Sunday, December 17, 2017

Erotic Story about Grandpa Prater #2: Stealing the Banjo

This is the second erotic story about my Grandpa Prater.

Garrett, December 1972

It's the day after Christmas in seventh grade.  We're visiting my parents' relatives in Indiana.  Today we drive out to the farmhouse near Garrett to visit my Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, and bring him his Christmas presents.

Grandpa Prater is 70 years old, but still big and rugged, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands. He wears overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He moved from Kentucky to Indiana with his family in 1942, to take advantage of factory jobs during World War II.  Now he is widowed, and all of his kids have moved out except Uncle Edd, who acts more like his brother than his son.

There's no car in the driveway, and no one answers when we knock, so we figure that they're out, at the store or visiting friends in town.  We drive down the road about half a mile to the Trailer in the Deep Woods, to visit my Cousin Buster and his parents and wait for them to return.

Cousin Buster shows me the guitar he got for Christmas, and tries to play "Your Mama Don't Dance," by Loggins and Messina.  He doesn't do well.  "I should have asked for a banjo," he says. "Man, I could really howl on that box." 

"Why don't you ask Grandpa if you can borrow his?"

Somehow we decide that it would be a good idea to sneak into the farmhouse while he's gone and "borrow" the banjo.  

We walk through the woods until we come to the side yard.  There's still no car in the driveway.

We climb onto the porch and go in through the parlor.

I've been there a thousand times, but never when the house is deserted.  There's something eerie, even sinister, about the two overstuffed sofas, red with clawed legs, the old console radio with a black-and-white tv on top, the picture of Jesus on the Cross that changes to an Ascended Christ if you look at it right.  

The kitchen is familiar, too.  I've been there many times.  But there's something sinister about the plate of toast and Sue Bee Honey left on the kitchen table, as if someone suddenly rushed out.  Or was kidnapped.

I've never been inside Grandpa Prater's bedroom.  

First there's an anteroom, with some coats on hooks and shoes on the floor.  Then a big oak door.

My heart is racing with guilt and fear.  We shouldn't be here -- it's trespassing.  "Let's wait until Grandpa Prater gets home, and ask him," I suggest.

Cousin Buster is a little pale, too.  "No, I can't wait.  He won't mind."

He gingerly turns the handle and opens the door.

It's a long, narrow room, with an old-fashioned bed, a pitcher on a wooden dresser, clothes hanging in an armoire.  An armchair with clothes piled on it.  A half-full bottle of whiskey and an old leatherbound book on the nightstand.

Grandpa Prater is lying on the bed!

His shirt off, his overalls undone, thick arms behind his head.  My first thought is that he's dead, but then I see his massive hairy chest subtly rising and falling.  He must just be asleep -- sometimes old people take naps in the middle of the day.  Uncle Edd must have gone off by himself, taking the car, and Grandpa Prater didn't hear us knocking.

Later, replaying the scene in my mind, I see a massive bulge in his overalls, but it's probably just my imagination.  I didn't get a sausage sighting that day.

Still, the unexpected semi-nudity, the hairy chest, the sense of transgression and secrecy all combine to make the sight decidedly erotic.  I feel a stirring down below.


Should we continue with our quest to borrow the banjo?

Cousin Buster begins tip-toeing across the floor.

:Suddenly, without moving or opening his eyes, Grandpa Prater says "Hello, Joe, what do you know?"

We yell in surprise.

He sits up in bed.  "Come here and sit with your old Grandpa for a spell."

I hesitate -- getting too close to alcohol is a major sin for Nazarenes, and Grandpa Prater is sort of scary, with his incomprehensible Kentucky accent and smell of whiskey and Aqua Velva.  But we climb onto the narrow bed, and he wraps an enormous arm around each of us and draws us close.

I really like having a muscular arm around me.  The stirring down there continues.

"Um...we wanted to borrow your banjo," Cousin Buster says.

"To learn to play like you," I add, to flatter him.

"The banjo is old-fashioned! You should be playing new music.  Rock and Roll. The Beatles.  In my day we all listened to Eubie Blake and W. C. Handy.   I was modern!  It was my Daddy who wanted to hear 'Barbara Allen'"

We didn't know what he was talking about at the time, but Eubie Blake and W.C. Handy are jazz musicians popular in the 1920s, and "Barbara Allen" is an old folksong.

He reaches past Cousin Buster to get the book on the nightstand, and opens it to a page with a sports team.  "That's me, your old Grandpa, on the wrestling team at Salyersville High School.  Wasn't I a caution in those days?

He is actually pointing out a basketball team.  But one of the boys looks like him.

"I was going to study to be a science teacher, but my Daddy said 'No, son, you're a man now, you have to marry and start a family.  Now, I swan, Grace was the prettiest gal this side of Prestonburg, but why couldn't we have waited a year or two?"

Translation: when he graduated from high school, Tony wanted to go to teacher's college, but his father forced him to get a job instead, so he could afford a wife and kids.  I hear the "job, wife, kids" litany constantly today.

"Maybe then I could have paid for nice things, like a bigger house, in town, and a nice car."

And a bathroom!

"...and doctors, when the babies got sick.  And when Grace got sick."

Cousin Buster extricates himself.  "So, can we borrow the banjo?"

He waves his hand.  "Sure, take it.  Keep it til the cows come home.  But promise me one thing -- when you all become men, you won't let your daddies tell you what to do.  Go to college.  Make something of yourself, no matter how cute the little girl down the holler is."

Translation: Don't listen to the litany of "job, house, wife, kids."  Escape to West Hollywood.  Find a home.

See also: Erotic Story about Me and My Grandpa #1: Wrestling Moves

Erotic Story about Grandpa Prater #1: Wrestling Moves


My Grandpa Prater, my mother's father, was a big man, towering over my father and uncles, and rugged even in his mid-60s, with thick arms and shoulders and huge hands.  He wore overalls, sometimes with a white t-shirt underneath, sometimes without, so you could see his hard round pecs dusted with white hair.

He was a man's man, always doing something with his sons and sons-in law and various friends: hunting, fishing, playing horseshoes, working on cars.

He had a thick Kentucky accent that was virtually incomprehensible, but he didn't say much anyway.  When the family gathered in the living room to play cards and exchange gossip, he kept silent unless someone asked him a question.  The indoors was uncomfortably stuffy; he'd rather be out with his friends and some dogs on a midnight hunt.

The only time he perked up was when someone asked him to play his banjo.  Then he'd play "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" or "Cotton Eyed Joe," as good, and as fast, as the Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs at the Grand Ole Opry.

There was a sadness about him that I didn't pick up on when I was a kid.  Something deep and dark, that the little joys of everyday life couldn't penetrate.  It wasn't just that he had lost his wife, three older brothers, and four of his eleven children.  It was a dream deferred, a hope from his childhood that he abandoned.

More about that later.

I have two good stories with Grandpa Prater.  The first is about judo.

Garrett, June 1971

The summer after fifth grade.  We're all at the farmhouse, but my brother and Cousin Buster are off somewhere, so I'm the only kid.  Dad and my uncles are up by the Old House, playing horseshoes.  I'm not allowed because I'm too little.  I don't necessarily like horseshoes, but I like hanging out with the men, especially when my only other option is sitting in the farmhouse with my Mom and aunts, gossipping about who did what with whom thirty years ago.

I'm wandering aimlessly through the side yard and the rhubarb patch when Grandpa Prater appears, wraps his huge paw around my shoulder, and says "I hear you're taking wrestling."

(I'm not going to try to transliterate his incomprehensible Kentucky accent.  Use your imagination.)

"Wrestling?  No, I'm studying judo.  It's a Japanese sport.  We wear white robes and throw each other."

"Judo?"  He repeats the unfamiliar word.  "Did you know I was a wrestler in high school?"

He takes my hand and leads me up the hill toward the Old House.  It's difficult to understand him, but by interrupting with many questions, I get the gist of his story:

In the Kentucky hills in the 1920s, it was unusual to go past the eighth grade, but the adolescent Tony (who I assume looked like this) was smart as a whip, so his parents allowed him to go on through twelfth grade at Salyersville High School. His best subject was music -- he sang and played the banjo, like on the Grand Ole Opry. That got the bullies riled, so to prove that he was a he-man, he went out for wrestling and basketball, too.

I have that problem!  At Denkmann, raising your hand too often or getting high grades on too many tests drew the ire of Mean Boys.

By now we are on top of the hill, in the men-only zone behind the Old House.  Dad asks, "Wanna join us, Tony?"

He doesn't ask me.

"Well, sure, but right now Boomer's going to show you all his judo moves."

I'm what?   Try to throw someone who is twice as tall as me, and a solid mass of muscle?  And my grandpa?  I don't think so!

But Dad and my uncles are gathered around to watch the show.

"C'mon, you can't hurt me.  I'm strong as an ox.  I was wrestling guys before your Daddy was born."

Sighing, I grab Grandpa by the shoulder and hip and try the easiest throw, basically tripping your opponent.  To my surprise, he goes down easily and pulls me on top of him.

"Dagnabit, you did it!" he exclaims.  "That there judo is powerful stuff.  Now pin me.  Come on, pin me to the ground!"

I scamper on top of him, feeling his hard firm chest, smelling his Aqua Velva cologne and hint of whiskey, and press his arms over his head.

He pushes his arms down and slides me down his trunk, as easily as one might push off a pair of pants.  I feel his hard belly and the mass of his crotch.

"Well, your pinning needs some work, but other than that, you're a natural.  Hear that, Frank?  You sign this boy up for wrestling!"

Dad grins at me as if I've achieved a major goal.  And maybe I have.  "C'mon, Boomer," he says, "Play horseshoes with us.  You're old enough now."

I did go out for wrestling a year later, when I started junior high.

The next story about my grandpa involves sneaking into his bedroom to "borrow" his banjo.

See also: Erotic Story of My Grandpa #2; My Grandpa Prater's Gay Connection; My Uncle and His Boyfriend







Saturday, December 16, 2017

My Student Steals My Boyfriend


Bloomington, December 1983

When I was in graduate school at Indiana University, there were 30,000 students wandering around on the 2,000 acre campus, but still, everybody knew Jimmy, a graduate student in psychology.  He was a familiar sight, tromping across the campus on his forearm crutches.

 Jimmy had cerebral palsy, so his legs didn't work well, although he could walk slowly without crutches inside the house.  Also his hands were a little stiff.

Do you know what happens to a guy who doesn't use his legs much?  His chest, shoulders, and biceps overcompensate.  He becomes "cut" in bodybuilder lingo, a pale hard slab of marble.  Incredible.

One night in September 1983, while Viju and I were cruising at Bullwinkle's,  he came in.  I yelled "Score!" (or the 1980s equivalent).



Jimmy  invited me back to the terrible house he shared with two other psychology grad students, who hadn't cleaned the place since 1978.  There was a half-full carton of milk on the kitchen table that expired six months ago.

Sometimes we went to the apartment I shared with Viju, but not often: it was up a flight of stairs, and the only way he could get up and down was to be carried.

We dated through the fall semester, going to dinners and movies and to the bars.  Sometimes we went into Indianapolis to the bars or museums, to see Pippin and Godspell.

Jimmy had just come out a few days before we met in Bullwinkle's, so none of his family and friends knew that he was gay.


His best friend Tony found out when Jimmy invited him to our Halloween party, and for some reason he went into my bedroom and saw that my wall was emblazoned with pictures of hot guys torn from magazines.

"Where are the pictures of girls?" Tony asked, dumfounded.

He didn't handle it well.  First he yelled at Jimmy for hanging out with a "pervert," and when Jimmy said that he was gay, too, he accused me of brainwashing him.  When he discovered that there were other gay guys at the party, he ran screaming off into the night.

Jimmy helped us decide if Professor Singer was gay by going along on Viju's  intel-gathering mission.

At Thanksgiving he invited Viju and me to his parents' house in Crawfordsville, but to avoid another scene, we played it cool.  I even responded to a question about "my girlfriend" with a story about a tall blonde soccer player from Iceland.

On December 3rd, a little over a week later, when Jimmy told me: "We didn't plan on it, but I fell in love with another guy.  We're moving in together."

What guy?

Steve (I forgot the last name.)

One of my students!

Grad students at Indiana teach their own classes, and Steve was one of the back-of-the-class students in Intro to Literature, getting straight C's, never participating much.  He was sort of cute, but not very muscular.

All I could think was: What chutzpah!  Stealing the professor's boyfriend, just before final grades are due!

And I told my parents that I was bringing someone special home for Christmas.  What would they say?

Steve spent the last week of the semester grinning at me, daring me to give him a vengeance F.

I didn't.  He got a C.   Then he moved into Jimmy's horrible house where nothing was ever cleaned, and I invited Viju home for Christmas.

During the spring semester, I often saw Jimmy tromping across the campus on his crutches.  He looked happy