Saturday, March 14, 2015

Summer 1998: The Estonian Mountain Climber Makes His Choice

At my birthday party in 1997, my friend Yuri, the Russian meteorology major who claimed to be heterosexual, introduced me to Jaan, the Estonian mountain climber.  Jaan didn't even know what gay people were until he found out the hard way during our "date" on November 29nd.

 He learned fast.

Two weeks later, on December 13th, I took Yuri to a Christmas party, and gave him the choice of dancing with me or sharing my bed later.

He chose my bed.

Then it was Christmas break, and we scattered, me to Rock Island, Yuri to visit friends in Montreal, and Jaan to a skiing vacation in Vermont.

When I returned, Yuri was out. And interested in Jaan.

 I couldn't figure out why; they were nothing alike.

Jaan was quiet, shy, conservative, and monogamous: he wanted romance, "one special guy."

Yuri was loud, flamboyant, liberal, and not monogamous; he wanted to do everything and everyone. He went through my copy of The Joy of Gay Sex and circled fifty acts that he wanted to try.

It must have been their shared heritage: Estonia was part of the Soviet Union until 1991, and Jaan spoke fluent Russian.

But most likely it was Jaan's obvious gifts beneath the belt; Yuri liked them big, the bigger the better (in 1999 he would drag me to the Basque country of Spain in search of the World's Biggest Penis).

So we spent the spring 1998 semester competing over Jaan.  Every week we orchestrated bigger and better dates.  If I took Jaan to the Mr. New York Leather contest at the Manhattan Eagle, Yuri would come up with a weekend at Fire Island.  If Yuri invited Jaan to a campus production of Angels in America, the next weekend I would score tickets to Chicago on Broadway.

Dinner at The Curry Club?  Dinner at Mirabelle.
A free concert in Central Park?  The New York Philharmonic.
Hiking on Shelter Island?  Rock climbing in the Adirondacks

In New York's gay culture of the 1990s, there was no such thing as having multiple boyfriends.  You dated one guy at a time. Yet Jaan kept accepting dates with both of us.

It was excruciating.  Something had to give.

Then Jaan announced that he was flying back to Estonia for a visit.


Yuri and I braced ourselves; whoever he invited to go with him was obviously the One.

He invited us both.

"Great!" I said.  "I'd love to meet your family.  But could we spend a few days in Helsinki first?  I've been dying to see Finland ever since I was a little kid."

"Great!" Yuri said.  "I'd love to meet your family. But could we spend a few days in St. Petersburg first? I'm homesick for my friends at the university."

We waited anxiously for his answer; whoever he agreed to a side trip with was obviously the One.

He agreed to both.

We flew out of New York, changed planes in London, and arrived in Helsinki about 4:00 pm on June 14th, 1998.  After dinner and a brief city tour, we checked into our hotel.  Our room had a double bed and a single rollaway.

Yuri and I looked at each other with surprise and elation. Whoever Jaan invited to share his bed was obviously the One.  

We stalled while Jaan undressed to his underwear.  Then, without a word, he climbed into the rollaway and fell asleep.

We kept the same bedroom arrangements for three days of sightseeing in Helsinki.  In St. Petersburg, we all shared the same double bed, with Jaan in the middle (yes, things happened).  Then we took the two-hour train trip to Johvi, Estonia, a small town near the Baltic Sea known chiefly for St. Michael's Church and an annual Ballet Festival (which we missed.)

We were met at the train station by a middle-aged man and woman and a tall black-haired muscle god.  After hugging them effusively, Jaan introduced us in Estonian.

"Minu sober Boomer, minu sober Yuri."

Then he switched to Russian.  "Moya mat, Katria; Moy otets, Peeter.  Moy druzhok, Arvi.




They hugged us so effusively that he forgot to translate into English.  Then they bundled us off to a loud, raucous lunch at a little cafe on the second floor of the Concert Hall. They chattered mostly in Estonian, with occasional phrases translated into Russian or English for our benefit.

I'd been learning Russian with Yuri all year, so I knew mat, "mother" and otets, "father."  But what was druzhok?  When I had a moment alone, I checked my Russian dictionary.

Good friend, bosom buddy, boyfriend!

Jaan had made his choice.

See also: The First Time Yuri and I Shared.

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

My Careers as an Actor, Comedian, Architect, Minister, Tour Guide.....

In December 1991, I returned to West Hollywood after my semester in Nashville completely discouraged.  I had spent 2 years at Indiana U., 3 years at USC, and a half a year at Vanderbilt, and what did I have to show for it?  A M.A., a lot of useless knowledge, a mountain of debt, and no job prospects.  What else could I do besides become a college professor?

I took the Strong-Campbell Interest Inventory.  I read What Color is Your Parachute?  And I tried:

1. Spring 1992: Actor.  I got good reviews in my college plays, and I had some connections in the industry, like Richard Dreyfuss.  How hard could it be to get a job in a sitcom?  So I signed up for an acting workshop.  My first improv scene was: "Boomer, you're returning from a long trip. Your wife meets you at the door, and you hug and kiss."  I ran.

2. Spring 1992: Stand-up Comedian.  I was good at telling jokes, so I signed up for a class with Judy Carter, who wrote the Comedy Bible.  She said: "Your shtick should be about your relationships.  Boomer, are you married?"  I shook my head.  "Divorced?  Widowed? Separated?  Living with a girl?  Going steady?"  Finally I told her "Gay," and she yelled: No!  You can't be a gay comedian!"  I ran.

3. Summer 1992: Translator.  I bought some dictionaries, worked on some sample documents, and contacted a lot of translation agencies. I expected to get assignments translating Rimbaud, Verlaine, Thomas Mann, and Garcia Lorca into English.  Turns out, surprisingly, the greatest writers in world literature were already translated.


4. Fall 1992: Juvenile Probation Officer.  All I had to do was meet with the delinquents once a week to make sure they were going to school, getting vocational training, keeping away from drugs, and so on, and teach an occasional class in "life skills."  Great, except I had to be in the closet all the time.  If the boss suspected that I was gay, I would be fired instantly: "We can't have a homo working around kids!"

I endured the homophobic comments from the kids, police officers, case workers, and everyone else for about nine months.

5. Summer 1993: Writer. I tried to write a fantasy novel, but I had a problem with the plots.  If you're not walking across the continent to vanquish the Dark Lord by throwing something into something, what else is there?

 So I wrote a Gay Guide to Religion, scientifically ranking every Christian denomination in the U.S. by its level of homophobia.  My agent hated it: it's a slap in the face of all the conservative Christians!  

6. Summer 1993: Architect.  Why not?  I loved old buildings.  It would require going back to school again, but it wasn't hard getting a job as an Architectural Assistant at Gruen Associates, the guys who invented shopping malls. Meanwhile I signed up for some architecture classes at UCLA.  Who knew that they would go bankrupt and lay me off after a year?



7. Summer 1994: Tour Guide.  Why not?  I went to Europe every year anyway, and I spoke five languages.  I decided to specialize in taking gay tourists on tours of Scandinavia, Estonia, and Russia.

Ok, I had never been to those places (I would a few years later), and I didn't speak any of the languages,  but I figured it was a good niche.  Turns out I was wrong. 10 ads in gay magazines, no customers.

8. Fall 1994: Employment Counselor. Most resume services charged $5, but I figured I could charge people $200 each to give them a job test, write their resume and cover letters, and give them interview tips. Surprisingly, this plan didn't work.

9. Fall 1994: Minister.  Back in junior high, I thought that God had called me to become a missionary.  Maybe He wanted me to become a minister!  I called the Metropolitan Community Church, and signed up as a student clergy.  It wasn't as glamorous as I expected: they put me in charge of the church hotline, which unfortunately got a lot of questions that weren't related to religion: Where's the best cruising area in town?  If I say I'm gay, how much money will you give me?  How big is your..."  



10. Spring 1995: Computer Technician.  I figured I could pay my way through seminary by becoming an IT professional.  I had to take apart a computer and stare at the innards.  Enough said.

Seeking a change of venue, we moved to San Francisco in 1995.

11. Fall 1995: Chemist.  Maybe I should become a professor, but not in the humanities.  Maybe the sciences were the place to be.  So I signed up for three introductory science classes at San Francisco City College.  I failed calculus and physics, and only passed chemistry by studying six hours a day.

12. Spring 1996: Veterinary Assistant.  It didn't require as rigorous a scientific background, there was a veterinary hospital just two blocks away, and I love animals.  But not necessarily injured, limping, whining animals in pain.  Maybe I should go back to the humanities.

Then one day I was walking across the campus at Berkeley, and I glanced into a classroom and saw the name "John Locke" written on the blackboard.  I took it as a sign: go back to graduate school, get your Ph.D., become a college professor.  But not in the physical sciences or the humanities.  Go into the social sciences.

In the fall of 1997, I enrolled in a fourth graduate program, in sociology at Setauket  University.  This time I graduated.

Monday, March 9, 2015

Finding Your Own Fetish

What do you find most attractive about this guy?
A. His basket
B. His biceps
C. His shoes

If you said B, you have partialism, an erotic interest in parts of the human body other than the sex organs.

Like biceps, feet, elbows, shoulders, backsides, and women's breasts.

If you said C, you have a fetish, an erotic interest in an object other than the human body.

Like shoes, boots, leather jackets, baseball caps, cigars, feathers,  underwear, crutches, balloons, cake, jello, mud, urine, and bubbles.

The list is endless.  Nearly everybody has some partialism and fetishes.

And some paraphilias, erotic interest in activities that don't necessarily involve contact with the sex organs.

Like bondage, BDSM, voyeurism (watching other people), exhibitionism (having other people watch you), wearing diapers, smoking, coughing, being lifted, being tickled, saying bad words...

Again, the list is endless.

There are four main theories about how we got our fetishes.

1. Imprinting.  Our earliest erotic thoughts are indelibly linked with the situation they occurred in.  Even incidental details become erotic.  If, for instance, you first liked a guy who happened to be smoking a cigar, you'll have an erotic interest in cigars forever.

Or cigar boxes.  Or just the tips of cigars.  Or having smoke blown into your face.

2. Gender Symbolism.  The object or situation is aggressively masculine or feminine, distilling the "essence" of what it means to be male or female.  You don't just like shoes in general, you like black leather boots or red stiletto heels.  You don't like just any article of clothing, you like gym socks and jock straps or brassieres and red lace panties.

3. Dirty/Forbidden. We grow up being told that sex acts are unclean, that erotic books and magazines are "dirty."  So we associate the erotic with acts or objects regarded as unclean, like feet, mud, urine, and bad words.

4. Power/Control.  Sex acts are always about getting or giving up control, one partner submitting to the other.  So we associate the erotic with acts or objects that involve explicit control, like police uniforms or daddy-son scenes.

Pop quiz:  Why do people find it erotic to get or give wedgies?
A. First experience
B. Gender symbolism
C. Dirty/forbidden
D. Power/control

Answer: Could be any or all of the above.

Psychiatrists used to think that fetishes, paraphilias, and partialism were invariably destructive, perversions of the "sexual instinct."

The psychiatric consensus now is that they're fine, as long as they aren't your only erotic interest, so you should enjoy "real sex" too.

But really, I don't see why anyone should care.  If you are happy with erotic acts involving feet or feathers, or being called bad names, or getting soda spilled on you, how will switching to penises make you happier, more fulfilled, or a better person?

There are only two problems with fetishes and paraphilias:

1. They're very specific.  You don't just want to be tied up, you want to be tied to a tree with gold-colored ropes, with your hands over your head, and a gold scarf used as a gag.

It;s difficult to orchestrate such precise situations, so you might have to settle for almost right, or resign yourself to many nights without passion.

2. It's hard to find Mr. Right.  Potential partners are usually either attractive but not into it, or into it but not attractive.  I suggest going with the latter.  Nothing is more boring than a partner who is just "putting up" with your fetish.

And if he is actually into having stir-fried vegetables eaten off his stomach while he's wearing a Ninja Turtle costume, who cares if he has muscles?


See also: Finding Larry's Fetish; and The Secretary: The Bottom Always Calls the Shots


Sunday, March 8, 2015

Sneaking Infinite Chazz into his Boyfriend's Bedroom

San Fernando Valley, October 1992

In the fall of 1992, I was working at Camp Routh, a probation camp for juvenile delinquents, and sneaking a Gay 101 unit into their sex education class, under the nose of the old-school homophobe director, Denman.  A boy named Chazz turned out to be gay, and asked if I could get him a day pass for his boyfriend's birthday:

"Ramon and me been ...um, you know, like dating for awhile.  This will be our second birthday, and so that's why I don't want to miss it."

It wouldn't be an easy task.  Asking Denman for a day pass to see a "boyfriend" would only result in yelling, Bible thumping, and probably a visit from the staff psychiatrist.

We couldn't even demote Ramon to a "friend."  In juvenile delinquency theory of the 1990s, friends were always trouble, steering kids away from the safe haven of home into late night bacchanals of sex, drugs, and vandalism.

But I had another idea.

Any of the staff members could ask to take a juvenile out as a special reward for good behavior or good grades -- a movie, a basketball game, or a pizza, as long as the expedition didn't take more than four hours, and the juvenile was back by 6:00 pm.  I told Denman that Chazz had submitted an excellent practice "employment application" in my life skills class, and as a reward I wanted to take him to see Home Alone.  He agreed.


It was still risky: if anyone found out what we were really up to, I would be fired, and Chazz would spend the rest of his term confined to his cabin.

We left the camp at 1:30, right after lunch, and drove down into the San Fernando Valley.  On the way I quizzed Chazz on every aspect of Home Alone in case someone asked later.

He waited until we were past Pacoima to reveal another problem: Ramon's father was ok with him being gay, but disapproved of his relationship with a "thug," so the visit would have to be clandestine.

"Don't worry, though -- his father works nights, so he'll be asleep when we get there."

Wait -- I was imagining a birthday party, with twenty people wearing funny hats, noisemakers, blowing out the candles on a cake.  I didn't sign on for a secret meeting with Dad snoring in the next room.

 But that's exactly what I got. At about 2:00, we pulled up to a tiny house on Vanowen Street in Reseda, with a spiked fence outside.  Chazz led me around back and rapped lightly on a bedroom window.  It was opened by a Hispanic kid, black haired, dark eyed, thin, even younger-looking than Chazz.
 



"I'll wait in the car," I whispered.

"No -- what if somebody sees you and wonders what you're doing there?  You have to come in with us."

So I pulled myself up over the stucco into a small, dimly lit bedroom.  The bed was unmade.  The floor was littered with clothes, comic books, toys -- how old was this Ramon, anyway? (Turns out he was 17.)

Chazz and Ramon hugged, then moved to sit on the bed.  I froze with embarrassment and fear. Was I about to see a teenage sexual encounter?  It was legal in California for two 17-year olds to have sex, but not for an adult to watch!

"You can kiss and hug, but no sex!" I said.  "I'll be in the living room."  I grabbed a comic book from Ramon's desk and eased my way out before they could protest.





 An hour passed.  I read my comic book, read TV Guide, turned the tv on very softly, listened to rhythmic snoring from Dad.

At 3:00 sharp I figured they were finished -- or should be -- and returned to Ramon's bedroom.  I couldn't knock without waking Dad, so I opened the door and peered into the darkness.  They were lying on the bed in each other's arms, apparently asleep.  Fortunately, fully clothed.

"It's time to go," I whispered.  "Chazz, let's move!"

They didn't hear me.  I walked over and nudged Chazz to wake him.

I didn't notice that the snoring had stopped.

Or that Ramon's father was standing in the doorway, tall, hirsute, muscular, wearing only underwear, staring in disbelief at the 30-year old man bending over his son's bed.  

What happened next is a blur.  I remember yelling in Spanish, grabbing Chazz, and shoving him out the front door.  I remember Chazz giggling all the way up the mountain.  I remember blushing when Denman asked if Chazz had a good time.

Remarkably, we weren't discovered, and Ramon was simply grounded. But I had the nagging feeling that I had been played by a teenage con artist.

Chazz and I stayed in contact.  When he left Routh and moved in with his parents, he used to come up to West Hollywood to visit every couple of weeks.

See also: Lane's Bear Boyfriend and Infinite Chazz


Teaching Juvenile Delinquents about Gay People

Wrestling Tournament
Tujunga, California,  July 1992

After I got back from Nashville in 1992, I found a job as a youth counselor at Camp Routh, a juvenile probation camp (alternative to prison).

It was in Tujunga, CA, up by the Angeles National Forest, about 20 miles from West Hollywood.  There were about 50 juvenile boys, aged 15 to 18, living in cabins like summer camp). No violent offenders; mostly property crimes and drugs.  They took regular high school classes, played sports, and had individual and group counseling sessions. 

My job:
1. Leading recreational activities, including movie nights and a field trip to the L.A. County Museum of Art, and, since I had a background in wrestling, a wrestling tournament.

2. Taking kids out for movies or pizza as rewards for good behavior.


3. Since I had a background in human resources, teaching resume writing and job interviewing.

4. Plus "life skills," like how to open a checking account, how to sign a lease on an apartment -- and sex education!

Classroom at the Juvenile Camp
Imagine my embarrassment in being assigned to teach "where babies come from" to a class of 15-18 year old juvenile delinquents, most of whom had been sexually active for years!

And my consternation when I discovered that the curriculum was entirely heterosexist!

Physiological changes during puberty -- "discovery of girls" -- heterosexual dating and romance -- the mechanics of sexual intercourse -- pregnancy -- birth control -- sexually-transmitted diseases.

It was easy to change "discovery of girls" to "increased interest in sex" and drop the pronouns in the "dating and romance" chapter, but when we got to "the mechanics of sexual intercourse" with only men and women, I had to do something.


I never saw Denman shirtless
The director, a former bodybuilder named Denman, was rather conservative, always talking about faith-based counseling programs, so I didn't have much hope.

Sure enough, when I asked if I could include a unit on gay people, he stared at me as if I had said something dirty.  "Why would they need to know about that?  They're not gay."

"How do you know they're all heterosexual?" I asked.  "10% of the population is gay, so that means about five of them."

"No way!  They're just kids!"

Right, gayness is an adult "lifestyle choice."  I'd heard that one before.  "Well -- even if they're not gay, they're going to encounter gay people in their lives, and they should have some background."

He grinned.  "Oh...you mean like what to do if a homosexual tries to seduce you!  You're right, Davis -- that could be a useful skill for these kids. Lord knows they get a lot of that in juvie.  Go ahead and add it to your class!"



Of course, that's not what I added to my class.  During 3 class sessions, when Denman wasn't around, I taught "Gay 101."  It took 3 days because whenever anyone passed by close enough to hear, I switched to something about "how you know if a girl is into you."  But eventually we covered:
1. People can be gay, heterosexual, or bisexual.
2. It's not a choice or a preference.
3. You can be gay or straight and not sexually active.
4. Gay people don't all have AIDS.
5. All gay men aren't feminine, and all lesbians aren't masculine.
6. It's not illegal to be gay.
7. Lots of religions teach that being gay is ok
8. Gays don't go around trying to seduce kids.
9. Some kids are gay.
10. Homophobic harassment is bad.

They were surprisingly attentive, for a class of rowdy underachievers with no pictures or film strips.  Most of them had never heard anything about gay people before, except that they were bad, and this all came as a revelation.  Some of them had gay siblings, or gay friends; one had a gay Dad.  But no one in the class came out.

Chazz Chest
A few days after Gay 101 ended, a boy named Chazz approached me after class.  He was older, probably 17 or 18,  a little on the small side -- not a wrestler -- stunningly handsome, but very reserved around authority figures.  He never talked or volunteered in class, although his homework assignments were fine.  Sometimes saw him laughing and roughhousing with his friends.

"Can you help me get a day pass?" he asked.

"Why, are you in disciplinary?" Denman was good at granting day passes for birthdays, religious holidays, a parent in the hospital, even a brother home on leave from the army.  Except if you were being confined for a disciplinary infraction.

"No, I'm good."

"Then just go and tell Denman what you need it for."

"Well, that's the thing," Chazz said.  "He wouldn't understand."

"He gave Noriega a day pass to go to his little brother's sixth grade graduation.  I'm sure he'll understand your situation."

"Well, see. . . "  Chazz reddened.  "It's my friend's birthday."

I was a little surprised.  In juvie, family was everything, your one safe haven, your bolster against the bad things of the world (they ignored the fact that many of the kids had horrible, abusive parents). Friends were always suspect, bad influences who would lead you astray.  It was not unusual for the kids to be told "stay away from this person" as part of their probation.

"I admit, that's an unusual situation, but I'm sure if you explain the situation, I'm sure you can get an exception."

"Well, see...the thing is, he's not really my friend.  He's my...um...well, my lover."

Next: Sneaking Chazz into his boyfriend's bedroom.

L

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