My Most Embarrassing Hookup, in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas

Houston Texas, January 1985

I spent nine horrible months in 1984-85 in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas, in the northern suburbs of Houston, the worst place in the world.

The gay neighborhood of the Montrose was only 25 miles away, but still, it was nearly impossible to meet people.  First, it was nearly an hour's drive away, in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

All of the gay organizations met on weeknights, when I didn't have time.  That left bars, which were dangerous, with good old boys driving by to issue homophobic threats, and undercover cops waiting to arrest you for "homosexual conduct."

And when you got past the danger, you found a barful of very closeted guys with weird quirks.

But at Christmastime in 1984, I went back to Rock Island and hooked up with my old bully at JR's.  After he turned out to be both apologetic and massive (#7 on my Sausage List), I thought it might be possible to meet someone nice in a bar after all.

So one Saturday night in January 1985, I drove down to the Montrose, to a cruise bar called the Ripcord, a very dark, rather dingy expanse, with peanut shells on the floor and the bottles of the last customers still on every table.

But for some reason I didn't get any attention.  Guys my own age, even older guys gave me nothing but Attitude.

I was 24 years old, but I looked a bit younger.  I was wearing a leather jacket, a short-sleeved shirt that displayed my physique, and very tight jeans, and I knew how to "stand and model" with a phallic beer bottle thrust up from my crotch.  I was the hottest guy there!

Can you figure out why I was getting Attitude?

After an hour, I was desperate.  In order to maintain my self-esteem, I would have to find a "sure thing," someone so inept or unattractive that he would be open to practically anyone.



I found someone standing in the shadows by the pool table: mid-40s, bushy-haired, glasses, a nerd's unstylish shirt and slacks.  But he was shorter than me and a bit chubby, both characteristics that I find attractive.

When I walked over and said "hello," he gave me as much Attitude as everyone else.  But I didn't care: I started talking to him anyway, and gently stroking his thigh.  He didn't move away.

Eventually he began to look at me -- with a cold glare -- and to respond to my questions -- with curt monosyllables.  Better than nothing. 

His name was Warren.  He wouldn't say what his job was, so I didn't volunteer mine, either.

I might have mentioned that it was hard making ends meet; I was always short on cash.  

No, he wasn't from Houston.  He had just been living here a few years.  He grew up in Utah.

"Mormon?" I asked, thinking of the Mormon missionary I met on my way back from California in 1980.

"It's the Reformed Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints," he said, looking around suspiciously.  "But let's not talk about that here."

Did he think he could be identified by his church membership?  "Ok, well, why don't we go somewhere else?"

He continued to glare, but reached out to fondle my chest. "Where should we go?"

I didn't want to admit that I lived in a far suburb -- an instant turn-off in gay neighborhoods -- so I lied: "We can't go back to my place.  I live with my parents."

"Well...how about a hotel room?"


I followed Warren to one of those sleazy discount hotels on the edge of downtown, and he got us a room.  He turned out to be respectable beneath the belt, and very passionate, into kissing and cuddling as much as the more advanced activities.

I awoke in the morning to the bouncing of the bed as Warren, already dressed, was putting his shoes on.

"Want to go out for breakfast?" I asked.

"Oh, no, I can't afford any more.  Besides, I have to be going.  I'm late already."

Can't afford any more?  What did that mean?

His shoes on, Warren checked his wallet to make sure his credit cards were still there, and headed out the door.

"Wait...you forgot..."  I began,  You always exchanged phone numbers with a hookup, just in case...

"It's on the nightstand.  Thanks, this was fun."  And the door slammed behind him.

I lay in bed, naked, shocked.  Why was he so anxious to be out of there?

I leaned over to the nightstand to retrieve his phone number.  Instead, there was:

An unmarked envelope containing five $20 bills.

The cruisy outfit, the "short on cash," the "living with my parents": Warren thought I was a hustler!

My face burned as I realized that everyone in the bar must have thought so, too. That's why they gave me so much Attitude!

I was too mortified to ever go near that bar again.

See also: Topping and Bottoming in Texas