#12 on my Sausage List, the biggest guy I've ever met, was a 21-year old political science major from Harvard.
We met in the spring of 2001, when my doctorate in sociology was nearing completion, and I landed a dream interview: Assistant Professor of Gender Studies at Boston University!
I was so certain that this job was my "destiny" that I started looking for apartments and hanging out in Boston gay chatrooms. One of the guys I chatted with was Jermaine.
Instead of the usual "stats? size? top or bottom?", we talked about gender discrimination laws, hate crimes, and heteronormativity in the classroom. Quite heady stuff for a chatroom! And we made plans to meet for coffee and dessert at the end of my first day of interviews (the committee was taking me to dinner).
It was a relief to extricate myself from the badgering and walk from my hotel to the House of Blues, an upscale soul food restaurant with live music, where Jermaine was waiting. Very attractive: shorter than me, dark-skinned, solidly built, with glasses and a bright smile. Now I was even more depressed. Were all Boston boys so hunky?
We ordered appetizers -- Voodoo Shrimp and Fried Pickles -- and then dessert -- Bread Pudding -- while I complained (you never complain on a first date, but I figured we would never see each other again, anyway).
"Don't worry about the job," Jermaine said. "You'll find something great."
He talked about his law school applications -- Stanford, Columbia, Berkeley, Yale -- and then a career fighting gay oppression: "We've made some strides, but there's still so much to do. Sodomy laws, health care, partner benefits, gay youth. The fight is only beginning."
Then he started talking about his volunteer work with homeless gay youth at the MCC, but he stopped himself after a sentence or two. "I'm hogging the conversation, aren't I? Time for you to talk: what's your favorite thing about living in New York?"
After all that, it felt sort of sleazy to be cruising him, but after awhile I reached down to stroke his thigh. He smiled, but moved my hand away. Then, oddly, he asked, "Who's your Daddy?"
Um...well, I'm twice as old as you, about six inches taller, and I'm pretty sure I could beat you in arm wrestling. So you ain't my Daddy, son!
I didn't say that. I just smiled and kept silent.
After awhile Jermaine wanted to go to the Machine, a 18+ dance club, but I was too tired for the blaring techno-rock of the Cute Young Thing crowd.
"Why don't we go back to my hotel?" I suggested.
He stared at me. "Who's your Daddy?" he asked again.
"Um...that would a 65-year old retired factory worker in Franklin, Indiana."
"Ok, let's go," he said with a smile.
On the way, Jermaine got into an actual conversation with a panhandler. Never in my life had I seen such a thing -- you ignore them, or at best drop some coins into their plastic cup while looking away. And he talked about so many charities that I felt like a piker.
Was it ok to bring Jermaine into my bed? It would be like seducing a saint.
We got to my room and began kissing and fondling and undressing each other, but when I moved my hand to his crotch, Jermaine pushed it away and asked "Who's your Daddy?" again.
This time I said "Why don't you wait and see?"
"Isn't it about time for the Full Monte?"
"Ok, sure," he said, strangely reluctant. He stood, unbuckled his belt, and started to lower his pants.
And lower them.
And lower them.
I stared. It was a baseball bat. It was a Kovbasa+++++.
"Yeah," Jermaine said, embarrassed. "At this point most guys drool and make sleazy jokes."
I caught myself, and returned my gaze to his face. "About what? You have a very nice physique. Your pecs are really hot."
He laughed and knelt in front of me. "That's the right answer."
Later Jermaine told me that he was sick of being fetishized, desired for nothing but his beneath-the-belt gifts. The question "Who's your Daddy" was designed to see if I would try to pressure him into being a super-top pile-driving sex machine. He wanted to kiss and cuddle, and fall asleep in the guy's arms.
I was happy to oblige.
We saw each other again about two months later, when Jermaine went down to Delaware for his Uncle's 50th birthday party, and invited me along as his date.
Otherwise our schedules never synched, and in the summer of 2001 he moved to Berkeley. But we continued to chat online, and as the months passed and I didn't get a job, he kept saying "Don't give up -- you'll find something great!"
Jermaine is the biggest guy I've ever known. But not because of his Kovbasa+++++.
See also: Skinny-Dipping with the Biggest Guy on My Sausage List; 8 Harvard Yard Hookups; and Hooking Up on a Job Interview