Rick Danger, and there’s a reason for that … My friends, I can still see them sitting there, going, “We should call you Rick Dangerous ‘cuz you love going to dangerous situations.”

So I said, “What about Rick Danger?” And so it was just sort of a nickname that kind of stuck with me. And then when I became a DJ, I adopted it.

Most of my experience was really in Denver. I flew back to New York in 85 to do New Years Eve at Studio 54, and that was an experience; it was fun.

In 85/86, I was kind of going back and forth (between New York and Denver). And good friends of mine built and owned The Ballpark, which was a gay bathhouse (and discotheque in Denver) … and so the owners of The Ballpark asked me if I would like to learn how to DJ and work at The Ballpark. And so I did. I became the head DJ and did a lot of the big parties … I look back on it now, and it was a privilege. It was fun. It was wonderful. And I have recordings from a few of them. 

But music really saved my life; in no uncertain terms it did. I don’t care what people say about disco: It’s wonderful; it’s trippy; it’s fun; it’s energetic; it’s ridiculous; it’s creative. 

I still have a few of my favorites (records); they really are like olds friends, and they evoke such wonderful memories. They don’t evoke horrible times or horrible memories. They evoke, “Oh my god, I was dancing with this guy,” or we were at this party, or I love this remix. They’re those bits and pieces of life that evoke memories and, after all, because they are good memories, that’s a great thing. 

I remember being criticized for it once, when I was talking about the “good ole days” of when we could go dancing and not worry about disease and dying. 

And, you know, what’s wrong with being sentimental about those days? They were wonderful days. There were wonderful guys, (and there was) wonderful music.

American Queer will be available for purchase at OFM’s website this summer and at upcoming events including Denver PrideFest.