Being Out at 65

Nat

ure has it fixed so that women often outlive their husbands. So it's no surprise to find the gender ratio skewed to female at most retirement communities. Stroll the grounds at one such vibrant development near Fort Myers, Fla., and you're apt never to even see a man. But that doesn't stop its 300 female residents from enjoying busy social lives, competing in tennis by day and partying it up at dances in the evenings. That's because these women are part of the first predominantly lesbian retirement community of its size in the U.S. "I still have to pinch myself that this isn't a dream," says Mary Jeanne Walsh, a retired Chase Manhattan bank vice president who moved into her attractive two-bedroom home three years ago. "When I was younger, I never would have imagined a place like this existed."

In a bygone era, places like this didn't exist. Or if they did, they were makeshift and almost mythical — spoken of only in hushed tones, if mentioned at all. But with the steady increase of openly gay baby boomers stampeding for housing, retirement communities catering to their needs are suddenly trendy. A dozen developers are peddling proposals for gay retirement villages from Boston to Santa Fe, N.M. All these firms want to capture a slice of the market of an estimated 2 million gay people over age 65--a population that's expected to double by 2030.

Revved-up demand seems ensured for several reasons. For openers, many lesbians and gay men assume they would be ostracized at mainstream retirement facilities. "There is a great fear of being forced back into the closet," says Peter Lundberg, who is working on a proposal for gay-senior housing in Southern California. Also, since homosexuals often don't have children for support as they age, retirement communities are especially appealing. And then there's the AIDS factor: as more people live longer with the virus, they could further drive the need for these communities.

Six years ago, however, when Gina Razete and Cathy Groene began developing a community of RVs and prefabricated homes near Fort Myers, the opportunity was not so obvious. Back then, the twosome offered virtually ironclad assurances that the 50-acre property, minutes from the beach, would not be advertised as a women's — let alone gay — community. And nosy journalists were routinely turned away.

The furtive environment was born mostly out of practical concerns. "We have a lot of retired military women and schoolteachers who are afraid of losing their pensions if people outside knew they were gay," Razete explains. Even in their 70s and 80s, some residents in the predominantly lesbian community have never come out to their children and are afraid of being disowned by their families. (For these reasons, in deference to the community's abiding desire for privacy, TIME agreed not to disclose the community's name and exact location.) Other, newer facilities operate more openly. The Palms of Manasota, in Palmetto, Fla., is a close-knit community of about 35 gay and lesbian residents in 21 quaint, Mediterranean-style homes surrounding a peacefully gurgling pond. Thirty-four additional condominium villas are planned for the 30-acre ungated property, which includes seven acres of protected wetlands.

Retirees Roger Robinson, 62, and Greer North, 61, began living in the Palms part time in 2001 but a year later sold their home in Beaverton, Ore., making their relocation official. The couple, who have been together for 40 years, bought their three-bedroom, two-bath home at the Palms for $156,000. "If you said I'd end up in Florida, I'd say you were nuts," remarks North, a former manager for a technology manufacturer. "But the people here are real treasures."

The hallmark of both existing communities is the degree to which residents look after one another. "If anyone is sick, someone will bring soup or provide a ride to the doctor or hospital," says Robinson, a retired elementary school principal. When North recently had cataract surgery, at least six neighbors called to see how they could help. At the Fort Myers-area village, 90 miles away, native Chicagoans Jill Schwartz, 61, and her partner of 29 years Annie O'Dowd, 74, were drawn by the promise of a good support system as much as the sunshine. "We were never activists," says Schwartz, a retired attorney. "We just find it a comfortable place."

Unfortunately, the communities aren't immune to the prejudices that plague society at large. At the Palms, located on a quiet suburban street near a Baptist church, teenagers on a couple of random occasions have driven by the entrance screaming homophobic epithets. Another time, the decorative concrete seahorses next to the pond were overturned at night. "We have to be careful not to label things automatically as homophobia. The vandalism could just have been mischievous kids," resident Ernie Settanni says.

The good news: a few long-term-care centers are starting to incorporate diversity training that includes discussion of sexual orientation. Rainbow Train, a Seattle-based nonprofit agency, has conducted staff sensitivity training on gay issues at 12 local organizations providing long-term care for the elderly.