Monday, May 4, 2015

The Pitcher with the Secret Move


Upstate, March 2009

When I moved to Upstate New York in the fall of 2008, my social calendar was soon crowded with invitations from members of the Gang of Twelve, guys who had known each other for years, and who shared everything, from gossip to boyfriends.

They had a hierarchy.  The Upper Class got the first shot at the New Kid in Town: The Rich Kid, The Grabby Nurse, and The Satyr .

Next came the Middle Class: The Truck Driver, The Rapper (though they cut in line due to the special circumstances of their breakup), The Klingon, and The Sword Swallower.

By March 2009, I was getting calls from members who were not at all well off financially, but some of the more attractive of the Gang of Twelve.  Like the Pitcher.

  Date #8: The Pitcher with a Secret Move

He was, in fact, a former pitcher for the semi-pro Cooperstown Tigers. Now he worked as a desk clerk at a hotel in Oneota, and was a volunteer umpire every year at the Cooperstown Dream Park.

The selfie he sent showed a guy in his 40s, broad-shouldered, muscular, clean-shaven, with "matinee idol" good looks.

He had been friends with several members of the Gang of Twelve for years, and dated a couple of them, but the usually-gossipy bunch didn't say much about his past, and nothing about his bedroom activities.

I was intrigued.  Maybe he was spectacular, and they didn't want to ruin the surprise.  Or awful, and they didn't want to ruin the surprise.


Turns out he was great, except for that sports thing, and one other problem.

See if you can guess what it was:.

First clue: He arrived at my apartment for our date all hot and sweaty from the gym, and asked if he could take a shower first.  Of course I wanted a glimpse of his physique, and "accidentally" walked in while he was putting on his underwear.

Very distinctive: white mesh, extending from his waist to just above his knee.

"Are you a Mormon?" I asked.

"Oh, no, this is French.  Very comfortable.  And it shows off my basket nicely, don't you think?"

I had to agree that it did.

"I always wear it to gym  It gets me lots of attention."

Second clue:  We went out to dinner at a Thai restaurant (since he was not well-off financially, I paid).

The Pitcher didn't say a lot about his past, so I didn't bring up my usual stories of my date with Richard Dreyfuss, the bodybuilding contest in Turkey, or how I single-handedly bankrupted the porn industry.  Instead, we talked about gay rights, tv -- he was a big fan of RuPaul's Drag Race -- and -- yawn -- sports.

"Which date with the Gang of Twelve have you liked best so far?" he asked.  "Myself excluded, of course."

"I can tell you the one  liked the least -- the Sword Swallower.  He freaked me out!"

"I know!" the Pitcher said.  "I've told him a dozen times to tell people what he's into, don't just spring it on them.  For instance, I'm into a lot of things.   But do I just jump into it?  Of course not.  I always talk to the guy first."

"What, exactly, are you into?" I asked.

"Oh, lots of things...bondage, spanking, water sports, master-slave scenes, talking dirty, underwear, leather, drag, porn, shoes, feet.  Do you find any of that appealing?"

"Definitely the leather and the underwear," I said with a grin.  "Of course, I like the guy best when he's out of his clothes."

Third clue:  After dinner, I invited the Pitcher back to my apartment, but he refused.  "I have to go to work at midnight. But how about next weekend?  Come over Sunday night, and I'll fix you a nice big home-cooked dinner. Then afterwards we can see what happens."

So the next Sunday I went to the Pitcher's place -- a small house trailer in Milford -- for a dinner of brisket, matzah ball soup, mashed potatoes, beets, and hamentaschen (someone in the Gang of Twelve told him I was Jewish).


Then we sat on the couch, watching The Amazing Race and Desperate Housewives, and kissing and fondling.

He let me grope his fancy French underwear, but when I tried to reach under his shirt, he moved my hand away.

When Desperate Housewives was over, the Pitcher said: "Well, it looks like we've gotten to know each other.  Why don't you slip out of those clothes?  I'll be right back."

I assumed that he had to use the bathroom, but instead he disappeared into the bedroom. I heard the door lock -- no peeking this time!

He wanted to get undressed in private?  Weird.

I took off my clothes and waited on the couch.  And waited. And clicked through the channels. And waited. And wondered if it would be impolite to help myself to more hamentaschen.

Was he putting on some fancy fetish gear?  Preparing for a bondage scene?  I was about ready to knock on the door and see if he had fainted.

Finally the door clicked open, and the Pitcher appeared.

Have you figured it out yet?

More after the break:






The Pitcher was wearing mascara, fake eyelashes, lipstick, and a red wig.  Red press-on fingernails.

A bra, panties (not fancy French underwear), red lace pantyhose, and high heeled shoes.   .

WTF?  "Um...um..."  I was speechless.  It was like The Crying Game in reverse.

The Pitcher looked confused.  "What's wrong?  I told you I was into drag."

"Yeah, but it was one thing in a list of 30!  I thought we'd be doing a bondage scene."

He sat next to me on the couch.  "You definitely said you were into underwear."

"No, no...manly underwear!  Jock straps!  Not lady's underwear!"

Ok, in Florida I hooked up with Victor, AKA Miss Chita Taboo, but he wasn't wearing women's clothing during the act!

"Well, we seem to have had a miscommunication," the Pitcher said.

"That's a bit of an understatement!  Could you...you know, go back into the bedroom and take it off?"

" No -- no, I only like being with guys when I'm dressed up.  It's the only way I can relax and let myself get into it."  He put a red-nailed hand on my shoulder.  "Have you ever tried it with a guy who's dressed up?  You might like it."

"I'm pretty sure I wouldn't.  Sorry."

I don't mean to imply that the Pitcher's problem was enjoying bedroom activities in drag -- there's nothing wrong with wearing lady's clothing, whenever and wherever you like.  His problem was keeping it a secret, especially from the guys he planned to take into his bedroom.  Or revealing it in impenetrable code, as if it were something shameful.

See also: The Drag Queen on my Sausage List.

Sunday, May 3, 2015

Jermaine, The Biggest Guy on My Sausage List

Boston, February 2001

#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).


The interviews were atrocious -- snobbish faculty, snobbish grad students, questions that were heterosexist, combative, dissmisive, or just plain rude.  No way I was getting this job!  No way did I want it!

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?"

Finally I was completely naked, but Jermaine was still wearing pants.

"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

L

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