Tuesday, September 18, 2018

I Solve the Mystery of Fred's Goblin Boyfriend

I never wrote about Dale Schaefer-Shit before because it is not a pleasant memory -- in the spring of 1980, when I was a 19-year old college sophomore, there was something foul lurking in my first boyfriend's apartment.

A nasty little smirking goblin who ate Cheerios at 4:00 in the afternoon, watched children's cartoons even though he was over 10, hid his nasty bits under blankets, and enticed us to cheat on each other.

But after I wrote the story, I found myself wondering about Dale Schaefer-Shit.  There really was something odd about him.

I never saw him anywhere but in Fred's apartment, and only between 4 and 5 pm.  Did he even exist anywhere else?

Fred never talked about him, unless I specifically asked a question.

Fred and I stayed friends for the rest of his life, and got together in the Quad Cities often at Christmastime and in the summer. But he never suggested that we visit Dale Schaefer, or even mentioned him, except once to tell me that they had been having sex during those months in the spring of 1980.  That's a very odd way to behave about your childhood friend.

It's as if, when he wasn't in the room, Fred forgot about him.  Spooky.

I've read a lot of paranormal anecdotes about mysterious "friends" who suddenly appear out of nowhere and attach themselves to you.  When they're around, they imbue you with memories of a long association.  When they go away, you forget that they exist.


More evidence: Dale Schaefer was tall, broad-shouldered, with a black beard and a hairy chest, but I always got the impression of a short, leering being with very long arms, and clawed hands. Was I looking through a screen?

And that blow job I gave him in March 1980, the one time that we were alone in the apartment.

Schaefer-Shit's cock was rock-hard and prickly, as if it had been shaved.  What cock has hair?

I don't mean to brag, but I'm rather an expert on semen.  The average ejaculate consists of about half a teaspoon-full of a thick, viscous liquid.  Schaefer-Shit execreted a Big Gulp, a mouthful of thin, salty, watery stuff.

Not like any human semen that I've ever encountered.

What kind of man, beast, or supernatural being was this Dale Schaefer?

For the last 48 hours, I've been researching him obsessively.

It's a common name.  There are 8 Dale Schaefers in Iowa alone.

This one probably isn't the right one.

Fred said that they grew up together, so presumably they graduated from Aledo High School the same year, 1971. I got a copy of the 1971 Aledo yearbook online.  No Schaefers of any sort.

I checked the Aledo phone directory.  No Schaefers.

Of course, he could have moved away long ago.  Or he never actually existed.

As a human.

I emailed two guys I knew with a long association with Fred.

1. Matt, Fred's ex-lover.  They were together for 10 years, and friends afterwards, for the rest of his life. Surely, if Dale Schaefer was a real person, not some supernatural entity, Fred talked about him, or even invited him out to visit.

"Mais no, mon petit etalon, I don't recall that Fred ever mentioned a Dale Schaefer."

His childhood friend.  Not once, in 10 years.  Curiouser and curioser.

2. Tyler, Fred's "son."  A 2011 pickup turned into a Platonic soulmate in the last years of Fred's life. When you are dying, you think about the past, so surely Fred talked about his childhood friend then.  Maybe Schaefer even came to his funeral.

"No, Fred never mentioned a Dale Schaefer, that I remember.  I'll check the funeral memorial book, and get back to you...Nope, no Dale Schaefer."

Maybe he died.  Maybe he died shortly after Fred and I broke up, so Fred never mentioned him again because who wants to dwell on the past?

Or maybe he was demonic being who latched himself onto Fred just while he was living in that apartment in Davenport.  Maybe he was bound to that apartment somehow, a ghost.

Then Tyler emailed me again:  "I have an idea who would know. Fred's brother, Dwight.  I have his email, and we're friends on Facebook."

3. Dwight.  I met him at Christmas in 1980, when I had dinner at Fred's parents' house: he was in his 30s then, a a truck driver, tall, bearded, fat.  38 years later, he'd be in his 70s.  Would he remember his kid brother's friend from decades before that?

If Dale Schaefer actually existed.

Dwight is 72, retired, widowed, living in Texas (ugh!).  No beefcake pictures on his page except this one, who must be his son.  Or, more likely, grandson.

We had an instant message conversation.

"Schaefer?  Are you sure you don't mean Shaver?  I went to school with a guy named Robbie Shaver.  He had a younger brother.  I forget his name now, could have been Dale.  He would have been near Fred's age, six-seven years younger than me.  They moved to the Quad Cities...oh...I don't remember when.

Could it have been Shaver-Shit, not Schaefer-Shit? I only heard his name spoken a few times....

And if they moved to the Quad Cities during high school, it would explain why there was no Dale Schaefer -- Shaver in the Aledo high school yearbook.

Not a diabolical goblin who appeared out of nowhere?

"Robbie Shaver and I lost contact over the years, but we got back together on Facebook awhile back.  Would you like his email address?"

4. Robbie Shaver, 72 years old, a childhood friend of Fred's older brother.  

  "Dale was my brother. He died a few years ago -- cancer.  But I remember his best friend Fred when he was a kid. They had sleepovers, and they watched The Flintstones and called each other Fred and Barney."

Not a goblin.  Not a demon.   How disappointing!

"He was a little shy, a little slow.  Nowadays I think you might diagnose him with Autism.  Always in a world of his own."

In spite of his learning disability, Dale graduated from Moline High School in 1973, took classes at the community college in solid waste management, and got a job with the city.  Night shift.

Dale Shaver-Shit.

I've always been fascinated by those nondescript buildings you see downtown or by railroad tracks, always completely dark except for a single glowing window.  Who is in there, I wonder.  What are they doing?

You don't usually ask elderly people about gay topics,but I couldn't resist.  "Fred was gay, you know.  Did he and Dale ever date?"

"Fred was gay?  No, I had no idea. Cool!  Now I can say I knew a gay guy, back in the day!"

Wow, a gay-friendly 72-year old from the Midwest!

"Dale didn't really talk about being interested in anyone, man or woman.  He stayed mostly in the family.  It was hard for him to make new friends."

 "Maybe it was just the logistics of his night job," I suggested. "Working in a sanitation center all night, sleeping all day.  How could he go on a date?  How could he invite anyone to spend the night, when his night was day?

"And maybe he was hesitant about starting anything serious, because he couldn't have kids."


"Dale didn't tell you?  He was very open about. it. I think he was sort of proud of it -- it set him apart from everyone else. His testicles didn't work at all, never did. He had hormone injections his whole life, but he didn't produce any sperm."

That explains the lukewarm, watery, salty prostrate fluid.

But why did Fred never talk about him again, after the spring of 1980.

Maybe because I made it clear that I didn't like him.

I felt very guilty.  This shy, sweet guy, a little slow, socially awkward, comes to visit his only friend, and I treat him like a goblin.

I wonder if he remembered that long-ago blow job from a hot 19-year old, a hint of desire, a hint of normalcy in a lonely life.

See also: I share Fred and His Boyfriend; I Cheat on My Boyfriend with a Goblin.

Saturday, September 15, 2018

I Cheat on My Boyfriend with a Goblin

Davenport, Iowa, March 1980

In December 1979, when I was a sophomore at Augustana College, I got my first actual boyfriend: Fred, 27 years old, a graduate of McCormick Theological Seminary taking his internship year at the First United Methodist Church in Rock Island.

After Christmas I started spending two or three evenings a week with Fred -- dinner (he cooked), tv, and sex, then rushing home at 11:00 pm to tell my parents I had been studying late at the library.

By March  I had introduced them to Fred, and was openly spending the night on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.

In June we moved to Omaha together.  After an execrable six weeks, we broke up, but stayed friends for the rest of his life.

Fred actually was from the Quad Cities, or nearby; he grew up in the small town of Aledo, about 30 miles south, and got his undergraduate degree in psychology at Knox College in Galesburg.  He was still in contact with several of his Quad Cities friends, some that knew he was gay, some that didn't.

One who did was Dale Schaefer-Shit (his real name, except for the shit part), a nasty little goblin, about 3 feet high, with a very thick, heavy torso, very long, hairy arms, long sharp claws, an ugly, warty face, pointy ears, green skin, prehensile toes, a tail...

 Ok, he looked more like the top photo: Fred's age, tall, buffed, with a black beard and a hairy chest. But it was fun imagining him as a goblin.

I arrived at Fred's apartment, across the river in Davenport, about 4:30 pm -- dinner was at 5:00 pm, standard for the Midwest -- and at least once a week, often more than that, Dale Schaefer-Shit was there.  Apparently he  had some sort of late-night goblin job with the city, so he got up around 2:00 pm, and came to visit Fred in the late afternoon to do morning-type activities.

Sometimes he was sitting at the kitchen table, slurping on Cheerios.

Sometimes he was on the couch, watching Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat.  

Sometimes he was coming out of the bathroom, toweling off after a shower, naked, his hairy chest glistening, his cock and balls dangling between his legs.

I should have been turned on, but I wasn't.  Seeing Dale Schaefer-Shit made me angry.  I could be in a perfectly good mood, on top of the world, but when I walked in and saw the goblin, my hackles raised.  There was just something about him that seemed unclean, disturbing.  Evil.

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.
The reason why, I cannot tell.
But this one thing, I know full well.
I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.

Apparently the feeling was mutual.  Dale Schaefer-Shit rarely spoke to me.  Usually he pretended I wasn't in the room.  And he never stuck around long after I arrived.  He said "See ya, Flintstone" to Fred, flashed me an evil smile, and slithered off to do nasty goblin things.

Where did Fred, the ministerial intern, the theologian, the trained pastoral counselor, even meet that creepy little gremlin?

"He's my oldest friend.  We grew up together.  We were both in the same Cub Scout troop.  We went to sleepovers together, and trick-or-treating on Halloween."

With that face, he must have gotten a lot of candy...

"We called each other Flintstone and Rubble, because my name is Fred.  He's the first one I told when I realized that I was gay."

I get it...he was your shadow-self, the yang to your yin, the darkness to your light, the squirrelly  snivelly Gollum to your Frodo.

"Well, he strikes me as...um.."  A nasty little gremlim!  "As sort of creepy."

"He's a little on the shy side, but he's a good guy, really."

One wet, blustery day in March, before we took our trip to Des Moines to visit the Priest with Three Boyfriends,  I arrived at the apartment to find Dale Schaefer-Shit sitting on the couch under a blanket, shirtless, eating cereal and...reading one of Fred's Playgirl magazines!

"Um...hi..."  I said tentatively.

"Fred's not here -- something held him up."  He laughed at a secret joke.  "Sit down.  Want some blanket?"

I couldn't think of any way around it, so I kicked off my shoes, threw my raincoat on the floor, and sat down next to Dale Schaefer-Shit.  I pulled the blanket over my legs.

"Hey, Boomer maybe you can help me.  I've always wondered about something, and Fred's too square to talk about it.  What do gay guys do in bed?  Like rub your cocks together?"

I should have said "None of your business," but Dale Schaefer-Shit had dark mystical powers.  I don't think I had a choice.  "Sometimes we do that. Fred's favorite thing is Greek, which is plowing into your butt, but he's too big for me.  I like French, which means giving the guy a b.j."

He flashed an evil grin.  "No kidding?  You suck his cock? Well, I see why Fred likes that, but what do you like about it?"  I felt a hairy leg brush against mine.  Schaefer-Shit was wearing short pants -- or naked...

Startled, and inexplicably getting aroused, I stammered "Um...I get a lot out of it.  It's totally erotic...getting a guy off."

"Yeah?  Cool!  I've got blow jobs before, with girls, but I never gave one."  He grabbed my hand under the blanket and pushed it against his naked, hairy cock.  I instinctively began masturbating him.

"I'll bet gay guys do it better, though.  You know what it feels like."  He grabbed me by the neck and pushed me down toward his crotch.

I hadn't yet learned about the custom of sharing, and besides, I couldn't stand the little goblin.  But I moved like in dream, depersonalized, watching the events from above.

I got on my knees, stuck my head under the blanket, and took Schaefer-Shit's very hard, very hairy penis down my throat.  It was  average sized but hard as a rock, and covered with short hairs, like it had just been shaved.

It wasn't pleasant -- like having a hairy rock prodding at me -- so after awhile I moved on to his balls.  They were huge, what they used to call "bull balls."

 I licked and sucked them -- one was a mouthful -- while beating him off, then returned to his cock in time for him to excrete a mouthful of lukewarm, salty goblin semen.

He pulled his pants up, and I returned to my place next to him on the couch.  We turned on the tv and watched a game show wordlessly.  Gradually my will power returned, and I realized that I had just sucked the cock of a vile little goblin.

"Don't tell Fred about this," I said, my eyes on the screen.

"Oh, no problem.  I can keep a secret.  I'm full of secrets"

Soon Fred appeared, carrying a grocery bag.  "You guys been watching tv?" he asked suspiciously.

"I've been keeping Boomer warm for you," Schaefer-Shit said. "But now I have to go to work.  See ya, Flintstone."

"Bye, Rubble."

The next time I saw him, the little goblin went back to his habit of ignoring me.


In June we moved to Omaha, and after six weeks Fred and I broke up.  I never saw or heard about Dale Schaefer-Shit again.


I never told Fred what happened that day.


Many years later, Fred revealed that he had been cheating on me with Schaefer-Shit.  Those times I ran into the little snivelly creep coming out of the shower, he had just been in the bedroom, being screwed by my boyfriend. 

I didn't blame him.  Schaefer-Shit had some kind of weird dark magic, and could get you to do what he wanted.

"Sometimes I didn't have a chance to clean up afterwards," Fred added, "So when you went down on me later, my cock had been inside...well, you know."

Yeah, I know.  Inside a goblin's butt.

See also: My First Real Date.; Fred's Nine Lovers.; The Mystery of the Goblin Semen

Friday, September 14, 2018

15 Boy Toys, Hustlers, and Boyfriends for Pay

We like to think that our boyfriends and partners are some mystical predestined soulmates, but in fact we often select them based on some quite mercenary factors:
1. Does he live far away?
2. Does he have nice roommates?
3. Will he be a a social asset, getting me noticed by the right people, invited to the right parties, invited to "share" by the A-list of the gay community?

Even: does he have money?  You can be persuaded to accept a mediocre physique, annoying personality, and inadequate penis if it means spending the night on sheets with a 1200 thread count and getting expensive presents when it's not your birthday.

The mercenary factors are most evident with three types of relationships:

Hustler: He's on the clock.

Boyfriend for Pay: Not literally, but if the gifts dry up, he'll likely head for the door.  He's not a hustler, but he sure ain't free.

Boy Toy:  He's with you mainly for the free dinners and late-model car, and you're with him mainly for the social status his hotness brings, but you like each other for other things, too.

During my 20s and 30s, I was a Hustler just once, and never a Boy Toy, that I know of.  But I met a few:

West Hollywood

1. The Kept Boy, aka Zack, who ordered a Flying Grasshopper at Mugi one night, got completely smashed, and tried unsuccessfully to have a three-way with us before we took him back to his wealthy boyfriend.  Definitely a Boyfriend for Pay

2. Scott, the Cute Young Thing who came to my Celebrity Boyfriend's post-Oscar party with a famous director, and nonchalantly cleared the dessert plates while naked. Boyfriend for Pay.

3. Benny from Basgo's.  He was a regular at Basgo's, the Hispanic bar, who made his living picking up bi-curious and downlow men, one or two per night, but went home with open gay guys for free.  Hustler.

4. Danny the Trophy Boy, who Lane dated before me: 19 years old, stunningly attractive, didn't do anything all day except watch Duck Tales, hang out with his friends, and buy clothes (55 shirts, 21 pairs of shoes, and 32 belts). Boy Toy.

I'm not counting Infinite Chazz, who started out a boy toy, but became one of the family.  He started calling me "Dad."  Still does.

Castro Street

5. The Nephew.  There were a lot of older, closeted gay men in San Francisco, who were afraid to come out, even in a gay neighborhood.  The elderly guy getting drunk on martinis at Twin Peaks introduced his companion du jour as his "nephew," even though they were groping and kissing each other.  Boyfriend for Pay

East Village

. Claude, the super-hung English boy who was living in Ravi's gigantic house on Long Island, and hosted sex parties but wasn't allowed to do anything himself. Boy Toy

7. Barry the Colonial Williamsburg boy spent time in West Hollywood, working as a Hustler before an encounter with a Boyfriend for Pay convinced him to give up the life.  Hustler.

8.My roommate Edward, an older, rather fey art appraiser, had a "secretary" named Andrew Marvel (look it up).  The boy didn't have much to say, but then nobody wanted him for his sparkling conversation. Or his secretarial skills. Boyfriend for Pay. 


By the time I got to Florida, I was 40 years old, a twink magnet, with a car and a house (actually sharing Barney's house), old and well-off enough to attract Boy Toys of my own.  But I found very few.  Most guys either paid for the date or insisted on paying for their half.  The Young Republican had more money than me.

9. Darvon from Keokuk, who used the stereotype of a Midwestern farmboy (and the term Keokuk rhymes with) to draw clients.  Hustler.

10. Victor the Gym Rat, who "shared" us with his sleazoid Daddy.  Boy Toy

11. Yuri!  He had a Ph.D. in Atmospheric Science and spoke five languages, but the college adminstrator who started dressing him in $500 Gucci shirts didn't seem to notice. Boy Toy.


Boy Toy relationships are rare in the Straight World: they can't increase your social standing among heterosexuals, who generally think of all gay relationships as inferior to their own.  Besides, they rarely notice, assuming that older-younger pairs must be father and son.


12. The Satyr, about 60, fat, with the biggest Kovbasa++++ I have ever seen.  His housemate was a young, slim Asian guy who did the cooking and cleaning.  I was pretty sure that he was a Boy Toy.

13. Troy, my boyfriend for five years.  He wasn't really a Boy Toy, but he was extraordinarily cute, and didn't have a job for the first two years we were together.  I was paying for his rent, utilities, food, gas, and just about everything else, so all of our friends just assumed....


14. Jimmy the Boy Toy.  My Platonic friends were in their 50s, and their "housemate" Jimmy had a beautiful face and a gigantic Mortadella+.  They enjoyed sporting him around the gay community, even though they weren't actually having sex.

15. Jameer.  He was in his late 20s, some 20 years younger than me, but when we started dating, he insisted on paying for everything and giving me expensive gifts: "I want my man to look good."  I think I was the Boy Toy!


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