Sunday, June 24, 2018

Heinz' Boyfriend: When Sharing Went Wrong

The West Hollywood custom of sharing developed in response to AIDS. Sex with strangers seemed dangerous, especially before we knew what transmitted the HIV virus, so you kept it "in the family."
1. Emotional-commitment sex with a boyfriend.
2. Recreational sex by "sharing" the boyfriend with other close friends.

The AIDS crisis first became noticeable in gay communities in the summer of 1981.  I moved to West Hollywood in the summer of 1985, just four years later, but sharing had developed remarkably fast, with a complex series of procedures and protocols.

Sometime after the second date, but not too long after (typically after about two weeks), you chose a friend to share (have a three-way), and report back to the group on his size, stamina, and favored sexual positions. If they approved of the match, then he would become "one of the family," open to sharing with the others.  If not, you might find yourself off the guest list for parties.

Of course, if he had a different circle of friends, he chose one of his to "share" with you.

To fail to make the invitation within a reasonable period of time was an unforgivable snub.

It was equally unforgivable to refuse.

The guy you chose to share could not be in a relationship, and he could not be someone new, someone you hadn't been with before.

However, he had to be someone your new boyfriend had not been with before.

In a small community where social circles overlapped, these rules made the choice could be very complicated.

For instance, let's say I am dating the ex-boyfriend of one of my friends, A.

My social circle consists of A, B, C, D, and E.

When my new boyfriend was dating A, he shared B.  Both out.

I've never been with C before.  Out.

D is currently in a relationship.  Out.
That leaves E.

No wonder it was unforgivable to refuse.

Which leads to the point of the story:

One day my ex-boyfriend Raul's housemate, Heinz the German Geezer, called and asked me to "share" his new boyfriend.

Huh?  Why me?  I didn't even think of Heinz as a friend.  He was there by default when I hung out with Raul, and he came to a couple of my parties. I didn't know who was in his social circle, so how was I supposed to report back to them?

Heinz explained.  "Arnie and I have known each other for years.  We shared friends and lovers lots of times -- but since his lover died last month, we only now started seeing each other as boyfriends."

"There must be someone else.  What about Raul?"

"Raul dated him.  Just once -- I don't know why they didn't go any farther."

Ok, so I the only guy who had been with Heinz but not with Arnie?  "Scraping the bottom of the barrel?" I asked.

"Not at all.  I remembered when you and I made love -- it was fantastic."

Not too fantastic.  Heinz wasn't at all my type physically: tall, thin, elderly, pale, with a thick white moustache and a small cock.  Besides, he was a neat freak who didn't let you eat in the living room and got mad when you walked across the carpet in stocking feet.  And his annoying song "Come away wiz me tu Molly-bu, tu Molly-bu, to Molly-bu..." kept going through my head.  I went down on him to its beat!

But...refusing was inconceivable. "I would be honored to do it," I said with a sigh.  "I'll just need a list of your friends to call.  And I get to pick the music."

We agreed to meet for dinner at the Greenery on Tuesday night. But first I called Raul to pump him for information.

"He's a nice guy, a little dazed.  Too many drugs in his wild hippie past, I guess."

"Hot."



"He's black, in his 40s, a bit of a belly, and hung...but..."  He paused.

"What?"

"I should let you find that out yourself."

Curioser and curioser!

Arnie and Heinz turned out to have a sort of Mutt and Jeff thing going on: tall/short, thin/chubby, pale/dark, talkative/reticent.  I couldn't get his coming out story, or any tales of celebrity hookups, or even where he was from:  "Oh, I've been around."

He did talk about some of his ailments: no HIV, but Crohn's disease (whatever that was), some sort of back problem, diabetes, and something that lowered his blood pressure so much that he fainted sometimes.

When he wasn't talking about his diseases, Arnie was being a slob to contrast to Heinz's neat freak.  He picked up his chicken with his hands, spilled polenta all over his t-shirt, had broccoli in his teeth for the rest of the evening, and reached over to take a forkful of my pie without asking.

If this had been a date with me, I would have walked out.  But it was my duty to share.  Besides, maybe Arnie was hung.

Next we went back to Heinz' house to watch a movie on VHS (watching a movie at home was still an unusual experience). We sat on either side, Heinz with his arm around Arnie's shoulders, and me holding his knee.  But when I moved my hand farther in, toward his crotch, Arnie moved it away.

Um...we're sharing tonight, remember?

I decided to kiss him, broccoli or not.

Gross -- his breath smelled of garlic!  And he didn't have anything with garlic for dinner.

Finally it was time to go upstairs to the bedroom. While Heinz  and Arnie kissed, I unzipped Heinz and went down on him. I tried to unzip Arnie, too, but he pushed my hand away.

Curioser and curioser.

I stood and pulled up Arnie's t-shirt so I could kiss his chest.

"Be careful of the colostomy bag," he murmured.

The what?

I looked.

Ok, this was really killing the mood.

I knelt again and went down on Heinz for awhile, pushed his cock against Arnie's crotch, and tried again.  This time he let me pull down his pants and shorts.  A huge, thick cock sprang out, soft, uncut.

And no matter what I did, it stayed soft.

"Nothing's going to happen down there," Arnie said.  "I haven't been hard since 1981.  My ___" (I don't remember what disease he named).

Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.

I let Arnie go down on me while Heinz topped him. It would have been impolite not to.

And I gave a glowing review to Heinz' friends.

Let them find out for themselves.



Friday, June 22, 2018

Nude Photos of John Davidson

John Davidson (not the actor) was "everyone's favorite model," even though he only worked for about six months.

"Butchie" (nobody called him John) was born in Bronxville, New York in December 1945, and grew up near Baltimore, Maryland.  After graduating from high school in 1964, he moved to New York and puttered around, making money by hustling and modeling. His first professional photos were taken by Walter Kundcziz's  Champion Studios.











In March 1965, Butchie joined the Marines and was sent to L.A. for a 12-week boot camp.  He found time to model, too, posing for Pat Milo, Spartan Studios, and Bob Mizer of the Athletic Model Guild.

He got a USMC tattoo, and he also may or may not have befriended Tony Dow, the 20-year old actor who previously played Wally on Leave it to Beaver.













Mizer said that Butchie was "one of the liveliest, most energetic models we have ever had," and  filmed him eight times, giving him starring roles in The Improvident Immigrant (with his Marine buddy Al Emonds, who he brought along for the day), Vicious Guard (where he did a jail-house card game scene with Pat White), Gladiator and the Slave, and The Sassy Seaman and the Officer.












He also put Butchie on the cover of the June 1965 issue of Physique Pictorial.


















The secret symbols Mizer used reveal that Butchie was Greek passive (an anal bottom), French active (into oral), "a ball" (fun to work with), and "an experienced hustler."
















In June 1965, Butchie shipped out to Vietnam, but he never made it.  While on shore leave on the island of Okinawa, he contracted  Japanese encephalitis from a mosquito bite.  He died on July 4th, 1965, only 19 years old.

But he managed to cram a lot of great experiences into those 19 years.

The Tony Dow connection is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding







Thursday, June 21, 2018

My Boss Lets Out His Trouser Snake

Moline, September 1978

During my senior year in high school, my parents said "It's time you started earning your own money."  So I got a part-time job at the Carousel Snack Bar in Southpark Mall, about a ten-minute drive from home.

The Carousel Snack Bar had the curious idea that going to a mall was a rare, exciting event, not part of everyday life, so they sold the kind of snacks you would expect at a carnival: hot dogs, popcorn, cotton candy, and soft-serve ice cream.

There were benefits to the job: all the junk food I wanted, a bookstore down the hall, and a never-ending parade of high school and college jocks.

But I hated my boss, Mark Morris (not his real name).  He was about thirty, a little on the chunky side, with black hair, a square face with a little beard, and nerd glasses.  But what he lacked in physical presence, he made up for in raw machismo.

1. He swaggered.  He swore.  He barked out orders while swearing:  "Clean out the butter dispenser, damn it!"; "Restock the f*** ketchup!"; "Didn't I tell you to change the god** bun warmers!"

2. He kept us late every night, mopping, polishing, shining until an hour after the Mall closed.  I'm still fuming over being forced to stay late and mop out the store room, thereby missing the district jump quiz tournament and killing my chances of going to the regionals!


3. Every other sentence was a clever reference to penises or sex, or both:

"How's it hangin', Sarge?" (he called all the boys "Sarge").
"You guys better take your hands outta your pants and start pushing the the cotton candy!"
"It's cold enough out today to turn an Eskimo dick into a popsicle!"
"Hey, dickless wonder, I said go chop the onions!"

Considering that we were sixteen and seventeen-year olds, his comments seem dangerously close to sexual harassment.  But the term was not in common use yet.  I thought sexual references were standard in the work world.

4. Mark was only obnoxious to the boys.  The girls got away with murder:
"Of course you can take tomorrow off, Dear. Your studies come first."
"Of course you can skip the mopping, Sweetheart, if you're too tired."


The Carousel Snack Bar didn't have a restroom, so we went across the hall to use the one at Flowerama.

5. When we asked permission to leave our post, Mark always implied that we intended to have sex:

"Gonna go choke the chicken, huh?"
"Gonna go spank the ol' trouser snake, huh?"
"Don't have too much fun over there, Sarge!"
"Sure, Sarge. Wanna borrow my Playboy?"

I wanted to quit, but my parents said "You have to stick to your commitments.  You'll be working for bad bosses your whole life."

Which is true, but no other boss has ever asked if I was going to "spank the ol' trouser snake."

Mark actually did keep a stack of Playboy magazines in the store room, and sometimes on a slow day he disappeared into the Flowerama restroom with one for fifteen or twenty minutes. We speculated that he was maybe "spanking" his own "trouser snake."

I pretended disgust, but actually, I wanted to see it.

Maybe I could think of a plan to get a glimpse of Mark's penis, and minimize the obnoxious comments at the same time.

I toyed with ideas while working at the Carousel full-time during the summer after high school graduation, and part-time again in the fall of my freshman year at Augustana.  Finally, in March, shortly after I got naked with the male witch,  I decided on a plan.  Joel, a very cute Augustana music major who was working part-time at Flowerama, agreed to be an accomplice.  First he put a wad of putty on the latch in the back stall in the bathroom, so it wouldn't lock.  Then we waited.

Until a rainy Tuesday night, long past the Christmas rush, so customers were scarce.  Suddenly Mark barked, "Clean out the cotton candy machine!  I want it so shiny you can see your dick in it!"  Then he stuck a rolled-up Playboy under his arm and headed across the hall.

About five minutes later, Joel called the store.  "Nobody here. He's ready."

"I'm going on break," I announced.

Flowerama was deserted except for Joel, who was pretending to be  immersed in a florist's magazine.  He nodded as I passed, walked to the back of the store and through the door marked "Employees Only."  It led to a corridor, with the employee restrooms across the hall.

I carefully opened the door to the men's restroom.  Two stalls, a urinal, and a sink.  I saw Mark's feet in the far stall.  And his pants and underwear.

Not gathered around his ankles.  All the way off, carefully folded, at his feet.

The plan was to burst into the stall and yell "Caught you!", but this was much better!

I sneaked across the floor, noiselessly, and scooped up his pants and underwear.

"Hey!" Mark yelled from inside.  "What 're you...."

I ran, bursting through the restroom door and the "employees only door" while Mark was still fiddling with the latch on the stall.  I deposited his clothes on a tray of lilacs, then ducked behind the checkout counter next a giggling Joel.

Mark burst out a moment later, naked from the waist down.  Still fully aroused.

He saw his pants on the lilac tray, stomped over and picked them up, glared at us, and then stomped back to the store room to get dressed.

I worked at the Carousel Snack Bar for another few weeks, finally quitting when my modeling career started.

Mark never talked about what happened, but he made far fewer references to the penises and sexual appetites of his employees.

By the way, his trouser snake was a Kielbasa+.

L

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