Sunday, December 27, 2015

Tijuana Bibles: Your Grandfather's Gay Porn

Back before internet  fan art boards allowed you to invoke Rule 34 and see Fred Flintstone topping Homer Simpson, or Finn the Human from Adventure Time in a three-way encounter with Spiderman and Huckleberry Hound, you could buy Tijuana Bibles.

They were not from Tijuana, and there was nothing Biblical about them.  They were 8-page, wallet-sized comic books about people having sex, often poorly drawn and badly printed, sold under the counter at newsstands and railroad stations from the 1920s through the 1960s.

A few original characters, a few film stars like Cary Grant, but mostly comic strip and cartoon characters: Popeye, Betty Boop, the Katzenjammar Kids, Barney Google, Jiggs and Maggie, Happy Hooligan.  Here we see a very well hung Wimpy thinking of hamburgers in the midst of a sexual act.



And Flash Gordon, the futuristic space adventurer, shows off his light saber.

Tijuana Bibles were, of course, illegal, under both obscenity and copyright laws, so we know next to nothing about the artists and publishers.

But many men who grew up in the era fondly recall reading and collecting them as their first glimpse of sexual freedom.

Some gay, lesbian, and transvestite themes appeared occasionally.  Some swishy stereotypes, some male-on-male rape, even some positive gay sex:





Donald Duck makes it with a "well-hung Lady Duck."

Joe the Janitor makes it with men and women both.

Happy the Dwarf steals the Prince from Snow White.





But the overwhelming majority were heterosexual, men with gigantic penises meeting and having sex with naked women.

So what was the attraction for gay men?

Gigantic penises.

Li'l Abner, Snuffy Smith, and Superboy naked.

Male nudity was heavily censored at the time.  You couldn't find it in movies or in magazines, not even in pornographic magazines, until the 1960s.

This was the only place to see artistic depictions of frontal nudity, outside of statues in a museum.

And the men were well-hung and fully aroused.




Gay men could easily ignore the women and concentrate on the men.

See also: Gay Comix; Gay Fan Art



Ricky with a Y

My birthday was a couple of weeks ago.  I've now been in the category of "older guys" for 15 years, and though I'm noticeably more bald and craggy than I was in 2000, the ardor of the Cute Young Things has not diminished.  If anything, it's increased.

When I go to a M4M Party, the twinks start sidling over before I even have a chance to get my pants off.

When I go on Grindr, I get these pickup lines or variants a dozen times an hour:
1. "Nice pic" (everybody gets that)
2. I love older guys"
3. "I've been a naughty boy, Daddy."

I hate being called Daddy.  Maybe I'm 20 or 30 years older than you, but I'm not your father.

Ricky with a Y (he specified the Y even though I could see it on the screen)  wasn't physically spectacular: in his 20s, a little shorter than me, with a handsome face, a hairy chest, not particularly muscular, a little small beneath the belt.

But he stood out from the crowd by his lack of obnoxious cruising.  We talked about The Walking Dead and the musical Titanic rather than the things he wanted me to do to him.

He found out that I was a college professor without making a stupid joke about requiring special after-class tutoring, wink wink nudge nudge.

He found out that my birthday was coming up without making a stupid joke about dinosaurs.

Nor did he call me Daddy.

So of course I accepted the date, for the Saturday after my birthday. "Leave everything to me.  This is my town, so I know my way around.  I'll give you an unforgettable night."


He picked me up at 6:00 pm in a very nice black convertible.

"This is my baby -- I've had her since college.  You should have seen me tooling around Harvard Yard."

Ok, everybody I've known who went to Harvard was crazy.  I waited to find out what Ricky's eccentricity was.  Other than being Ricky with a Y.

We went to dinner at a place called Grille 26, where the prices were high and the food boring: scallops, pasta, steak.

And the craziness began.  He psychoanalyzed everything.

"What do you do for a living?" I asked politely.

"Interesting that you would start off with the financial rather than my artistic or spiritual life.  Do you feel dissatisfied with your own economic success?

"Um...I was just trying to be polite."

By the way, he helped run the family soft drink company, which was quite successful, with root beer, birch beer, and cola that was #3 in the state, after Coke and Pepsi.  He also ran a mail-order company specializing in gay pride merchandise, and in his spare time he did financial consulting.  And he wanted to talk about his artistic side?

"My favorite food is Thai," I continued, making small talk.

"Interesting.  Is the food a stand in for the people?  Fetishization of Asians is quite common in gay communities, I understand.  They're stereotyped as soft and passive, easy to dominate, particularly if you're insecure about your sexual prowess."

"I'm not...i'm not insecure about my sexual prowess!  I just like pad thai."

And on and on.

Why did I stay friends with most of my ex-lovers?  Was I reluctant to let go, let the past stay the past, because I was afraid to face the future, the inevitability of death?

Why did I call my mother every week, but not my father?

Why didn't I allow my dinner companion to try one of my scallops?

Finally, after what felt like an intensive psychotherapy session, Ricky with a Y said "This has been fascinating, but we'd better be going, or we'll be late for the theater."

He had theater tickets?  Great. Angels in America was playing at the college.  But instead he took me to A Christmas Story: The Musical, about that kid and his quest to get a gun from Santa Claus, plus the lamp shaped like a lady's leg.

"Why does the lamp shaped like a lady's leg bother you?  Is it the disembodiment, the objectification of women?  Or does it make you doubt your own sexual identity?"

Then we went to an upscale dance club -- for heterosexuals.

"Come on, there's nothing to be afraid of.  This isn't the homophobic 1980s.  Why are you afraid to admit that things have gotten better for gay people?  Does it threaten your raison d'etre?

"Why are you Ricky with a Y?" I countered.  "Is it so people don't mistake you for Ricki with an I, a girl's name? Are you trying to draw attention to your Y chromosome? Do you think that being gay makes you a girl?"

"Good point!  But getting back to..."

By the time Ricky said "This has been great! Let's go back to my place!", I had been run through the emotional wringer a dozen times.  I wanted to go home and curl into a fetal position.

But maybe a nice peaceful wordless sexual encounter would be a good antidote.

He had a modern apartment, all steel-and-glass, with plants and abstract art and leather furniture.  We kissed for awhile on the couch, then went into the bedroom.  Where the psychoanalyzing began again.

"Why do you have an aversion to anal sex?  Is it because that's the iconic gay sexual act?  Do you think that, as long as you don't top me, you're not really gay?"

I avoided commenting on his extra-small penis and extra-big car.

See also: 8 Harvard Boys in My Bed; and My Platonic Friends and Their Boy Toy


Tuesday, December 22, 2015

The Bondage Boy with the Wife Upstairs


Dayton, April 2008

Most gay men in Dayton were closeted, but none was more closeted than Roland.

He was a regular at Rode's M4M Parties: in his 40s, tall, slim, with a full head of brown hair, a short beard, a smooth, hard chest, and a curved cut Bratwurst beneath the belt.

Roland wasn't his real name.  He never talked about his life outside the parties, except to say that he was a high school math teacher.  He didn't chat much at all.

Sexually he was mostly passive, giving oral more often than receiving it.  He didn't do anal.

One day in the spring of 2008, I casually mentioned the bondage club I used to go to in New York, and his jaw dropped in surprise.  "Bondage, really?  I'm into that, too!  Are you a top or a bottom?"

"I like to do the tying up."

"Whoa, that's great!  I meet so many guys in Dayton who are total bottoms.  What's your favorite position, spread eagle or behind the back?"

The conversation continued like that.  Ropes or chains?  Dildos?  Whipping or paddling?  Dirty talk? Fantasy scenes?  I never saw Roland so enthusiastic.  Finally he said "I have a fully stocked dungeon at home.  Care to come over and try it out, say tomorrow night at 7:00?"

A bondage date!  How exciting!  Guys in Dayton didn't date much -- they were too closeted, afraid of being spotted by someone they knew.   "I'd be happy to.  Shall we have dinner first?"

"Um...no, come after dinner.  But there's a mini-fridge in the dungeon with snacks, if you get hungry."

Ok.  But certainly after the bondage scene we would go to bed together, cuddle and kiss, spend the night, go out for breakfast in the morning, a date just like back home in the gay world.


I got a little nervous when I drove up to the house in Beavercreek, a suburb of Dayton full of heterosexual nuclear families.  Not really a gay-friendly place!

Roland answered the door, took my coat, and ushered me into a family room off the huge steel-and-marble kitchen, where The Simpsons was playing on a big-screen tv.

He didn't live alone!  There was a middle-aged woman sitting on the couch.  Next to her, a 10-year old boy.  And a girl, probably about 12, sprawled out on an easy chair.

 His sister?  A straight female housemate?  What was going on?

"Boomer, this is Sandra and Rick -- he's in fifth grade and already a ladykiller!"

The woman and boy held out their hands to be shaken. Who were these people?

"And the Queen of Angst in the easy chair is Rhianna, in junior high, already beating off the guys with a club!"  She didn't react.  "We're going downstairs to watch the game.  Be up in a couple of hours."

He led back me through the kitchen and a laundry room to a stairway that led to the basement.

"So, was that your sister?"  I asked.

"You really are gay, aren't you?" he whispered.  "That's my wife and kids.  I'm a happily married family man."

This wasn't a date!  It was a down-low hookup!  "But how..."

Behind a side door was his Man Cave, a low wood-paneled room with a couch, a pool table, a card table and chairs, a tv, and some metal cabinets.

"When me and my buddies are in here, watching the game or doing dude things, you don't disturb us unless a kid is bleeding or the house is on fire."  He locked the door and banged on the wall.  "Soundproof.  You can scream, bellow, shout, and no one outside can hear a thing."

The cabinets contained a good stock of bondage equipment: including dildos of various sizes, a vibrating anal massage device, a violet wand, and several types of lubricant.  I imagined Roland coming into the house with a brown paper back in hand and saying "I bought some stuff for the Man Cave, honey."

"You mean you have guys in here to tie you up, with your wife upstairs, and she never suspects anything?"

"Not a thing.  She thinks we're watching tv, or maybe, at the most, wrestling.  I don't think she knows that gay or bi people exist.  She certainly doesn't know what BDSM is."



I was really nervous, but Roland had a nice physique and a Bratwurst beneath the belt, so I managed to orchestrate a simple scene: he was tied to a chair naked, blindfolded, teased, and"forced" to give and receive oral sex.

Afterwards he said "That was nice, back to the basics.  It's so much more erotic when I'm helpless, in your power, don't you think?"

He insisted that I stay for two hours, the length of a real game on ESPN, so we cuddled on the couch and watched Family Guy and American Dad, kissed, and had a vanilla (non-bondage) encounter.

I went back to Roland's house again several times that spring, either on Saturday afternoon or Sunday night.

We stayed mostly in the man cave, except once when I helped Sandra frost cupcakes, and she gave me a a few in a tupperware bowl to take home, and once when she said "It's too nice a day to be cooped up in the basement.  Why don't you guys take Rick down to the park?"

I heard about Sandra's squabble with her sister and Rick's problems at school, and eventually, through conversation, Roland's real name (Mike) and real job (systems analyst).

But when I ran into Roland at the Mall, he pretended that he didn't know me.

In June I had to cut a session short because I wasn't feeling well.  "I think I'm coming down with a summertime cold," I told Sandra.  "They're the worst."

A couple days later, there was a knock on my door.  I answered in my bathrobe, with a box of kleenix in my hand.  It was Sandra!

"Hi, Boomer, I got your address from Mike's phone.  I just made a big pot of chicken-rice soup, and since you're not feeling well, I thought I'd bring you over some."

I was too shocked to say anything except "Um...thanks."

"Oh, it's the least I can do.  I've been wanting to thank you for being so great with Mike."  She handed me a green tupperware container.  "He couldn't ask for a better boyfriend!  Much nicer than some of these guys he brings home."

Boyfriend!  "Um...er..."

"But really, you should get him out of that dreary Man Cave sometimes.  Take him to a gay bar!  Or to one of those gay sex parties I've heard about.  He's a big guy -- I'll bet he would be very popular!  Well, I have to run.  I hope you feel better soon!"

I stood there agape.

Apparently Roland was less closeted than he thought.

See also: The Boy Who Wanted to be Rode

Friday, December 18, 2015

My Home Town is a Queer Haven

I just got back from a visit to Rock Island, my first in about 10 years.

The gay scene was gone.

When I was living in West Hollywood in the 1980s and 1990s, I flew back twice a year, at Christmastime and during the summer, and spent a lot of time in the local gay scene.

1. Three gay bars, including JR's, a disco that covered half a city block.
2. A club that featured male strippers.
3. An adult bookstore that sold gay magazines.
4. Outdoor cruising at the levee.

In 1995, my parents retired and moved to Indianapolis, about a five hour drive from the Quad Cities, to be closer to my sister and her family.  So I spent most of my Christmas and summer visits there, and drove out to the Quad Cities for brief overnights, to see my brother and Dick, my friend from high school, and his partner Jack.

 Not a lot of time for gay bars, or nightlife of any sort.

Then Dick and Jack moved to Denver.

And problems with weather and cars and other traveling intervened, and I didn't visit Rock Island at all for ten years, until last weekend, in December 2015.

I didn't recognize much.

My old college had a new Student Union.

Downtown was an entertainment district with nightclubs, theaters, art galleries, restaurants, and casinos that I had never heard of.

I didn't even recognize my old house -- I had to check the address to make sure.

I reconnected with some of my old high school friends.  How had they managed to get so much older than me?

And the gay scene:
1. The gay bars were now two straight bars and an Italian restaurant.
2. The adult bookstore: an antique store.
3. The male strippers: a comedy club.
4. The levee: a landscaped jogging and biking path along the Mississippi.

What happened?  Was Rock Island back in a 1950s closet?  Had all the gay people packed up and moved to Chicago?

Time to get on Grindr, and get some local guys into my hotel room to find out.

I wanted someone gay, out, and in his late 20s, who would know about Rock Island's gay scene, or lack thereof.

No one bi, straight, on the downlow, married but looking.

Not Brad, a 60 year old who hadn't cruised since the 1980s.

Not Curtis, a newly-out 20-year old college boys.

Ok, maybe we could get together for a couple of hours tomorrow, before I left town.  

But for tonight, I chose Dylan, age 28, with black hair, dark eyes, and a  smooth, muscular physique.  But more important, he was a life long resident of the Quad Cities, gay, and out.

I met him at a coffee shop around the corner from my hotel.

A straight coffee shop, full of heterosexual couples!

"Last year The Advocate named us one of the 15 queerest cities in the United States," Dylan told me.  "We have had anti-discrimination protections for 17 years, we have a gay alderman, an annual Pridefest, and a lot of gay-run businesses."

"But...no gay bars, no adult bookstores, no cruising places."

"I get my porn and cruise online, and I go out to the bars to have fun and dance with my friends.  Some are gay, some are straight, some are queer.  Why should I exclude my straight bros?"

"Well, if 10% of the population is gay, and you're in a bar with 100 people, your chances of finding someone to dance with are limited."


He gave me one of those pitying glances twinks get when talking to someone hopelessly out of touch. "Why couldn't I dance with a straight guy? Or a girl?  It's just dancing."

"Ok, but what about dating?  How can you find a boyfriend in that crowd?"

"That's what hookup apps are for."  He put his hand on mine under the table, then pulled it onto the table top.

We were holding hands in plain sight of everyone in a straight coffee shop!

You can't go home again.

Oh, the hookup?  Very nice, very passionate, uncut average beneath the belt.

We exchanged phone numbers.  I could use more gay friends in Rock Island.  I may be coming back more often.

See also: Spending the Night with Todd

Thursday, December 17, 2015

The Glory Hole Bait and Switch at a Paris Bathhouse

Paris, June 2015

I've got nothing against small guys.  I'll gladly go home with either of these two, or both:







But I hate bait-and-switch.


The Bains d'Odessa, a gay bath house in Paris, has a series of alcoves with glory holes -- holes placed in the wall at penis-height.

One guy puts his penis through the hole, and the other goes down on him, "anonymously."

Some guys like the sense of fantasy -- the penis could belong to anyone you wanted.

Others want sex without going through the trouble of cruising.

Of course, it isn't usually anonymous -- the guys will usually scope out each other before beginning.

But sometimes you are walking by, and someone has already begun, pushing his penis through the glory hole in search of a taker.

One day I was walking by and saw this staring out at me.

One of the biggest I've seen in awhile, easily a Mortadella, uncut.  I estimated that the guy it was attached to was tall, tan, and hairy.

Naturally, I went for it.

After awhile, the guy began to moan and gasp.  Deep voice, very sexy.

After he finished, he pulled back. I saw him put on a towel.  He appeared at the entrance to the alcove, smiling.

A very attractive twink, thick brown hair, blue eyes, hairy chest.  Shorter than I expected.



He drew me into a kiss, but pulled away when I tried to grope him.

"You were very good," he said in heavily accented French.  His voice was higher than I expected. "My name is Ludek."

"Boomer."

"You will have dinner with me?"

We walked about five blocks to Flam's, a fast-food place that specialized in an Alsatian pizza called Flamenkueche, and talked in a melange of English, French, and German.

Ludek was originally from the Czech Republic, but he grew up in Hamburg, and now he was living in Paris, working on a graduate degree at the ECE, the engineering school.

"I don't go to the bath houses very often," he said.  "I am very shy."

"I don't understand why.  You are very attractive.  You must be approached often."

"No, not very often, and then only by guys who are desperate."

"Just take your towel off and go naked.  You are so big, you are bound to get many admirers."

He smiled coyly.


After dinner we walked through the Luxembourg Gardens and eventually made our way back to my tourist hotel in Le Marais, the gay neighborhood, where we kissed and groped for awhile, and Ludek went down on me.

Eventually we took our clothes off to climb into the bed.

He didn't have a Mortadella!  It was rather small, average at best!

"Wait -- you're not the guy from the glory hole!"

"Of course not.  That was my friend.  I was just fondling his rear as you worked on him."

"But...but...surely you realized that I thought it was you?"

Ludek blinked, confused.  "Why would you think that?  I look nothing like my friend."

"But I didn't see him when he went in the alcove! Or you, either!"

"So you saw only his penis," Ludek said slowly.  "But you saw all of me except for my penis.  Are you disappointed?"

"No, of course not.  You are very attractive.  But..."

To this day I think Ludek was lying in wait on purpose, using his friend's Mortadella to his advantage, out of a misguided belief that his penis was too small.

His friend, by the way, was not really my type.

See also: The Smallest Guys on My Sausage List; the Darkroom Bait and Switch.




Wednesday, December 16, 2015

The Doctor Makes a House Call on Christmas Eve

West Hollywood, December  18th, 1987

My second year in West Hollywood.  I was planning to fly home for Christmas the next day, but I woke up sick: feverish, dizzy, headache, sore throat.

"Why do I always get sick at Christmastime?" I asked myself savagely.  The answer came: Too busy, too much stress, too much fat and sugar, not enough exercise.

I cancelled my flight, and waited to get better.

December 22nd

I could hardly eat anything due to the sore throat. It was time to see the doctor.

 I called my regular doctor, but he was out of town, so they offered to get me an appointment with a substitute.

I blanched.  Overall, health care professionals are more homophobic than any other professional group, and in the 1980s, at the height of the AIDS crisis, even moreso.   You didn't go to a doctor, ever, who didn't advertise in the Gayellow Pages or who wasn't recommended by friends.

But any port in a storm.  I figured I could just be very closeted, maybe invent a girlfriend.

My appointment was that afternoon.  I was too dizzy to drive myself.  Alan was in Thailand, and my roommate Derek and off-on boyfriend Raul were both out of town for the holidays, so I called my friend Mitch to drive me to the UCLA Medical Plaza.

The nurse called me into the little room, took my temperature and blood pressure, and had me sit on the little table covered with paper to wait for the doctor.

He arrived a few minutes later: in his 30s, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, very handsome, with a round face, dark eyebrows, dark eyes, and curly black hair.  I noticed big, square hands and no wedding ring.  Very hot.

His nametag read "Dr. Mohammed al-Khouri."

Uh-oh.  In the 1980s, Muslims were stereotyped as very homophobic.  I hope my regular doctor didn't write anything about being gay in my files.

But I was especially attracted to guys from the Middle East -- my first sexual experience was with a Lebanese boy -- and you didn't meet many in West Hollywood.  I wished that I was well enough to cruise him.


Dr. al-Khouri was cheerful, almost jovial, as he examined my chest and abdomen.  "You're in great shape," he said casually.  "Are you a pro athlete?"

"No, I just go to the gym for fun," I said in my brackish cough-voice.  "But I do work for Muscle and Fitness."

"That must be exciting.  Can you get any work done, with all of the bodybuilders coming through all the time? Turn your head to the left."

He was trying to feel me out, to see if I was gay!  "No, I'm a professional," I said noncommittally.  "I'm not distracted easily."

"Ok, let's have a look at that throat."  He peered down. "Ok, Boomer, you've got strep throat.  Better lay off the guys for a few days"

I was so worried about the strep throat that I didn't notice "lay off the guys."

He painted my throat with something, ordered a penicillin injection, and gave me a prescription for medicine.  "You'll need to take it easy for about three days.  Stay home, no bars, no parties  Do you have anyone to take care of you?"

"My roommate Derek.  But he's going out of town for Christmas.  My friend Raul, too..."

"Tell you what," Dr. al-Khouri said.  "I'll drop by in a couple of days to see how you're doing."

"I didn't know doctors made house calls anymore."

"Some do.  How about Thursday night, around 7:00 pm."

"But that's Christmas Eve. Don't you have..."  Suddenly I remembered that he was Muslim.  "Oh, sorry."

"No, I'm free as a bird.  And you'll be free, too.  Doctor's orders."


December 23rd  

I spent the next day alone in my house, except for brief visits from friends.

December 24th.

My sore throat was gone, I felt better except for a little tiredness, and I was still stuck in the house. At noon I walked down to the Different Light and had lunch at the Greenery, luxuriating in being able to eat crunchy things again.

Then I went home.   I kept thinking of the gym, of the French Quarter, and of all the things I was missing back in Rock Island: Christmas caroling, light displays, our traditional Christmas Eve pizza and present-opening.  I kept hearing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," my most detested song in all the world, playing from somewhere far away.

I ordered a pizza for dinner, and watched a Christmas special on tv.

At 7:00 pm sharp, Dr. al-Khouri knocked on the door.

I didn't expect him to really show up!  I was in my bathrobe!

He was carrying one of those medical bags like in the movies, but dressed in a regular short-sleeve shirt and jeans, not in a doctor's uniform.   Now that I was feeling better, I definitely noticed his broad chest and muscular arms, not to mention his impressive basket.

I rushed into the bathroom, splashed water on my face, gargled some mouth wash, and returned to sit next to him on the couch.  There was definitely some heat between us.

He took my temperature and blood pressure, looked down my throat, and said.  "I pronounce you cured.  You're not even contagious anymore."

"Um...does that mean I can go out tonight?"

"I wouldn't suggest that.  You still need some rest. But if you want to invite a boyfriend over for some tlc, that's perfectly fine."


"How did you...know?" I asked in surprise.

"Please, you live in West Hollywood, you have a man listed as your emergency contact, and you keep trying to sneak a peak at my basket."

I looked at it openly.  Very impressive.   "Well that just means I'm feeling better, right, doctor?  So what about kissing? Um...I mean, can I do that?"

He draped his arm across the couch behind me, and touched my shoulder. "Go ahead and kiss...um...anybody you want.  Tell you what.  As of this moment, I'm not your doctor anymore.  I'm a friend visiting to help you celebrate the holiday.  Got any eggnog?"

"I think there's some in the refrigerator.  Um...and there's some mistletoe around here somewhere, too."

We didn't need the mistletoe.  A moment later, I was kissing anybody I wanted.

In case you were wondering: Mortadella.


December 25th

What do Muslims do on Christmas Day?

They spend the day in bed.

See also: 12 Hookups and Dates that Sound Like Porn Movies.; the Arab Boy at Music Camp.

Friday, December 11, 2015

The Smallest Guys on My Sausage List

About 25% of the men in the U.S. are small, with 5" or less, but you rarely see them.

They hide behind a towel at the gym.

They don't go to bath houses or M4M Parties, or cruise for hookups.

Their dating profiles online say 7".

Once on the date, they'll make extra sure to win you over with their wit, money, or physique before even considering dropping their pants.

Here are the smallest guys I remember dating. graded by:
C: 4.5 to 5.5" (11.5 - 14 cm)
D: 3.5 to 4.5" (9 - 11.5 cm)
F: Under 3.5" (9 cm)

Remember, this is just one grade on their report cards.  They might have a B+ for intelligence, a B for charm, a B+ for physique, and for bedroom performance, an A+.

And, to avoid embarrassment, I'm not including anyone who I am still in contact with.




College

1. Joseph, from the Gay Student Union at Indiana University.  He was very popular, so we didn't actually date, but we did hook up the night we saw the ghost in his grandmother's house.  C

West Hollywood

2. Dr. Bartan, the Most Conservative Professor at USC.  It took me months to land a date with him.  C

3.  Chehay, the slim, soft survivor of the Pol Pot atrocities in Cambodia, whose drag queen Aunti Bopha cornered me at Mugi in an attempt to marry him off.  C.














4. Ryan the Dwarf, with whom I had the worst date in West Hollywood history (not for that reason). C

5. Will, the Bondage Boy with the Sweeney Todd fetish, who lived in Silverlake.  He was into vore (fantacizing about being eaten).  But he wouldn't have made much of a meal. D.

6. Ramon from Barcelona, of Chinese ancestry, but he didn't speak Chinese.  He was, however, fluent in Catalan and a promoter of Catalonian independence.  We had quite a heady political conversation for a hookup. C.










New York

7. The Unhung Hippie who talked nonstop, mostly trivia and nonsense.  Yuri wanted to hook up with him, assuming by his height, hands, and feet that he was hung.  I tagged along to make sure the hippie wasn't an axe murderer.  Even worse: regrettable beneath the belt gifts.  D


Florida

8. The Teenage Hitchhiker that David and I picked up.  An 18-year old from Canada, he wanted to go as far south as he could before his freshman year started in the fall.  C









9.  The Guy in the Darkroom at the Club in Wilton Manors.  In a classic bait and switch, the penis at the hole was huge, but the guy whispering "Do you have a room" was not.  He had rather a pencil stub.  F.

10. Comic Book Guy, who liked to kiss on the couch, but refused to go further, until finally I insisted that I be allowed to spend the night  Resulting in the discovery of his extra-extra small beneath the belt gifts.  But that's not why I didn't see him again.  F









Ohio

11. Shawn the Firefighter in Dayton.  Nicely muscular physique, disappointing beneath the belt.  He said that guys sometimes changed their minds at the end of the date. D

12. Carlos who had 3 secrets.  One, he was a superchub (his ad said "a few extra pounds").  Two, he had a hot boyfriend.  Three, his sausage was so small that I couldn't even find it.  F










Recent

13. Ludek, who performed a "bait and switch" at a bathhouse in Paris, sending in a guy with a gigantic Mortadella+ to draw attention away from his Vienna sausage.  C.

14, The Transman and His Angry Inch.  Turns out that I read this Philadelphia college boy's ad wrong.  He hadn't transitioned beneath the belt yet.  What he had was lady parts enlarged by testosterone treatments into an angry inch.  F

15. My First Grindr Hookup. AKA the boy who had never been kissed.  Other things, but not kissed.  So that was all he wanted to do.  I wondered if he was another Comic Book Guy, but he was just a little small.  C.

16. Ricky with a Y, or should I say Ricky with a C.  This was just a couple of weeks ago, but I'm pretty sure I won't be introducing Ricky with a Y to my parents

Monday, November 30, 2015

Edward's Hookup with an Angel or Demon

This story happened to my roommate Edward, the art appraiser I lived with in the East Village.  When I knew him, from 1998 to 2001, he was in his late 50s and early 60s, tall, husky, tanned, white-haired, slightly feminine, and eccentric.

But back in 1958, he was Eddie, a 18-year old high school boy growing up in Houghton, on the isolated Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Not aware that he was gay yet -- not even aware that same-sex desire existed.

But he knew that he was different: he was in the drama club and the musicale, he loved painting and sculpture, and he especially loved looking at the semi-naked men in muscle magazines like Physique Pictorial.

He tried to get intimate with girls, twice.  The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak.

When he graduated from high school, his father insisted that he join the military Maybe the all-male environment would make a man out of him.

He was fluent in German -- his parents fled Nazi-occupied Austria when he was four years old -- so he was stationed at an air force base near Kaiserslautern, West Germany, and given a job as a translator.



One evening his friends talked him into walking to a popular tavern on Kindsbacher Street, where they would meet some hübsche Mädchen.  He was less than enthusiastic about the prospect of Mädchen, hübsche or not, so after about an hour, he wandered off into the night.

He was not drunk -- I repeat, not drunk.

He started walking north and west, until he was on a country road, now the L363, on the way to Steinwenden.  Open fields broken by an occasional groves of trees.  There were no streetlights, but it was a clear night, with a very bright full moon.

Suddenly a shape burst up from a new field and flew across the night sky.  It swooped down so close that Edward instinctively threw himself to the ground and rolled into a ditch.

A bomb?  No.  A bird?  Maybe -- but enormous -- he estimated the wing span at ten feet.

A condor?  A hawk?  How big did hawks get in Germany?

It swooped down again, this time more slowly, its wings fanning the air.  It hovered over his prostrate body.

It was a human!  A man, about 5'5" tall, Caucasian, hairless, very muscular. His wings were like eagle wings, with feathers. They were vibrating but not flapping -- apparently he didn't need them to fly.

"How did you see such detail in the dark?"  I asked.

"The moon was very bright. But still, I couldn't see everything.  I couldn't make out a facial expression."

Edward tried to scream in terror, but no sound came out of his mouth.  The winged man hovered only a few feet over him.  His gigantic penis -- easily 10" soft -- hung down.  It was uncircumcized.

"You could tell that it wasn't circumcized, in the dark?"


Lower, lower.  Edward tried to scramble out of the way, but he couldn't move.  The fanning wings -- had they paralyzed him?  He had just seen The Horror of Dracula (1958) with Christopher Lane.  Was this a vampire, getting ready to feed?

Lower, lower. The winged man had beautifully sculpted muscles and a Kovbasa+++++.   Edward was terrified, but also aroused.  He unzipped, pushed down his pants, and displayed his own erect penis.  It was big by human standards -- all the guys at the base admired it -- but tiny compared to the winged man's.

"Wait...you said you couldn't move!"

"Who's telling this story, me or you?"

Lower, lower.  They were only inches apart.  Edward still couldn't make out a face, but he felt the winged man's penis, now erect, a rod of iron, brushing  against his legs, then pushing against him, between his thighs.  He thrust over and over and over, wordless, savage.

Edward tried to scream.  The pressure was tremendous.  But he was also elated, hot with passion for the muscles, for the penis.  He wished he could move his hands to hold the winged man, draw him close.

The winged man shuddered with an explosive orgasm.

Then, without a sound, he flew off.

Edward lay there, drenched, waiting to see if he would return.  After awhile, he finished off himself, cleaned up, and walked home.

He returned to the spot where he saw the winged man many times over the years, most recently in 1990.  But he never saw it again.

He kept the handkerchief that he used to clean himself off with, a memento of the moment he realized that he was gay.

"Wow, quite a dream!"

"It wasn't a dream.  I was wide awake.  I remember every moment."

My friend raises his glass in a toast.  "You win!  That's the best coming out story I've ever heard!"

It certainly beats my coming out over John Travolta in Grease.

"Next I'll tell you about me and the Romanian vampire-hunter...."

See also: The Football Player Who Got Unstuck In Time.

Sunday, November 29, 2015

The Beach Boy and the Giant, Part 2

Wilton Manors, September 2002

This is Part 2 of the story of the Beach Boy and the Giant.

We left everyone asleep on the night of September 22nd, 2002:

Barney is in bed with Brent, the the 6'10", broad-shouldered giant who he met at the bathhouse.

Across the hall, my other housemate Yuri is in bed with Wade.

In his bedroom off the kitchen, Boomer is in bed alone.

Just another Sunday night in the gay ghetto.

Wade lies awake, trying to think of a way to hook up with the Giant without offending Barney.

He tried for a midnight sausage sighting in the bathroom, and got Barney instead.

Maybe he could get up and "accidentally" get into the wrong bed?

No -- he has been here many times.  He knows the house too well.

He gets up, goes into the kitchen, and helps himself to some leftover rhubarb crisp.


He hears footsteps -- Barney again?  Yuri?

It's the Giant, naked except for his bikini briefs.  Wade's heart begins to beat fast, but he plays it cool and tries not to stare at the Giant's basket.

 "Want some rhubarb crisp?" he asks nonchalantly.

"Sure."  He sits at the kitchen table and grabs a plate. His gigantic hand dwarfs his fork.  "So, are you and Yuri a couple?"

"No, dude, just friends...I'm totally single," Wade says, overjoyed.  The Giant is into him!

"What about Boomer?  Is he single?"

"Um...yes.  Why?"

"Well, I shouldn't say this, right in the middle of a date, but he's totally hot, exactly my type!  Barney is nice, but -- well, I think I'm going to ask Boomer out."

Boomer?  Wade repeats, hurt, offended.

But then he comes up with a plan.  "You know, Boomer and I used to be boyfriends.  He's only into young, slim, twink types.  If you're over 30, forget it.  He was with Yuri for years, but when Yuri gets too old, he dumped him.  That's why he dumped me, too."

These are all lies, but they have the intended effect.  The Giant stares at his plate. "So I guess a guy in his 50s has no chance with him."


"Not of romancing him, no.  But there's always hooking up."

"But...if he's not into older guys, why would he want to hook up with me?"

"Ex-boyfriends always get invited into your bed."

The Giant grins.  "So if we were dating, I could spend the night with him.  But would you mind going out with me just so I could get Boomer into bed?"

"I'm willing to make the sacrifice."

"I see -- you still have a thing for Boomer yourself, right?"

So, with Wade's telephone number in hand, the Giant returns to his bed.


The Giant waits until he and Barney have settled into a friendship before calling Wade.  Then, during the next two weeks, they date four or five times, mostly to go swimming or boating, or to walk along the beach.  Everyone thinks it's an instant romance, like the ones we used to have in West Hollywood.

No one knows that the couple isn't actually getting intimate, that they end the evening with a hug-on-the-doorstep and then return to their separate apartments.

Wade doesn't mind.  He's biding his time.

Then he calls me.  "Are you free on Saturday?  I want you to come over and share the Giant."

I  hesitate -- he's not at all my type. But it's only polite, and besides, sharing the Giant would mean time with Wade, too.



Saturday, October 19th.

I drive to the Giant's small garden apartment (the front door opens directly onto the yard).

The Giant doesn't cook -- when you work in a supermarket, you can't stand the sight of food -- so we order a pizza and watch a DVD.

We are all sitting on the couch, on either side of the Giant.  He puts his massive arms around both of us.

Not at all attractive, but I'm sure he'll be enormous beneath the belt.

Suddenly the Giant envelops me in a hug and shoves his massive tongue down my throat.  I grope him. Average beneath-the-belt gifts.

We move into the bedroom.  Wade tries to go down on the Giant, but he pushes him away and grabs my head instead.

I assume that they are kissing and fondling as I work, but when I look up, Wade is lying on the bed alone.

"Is anything wrong?" I ask.

"No, no.  I just like to watch."


I move to the bed and start kissing Wade, expecting the Giant to go down on him, or to reach for a condom.  Instead he goes down on me.

And so on for the whole night.

A few days later, Barney tells me that they have broken up.

"The Giant is pretty upset.  I'm going over later to try to cheer him up.  You should come, too."

"Why me?"

"Apparently you made quite an impression the other night.  He can't stop talking about you."

It takes a few weeks for me to get the story out of Wade.

See also: The Beach Boy at the Bear Party

Saturday, November 28, 2015

Julian: When a Bratwurst Isn't Big Enough

Rock Island, March 1982

When I was a senior at Augustana, a freshman named Julian joined the radio station crew.  Bruce, by then the general manager, planned to assign him a job as news stringer, someone who picked up and adapted news stories from the wire.  But Julian's father, a VIP in Chicago politics, called his old friend President Treadway, and guess who became music director?

Suddenly 50% of our programming was classical music.

Julian was brash, sarcastic, elitist, demanding, and entitled.  But he immediately piqued my interest:

1. He was into classical music.

2. He was black  There were very few black guys at Augustana.

3. He was chubby.  There were even fewer chubby black guys.  The 1980s fashion was svelte.

4. And he was flamboyantly feminine, what we called a flamer back then. Obviously gay, though of course none of the straight guys at Augustana noticed.

I hadn't met any gay students at Augustana, just some guys who would accept a same-sex hookup as a last resort, if there were no girls around.  So I was determined to get into Julian's life, as a boyfriend, a hookup, a friend, something.



Unfortunately Julian didn't like me.  Not at all.

No matter how nice I was, he remained condescending, rude, arrogant, and abrasive.  When I asked him to get a slice of pizza at the Student Union, he gave me cool attitude and said "No, thanks awfully."

Offering to work the dead time of Saturday morning didn't impress him.

Befriending his friends didn't work.  He hung out exclusively with giggling co-eds.

How about introducing him to my friends?  One weekend I brought Brian over for a tour of the campus.  We toured the radio station while Julian was in the office.


He barely grunted.

Brian was very hot. Could Julian be straight?

I decided to throw caution to the wind.

You never came out in 1982 without extensive tests to see if the guy would attack, or tell the dean and expelled for being gay.

It was March of my senior year. To be expelled now would be devastating. But maybe I could come out without actually coming out.

So I waited again until Julian was alone in the office, sitting at his desk.  I dropped in on some pretense and said,  "So a lot of people think Brian and I are lovers, but of course that's ridiculous."


"Oh?"  I could hear Julian cogitating. Ridiculous because we're friends, or because I'm straight?

"Yeah, he's not my type at all."

More cogitating.  By talking about it so nonchalantly, I had proven myself ok about gay people.  And a life of constant pretense gets lonely.  I could tell the exact moment when Julian decided to make the leap.

"I don't know," he said, staring down at his desk.  "I thought he was quite attractive."

And just like that, he was out.

My turn!

"Not very big beneath the belt, but not everybody can have a baseball bat down there."   I made a show of trying to look down at Julian's basket.

And just like that, I was out.

That Friday night we had dinner at O'Melia's (now it's Jake O's), a fancy eatery on Black Hawk Road,.

"I'm sort of nervous," Julian told me.  "I've never been on a date with a guy before.  I was asked out a few times in high school, but I said no.  I was worried about the erotic activity afterwards."

"Why?" I asked.  "Afraid you would feel guilty afterwards?"

"It's not that.  Well -- you've seen me.  Imagine me naked."

"I've been doing that all semester," I said with a grin.

He looked down at his menu.  "You're just being nice, but you know I'm gigantic where I should be small, and teen-tiny where I should be big.  I'm like one of those mythological beasts."

What did I ahve to do to boost this guy's confidence?  I tried a dirty joke: "Oh, you mean a unicorn?  Can I see your horn?"



After dinner we went back to the dorm, where Julian's roommate was gone for the weekend.  We turned on his stereo -- Beethoven's Symphony #7 -- sat down on the bed, and started kissing and groping.

Soon I had a chance to examine his beneath-the-belt gifts in detail.  Bigger than most, at least a Bratwurst, maybe even a Bratwurst+.

This was what he was concerned about?  So concerned that he turned down dates in high school, and came to college with a cynical, abrasive shell?

We only dated that one time, but we stayed friends until I graduated and he went back to Chicago for the summer.

See also: My Top Black Boyfriends and Hookups; 13 Gay College Boys.

L

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