Alan and the Kept Boy

West Hollywood, March 1986

When I was growing in the Nazarene church, not only was alcohol forbidden, we couldn't even go into a venue that served or sold alcohol, for any reason.  My Sunday school teacher said, "If a maniac with an axe is chasing you, and the only way to escape is to run into a bar, choose the maniac."

Alan grew up hardcore Pentecostal, with similar restrictions.

So we were never around anyone drinking.  We didn't really understand that people who are drunk behave differently than when they are sober.

Until one night at Mugi.

It was about 10:00 pm, still early.  Alan was chatting up a cute twink from Taiwan, and I had flirted with a few guys, but nothing definite yet.

Then I saw Zack,  sitting at the bar, drinking a green, toxic-looking drink.  I later discovered that it was a Flying Grasshopper, creme-de-menthe, creme-de-cacao, vodka, and mint leaves.  Stunningly out of place amid the coca-colas and beers.

He was a tall, blond twink, wearing a blue suit with a hot pink, frilled shirt unbuttoned half way down  Very tan, smooth chest beneath. Stunningly out of place amid the t-shirts and jeans.

He wasn't actually my type, I thought.  Besides, he wouldn't be interested: white guys came to Mugi only to meet Asian guys.  But I found myself drawn to him anyway -- something about the pink shirt against the tanned chest was extremely erotic.

We talked.  No slurred speech or erratic movements, not obviously drunk.  Zack was from Idaho, came to L.A. three years ago to become an actor.  He had done some modeling, yelled on a roller coaster in a commercial for Knotts Berry Farm, and played a racist high school bully on an episode of Diff'rent Strokes.  I pretended that I had seen it..

I reached inside his shirt to feel his chest.  It was remarkably ripped.  The boy knew his way around a gym.

Zack ordered another Flying Grasshopper, then grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard.  "Can I come back to your place tonight?"

 "I'm....um....with my roommate  right now," I said, shocked.

Warning Sign #1: In West Hollywood in 1986, you didn't bring guys home the first time you met.  You always made a date for later in the week.

"What's he look like?"

"He's over there, tall guy with a beard."

"Yeah -- cute.  Invite him along.  We'll have a three-way."

Warning Sign #2: The custom of "sharing" one's friends and roommates developed in response to the AIDS crisis, under the theory that you should keep your sexual activities within a tight social circle.  But you only shared them with committed partners, not with bar pickups (this rule changed during the 1990s, but in 1986 it was set in stone).

"We don't know each other very well," I said firmly.  "It's a little early to be talking about sharing."

Zack drained his second Flying Grasshopper in a couple of gulps.  "See, the thing is, I had a fight with my boyfriend -- tonight was supposed to be our anniversary -- that's why I'm dressed up.  I'm afraid to go home -- he gets violent sometimes.  So it's your bedroom or the street."

Wile we talked, I had been unbuttoning Zack's shirt, feeling his warm, hard chest and abs, fondling his sizeable package.  I leaned over and kissed him.  I can be a Good Samaritan, I thought.

"I came with my friend," Zack said.  "Just let me tell him that I'm going home with you."

"Wait -- why couldn't you stay with your friend?" I asked.

"Oh, his place is too tiny.  Besides, he's not hot!"

Warning Sign #3: His story didn't check out.

Warning Sign #4: He was willing to get into a car with two guys he didn't know.

Today I would absolutely refuse.  But I was young and naive, and besides, he had an incredible physique..

Alan had just struck out with the Taiwanese guy, so he didn't need much convincing.

When we got to the car, Zack pulled me into the back seat with him, and we began kissing and fondling as Alan drove.

Warning Sign #5: He didn't act like a guy who had just had a fight with his boyfriend, and was afraid to go home.

Warning Sign #6: For all my groping, Zack did not become aroused.

Warning Sign #7: "Let's stop at the liquor store!" he exclaimed.  "Drinks all around."

"I don't know where any liquor stores are," Alan protested.

"I do, I do!  Turn here on Van Ness, then go down to Santa Monica. Studio Liquor, right off Highland!"

Alan glared at me, but stopped, and Zack ran in and bought a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps.

Warning Sign #8: He began sipping at it right in the car.

When we got to the apartment, Zack carefully brought the bottle in with him and put it on the coffee table.  Then he yelled "Showers first!  Who's with me?"

"Sorry, I hate showering with other people."

"I'll go!" Alan said.  They took off their clothes and went into the bathroom.  They were in there for a very long time.  First there was giggling, then no sound at all.  Finally they emerged, naked,  Zack's hard, smooth, tanned physique a sharp contrast to Alan's pale, hairy body.  They compared cock sizes.  Zack was significantly smaller.

"Time for Peppermint Schnapps!" he announced, grabbing the bottle again. "It's the best thing in the world, except for a Sloe Gin Fizz."

We took the bottle from him, went into Alan's bedroom, and climbed into the bed.  Zack and I began kissing, and Alan began working on him beneath the belt.

Unsuccessfully.  No matter what he tried, Zack could not rise to the occasion.

"Well, I'm more of a bottom anyway," he said.  He turned over onto his stomach.  "Who wants to be the first?"

Alan volunteered.  Later he told me that it was terrible.  Zack just lay there like a statue.  Soon I could tell that he had fallen asleep.

We ended up falling asleep, too, with Zack between us.

He didn't want to wake up in the morning.  Finally Alan gave up, got dressed, and went to church.

How was I going to get rid of this guy?

 I let him sleep another hour, and then shook him away.

"God, what a hangover!" he moaned.  "Bloody Marys all around.  Got any vodka?"  He grinned at me.  "Hey, you're cute.  Did we do it last night?"

"Um...well, we tried.  Don't you remember?"

"Babe, I was so blasted, I'm lucky I remembered my name.  Did I give you that old saw about a fight with my boyfriend?  That's my favorite."

 Leaning heavily on me, Zack pulled himself out of bed.  "Well, part of it is true.  I'm going to have a fight with my boyfriend as soon as I get home.  I told him I'd be back by midnight, so I didn't turn into a pumpkin. Got any Vodka?"

"No.  We don't keep alcohol in the house.  You bought a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps."

He pushed himself out into the living room and took a sip.  "Well, at least the night was good for something.  Take me home, ok, babe?  We have Vodka and Tequila there"

Grateful to finally be rid of him, I drove Zack to one of those huge apartment complexes on the Miracle Mile, where he lived with a 40-ish film director who promised to get him some acting jobs.  As far as I could tell during our brief conversation, he was more of a kept boy than a boyfriend.  With a major alcohol problem.

I missed all of the warning signs, blinded by his chest.

See also: Sharing the Optometrist's Boyfriend; Alan Cruises a Cop