Monday, February 19, 2018

My High School Game of Rating Bulges

When I was in high school, I dated a Nazarene girl named Rita, who was convinced that she would one day marry singer Donny Osmond.

Her reasoning was simple: God often tells us His will by "laying a burden on us."  She was worried that Donny, as a Mormon, was destined to an eternity in the Lake of Fire.  One night when she was praying for him to be saved, God "laid the burden" on her to be the one who would win him.

Of course, you can win someone's soul without marrying him, so she sealed the deal by asking God in Jesus' name to give her Donny Osmond as a husband.  God said that whenever we pray for anything in Jesus' name, we will get it.  Case closed.

While Rita was waiting for God to deliver Donny, she had to keep herself pure, so no kissing, no holding hands, no nothing.

Of course, she could talk about cute guys.

If I have to date a girl, I definitely want one who doesn't want to hold hands or kiss, and who wants to talk about cute guys!

Rita rated guys on a scale of 1-9.  Since Donny Osmond was undeniably the most attractive boy who had ever lived, he was the only #10.  Everyone else lined up by how closely they resembled Donny Osmond in hair, eyes, smile, physique.

Unfortunately, there weren't a lot of androgynous pretty boys with shaggy hair and an Osmond smile at Rocky High, so none of the guys got higher than 3 or 4.

I had another idea.  "Since Donny Osmond is perfect in every way, he must obviously be perfect down there, in his sexual organs, right?"

"Right," Rita said dubiously.

"No one will ever come close to Donny's facial beauty, but they might come close down there.  Let's rate the source of masculinity itself!"

"But how can we tell what a guy is like down there without seeing him, you know, with his clothes off?"

So I showed her how to tell how it was hanging from the way a guy walked, from how he sat.

Boners while sleeping or kissing his girlfriend,  or for no reason at all.

Bulges in spandex.

Bulges in uniforms.

Boners at the pool.

Tenting in wrestling singlets.


1.  Can't see anything.
2.  Small bulge, could be a curve of his fabric.
3. Big bulge, but could be something else.
5. Visible cock outline.
6. Obvious semi.
7. Full tent.
8. He rearranges himself.
9. He pushes on it.
10.  It pops out!

The game lasted for months.  Neither of us thought it strange that two ultra-conservative Nazarene kids, who felt guilty over going to movies or eating in a restaurant that served alcohol, would eagerly look for evidence of guys' cocks and balls through their pants.

My friend Aaron the Rabbi's son asked to get in on the game, but soon he dropped out. 

"Guys' baskets are boring!" he told us. "Half the time you can't see anything at all, and even when you see something, how do you know it isn't his handkerchief or his wallet?  I'd rather rate guys on something more obvious."

Turns out he was more of a butt man.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Nate Richert's Kielbasa

West Hollywood, March 2000

I was back in West Hollywood for my friend Larry's annual Oscar party.  On March 25th, the night before, Lane and Randall the Muscle Bear with the Pierced Penis took me out to all our old haunts: Bodhi Tree, Different Light, the French Quarter, the Gold Coast, and the Faultline.

But we never made it to the Faultline.

I was struck by a twink sitting at the bar in the Gold Coast. A little shorter than me, broad shoulders, very handsome round face with sandy hair and glasses, kind of a Harry Potter look except for the lumberjack shirt.

I sat next to him.  He said "Howdy, pardner," and held out his hand to be shaken.

I made a quip about Hogwarts.  He countered with a quip about Lemony Snicket's Unfortunate Events.

Our legs pressed together under the bar.  "Can I buy you another beer?" I asked.

"Heck, I'll buy you a beer.  I'll buy everybody a beer.  Drinks are on me!"

"Well, I don't really drink."

"A virgin margarita, then.  You have to let me buy you something.  I can afford it.  I'm Harvey, and I'm always going to be Harvey, no matter what they say!"

Was that name supposed to mean something?  All I could think of was Harvey the Giant Rabbit in the James Stuart movie.  "Ok, Harvey, a Coke will be fine."

He seemed a little soused, but not unbearably so.  I reached out, unbuttoned a couple of buttons of his lumberjack shirt, and slid my hand down to feel his firm, hairy chest.  Few twinks have that much hair -- I was hooked!

I reached down and groped him.

Nice bulge.  Maybe a Kielbasa beneath the belt.  I was even more hooked!

"Hey!" Harvey exclaimed.  "This place is dead!  Let's go to the Rage!"

The notoriously noisy twink bar?

"Well, I'm here with my friends.  We were going to the Faultline.  We're a little old for the Rage."

"Nonsense.  You're with me.  Harvey can open every door."

The Rage was only a few blocks from our old apartment.  Maybe it would be fun.

It wasn't.  The music was blaring, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and poppers, and there were swarming munchkins everywhere.  It was uncomfortable for everyone, especially the bears I dragged along.

They sat at one of the little round tables, Lane with a soda and Randall with a beer, while Harvey and I danced.  Or did whatever swaying movements we could with the press of gyrating twinks.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder.  It was Randall.

"Hey, either seal the deal and let's go home and screw," he yelled, trying to make himself understood over the roar, "Or drop this twink and let's go home and screw!"

"Ok, ok."  I took Harvey by the hand and led him to a dark area where couples went to kiss.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked, grinning.

"What do you think?"  I put my arms around him, and we started kissing.  He allowed only a brief kiss-- not very impressive.  I reached down and groped him again.  His Kielbasa became aroused, but he didn't t grope me in return.

A bit cool, but I was too into him to notice.  "Let's go back to my place.  I'm staying in my friends' guest room."

"You kidding!  The night is young, and there's about a dozen more clubs we haven't been to yet.  Let's go up to the Strip -- the Viper Room!"

"Well, I'm sort of ready to go home now," I said anxiously.

He put his arm around me, not affectionately, but as a way of steering me away.  "Another time, Bro. Let me give you my number."

Suddenly I remembered that lots of guys in West Hollywood don't do hookups. They want to date, get to know you better.

I handed him a notebook, and he scribbled a number and the name "Nate," not "Harvey."  I gave him mine, too.

"Are you free tomorrow night, Nate?  I'm going to an Oscar party at this great house in the heart of Old Hollywood."

"Sounds great!  Call me!"

I kissed him again, and reluctantly left him at the Rage.

Randall, Lane, and I went to the Faultline, but they cautioned "No more twinks!  Act your age!"

I was too embarrassed to try to pick up anyone else, anyway.

The next day I called Nate's number about noon and about 5:00 pm, and got an answering machine both times.

The day after that, I called the number again, got an answering machine again, and gave up.

A few weeks later, back in New York, I happened to be home on Friday night, switching through the tv channels, and I ran into Sabrina the Teenage Witch, the sitcom based on the Archie comics series.  I hadn't seen it since the first season.

There was Harvey, Sabrina's boyfriend, played by 22-year old Nate Richert.

I had gone out with a celebrity, without realizing it!

I watched Sabrina as often as possible after that, and paid attention to Nate's later career.

He tried to distance himself from his squeaky-clean TGIF roots with horror and indie projects, like Are You a Serial Killer? and Demon Island (about a haunted pinata, no kidding).

His last acting role was H-e-n-r-y (2006), a short about a basketball game in a prison yard.

But he became an accomplished musician, producing music videos and a 2004 album (Tone Control) with a sort of rockabilly-blues beat.  A lot of songs about lost loves and problematic relationships, some heterosexual, some ambiguous, like "Peace of Mind."

I don’t believe in your fairytale.
Dreams come and go with the light of the moon.
You kick the black cat right out of our trail.
It may not last forever but it won’t be over soon

Nate has had several girlfriends, and was married to his childhood sweetheart, Catherine Hannah, for several years.  The couple has since divorced.

So what did that night at the Gold Coast and the Rage mean?

Was Nate gay and closeted?

Bisexual, just starting to explore his attraction to guys?

Straight, trying to make friends, not sure how to respond to aggressive cruising?

I have no idea.

See also Michael J. Fox Beneath the Belt; My Date with the Star of "Wizards of Waverly Place" and My Date with the Nickelodeon Boy

Saturday, February 17, 2018

Desperately Seeking Kevin the Vampire

San Francisco, March 14th, 2003

A Friday.  I'm living in Florida, but back in San Francisco for five days, anxious to visit my old hangouts and re-unite with my old friends:

Drake the Teddy Bear Artist.
Corbin, the Gym Rat with the Mortadella+:
Clay, who I picked up in the restroom at Macy's
Wayne the Ex-Priest.
Matt, my ex-boyfriend's ex-boyfriend

And especially Kevin the Vampire.  When I left San Francisco, I was actually relieved to be rid of him:  his smoking, his elitism, his weird paranormal powers, his exhausting bedroom calisthenics.  But at least dating him was never dull.

David, the ex-Baptist minister who is trying to make up for lost time by hooking up with at least two guys every day, picks me up at the airport.  On the way to his apartment on Alvarado in the Castro, he tells me that Drake, Corbin, Clay, and Wayne have all moved away or gone incognito.

I'm disappointed.  Back in West Hollywood, almost everyone I knew is still there.  I could walk into the French Quarter or the Fautline, and it would seem like I never left.

David shrugs.  "It takes a lot to live in Gay Heaven.  Not only money, but stamina, determination, passion.  Most guys get burned out in a few years."

"Well, surely Kevin the Vampire is still around.  I can't imagine him living anywhere else."

"Dunno.  I just hung out with him because of you, so we haven't been in contact.  Why don't you give him a call?"

I am embarrassed to admit that in a year of dating, I never got Kevin's phone number.  He always called me, or showed up at my door.

"Well, do you know his address?"  David asks.  "We could do a drop-in."

"I never got his actual street address, either, but I know where his apartment is.  I've been there a hundred times."  I hesitate.  "Only...we might not be able to find it.  One of Kevin's paranormal powers was confusing visitors.  If he wasn't expecting you, you would get lost."

"Desperately seeking Kevin the Vampire, a paranormal adventure!" David exclaims.  "I'm in -- but only if we can hook up with some of the leads.  I'm running a little low on my quota."

Saturday, March 15th

We have breakfast at Orphan Andy's, and then take the Muni out to the Richmond, where we find Kevin's apartment with no problem.  It's on the third floor of a Victorian on 12th Avenue, just south of Clement.

When we knock, a cute black-haired twink answers the door, bleary-eyed, wearing only pajama bottoms.  He introduces himself as Rome (or Roam) and invites us in for coffee.

"I've lived here for two years now, but I know who you're talking about.  He was here when I came to look at the place.  Not my type -- I like them muscular, like you guys."  He puts his hand on David's knee.  "But big eyes.  Weird, hypnotic."

"Definitely one of his selling points," I say.

"Well, he sold me.  I ended up going own on him, right in front of the landlord.  And I'm never a slut!  Weird, huh?"  He pauses, lightly stroking David's knee.  "Sorry I can't help you out.  I have to go take a shower and get ready for work.  So...unless you want to join me..."

I wait in the bedroom while David and Rome make out in the shower.  When they emerge, I go down on Rome while David is topping him.  Smooth hairless chest, average sized, cut, a lot of moaning.

That night David hosts a party in his apartment.  He invites four guys, including Matt, the crazy Harvard boy who was with my ex-boyfriend Fred for ten years.  Now he runs a nude housekeeping service.  Matt's date is, of all people, Seth!

A cute science nerd in his 30s with a surprisingly muscular physique, a hairy chest, and a Bratwurst+ beneath the belt.  The teaching assistant in my chemistry class in 1997, now a chemistry professor at San Francisco City College.  He and Kevin dated after we broke up (or maybe before we broke up).

The ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend is dating the ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend!

The mind boggles.

"Kevin and I didn't really have a friendly break-up," Seth tells me.  "There was yelling, and crying, and throwing things, and that was just my friends, when I told them about it.  So I haven't seen him since.  Sorry I can't be of any help."

Well, Seth was of some help.  I got to go down on him again during a game of "Guess the Penis."

Monday, March 17th

While David is at work, I go to St. Mary's Hospital to see Marius (top photo), the Argentine German who was Kevin's boss and best friend.  He's in his 40s, a hairy muscle bear with an enormous uncut Mortadella, and religious, a devout Lutheran who once planned to become a minister.  I'm sure we would have dated, except that I only met him after I began dating Kevin the Vampire.

"Kevin quit a couple of years ago, and moved out of town," Marius tells me.

"Out of San Francisco altogether? That's odd."

"I know.   But with rents going sky-high, he just couldn't afford to stay here on his salary any longer."

So Kevin the Vampire abandoned Gay Heaven for the most mundane of reasons, his checkbook?  I am strangely disappointed.

"I have his address and telephone number back at my apartment, if you'd like to stop by later."

"Sure, that'd be great."

He smiles.  "We could have dinner first, if you're free."

I check with David -- he's fine with not feeding me.  So Marius and I have dinner at Thai Thai, and then go back to his apartment in the Richmond to spend the night.  I go down on him, and he finishes with interfemeral while we're kissing.

Tuesday, March 18th

The telephone number that Marius gave me for Kevin doesn't work.

Wednesday, March 19th

My last night in San Francisco.  I have to get up early to catch my plane, so David and I are staying in.  He's busy in the kitchen, making arroz con pollo with a salad and fresh fruit, when there's a knock on the door.

"Could you get that?" David yells.  "And if he's hot, invite him to stay for dinner."

Through the peephole I see -- Kevin the Vampire!

Shocked, I pull the door open.  ""

He grins.  "Aren't you going to invite us in?"

"Sure, come in."  Us?  

He comes in, followed by a buffed guy in his 30s with a short beard, a v-shaped torso, and impressive biceps.

David appears from the kitchen, staring.  " did you get here?"

"By BART, of course.  I live in Milpitas now, in an actual house, just like Ma and Pa Kettle.  This is Charlie -- quite a beautiful specimen, isn't he?  And you should see his penis -- well, most likely you will, before the evening is over."

Charlie shakes hands with us, unfazed at being called a "specimen."

"How did you know I was back in town?" I ask.

"Well, Boomer, you've been calling me for five days.  You must have known that, sooner or later, I would answer."

"I haven't been calling you...the phone number Marius gave me didn't work."

He laughs.  "I didn't mean by telephone."

By the way, Charlie did have a very nice penis.

See also: Dick Sargent's Three Way with Pat Boone.; David and I Hook Up in the Restroom at Macy's; On My Knees in the Teaching Assistant's Office


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