Friday, May 29, 2015

The Nazarene Sport of Bibles and Butts

When I was growing up in the Church of the Nazarene, most of the high school boys and a few girls competed in the jump quiz.

They announced the book of the Bible every year during summer camp, and we started preparing immediately, memorizing verses, quizzing each other, and doing set after set of lunges, squats, kickbacks, and leg-lifts.

This was a strenuous sport!


See Naked Nazarene #16

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Kept After School by my Science Teacher

Rock Island, November 1974

Mr. Peterson, who taught chemistry and physics, was the most physical teacher at Washington Junior High. Most teachers hide their bodies, trying to become pure intellect, but as he danced, ran, and skipped around the classroom, Mr. Peterson obviously had a chest and shoulders and biceps -- and, if you looked closely, a Bratwurst shifting in his slacks

He always wore his tie half-undone, as if his body was aching to burst out.

 When he walked down the row of lab tables to check on our work, you could feel his heat.

In the fall of ninth grade, Dan and I enrolled in his physics class, expecting discussions of black holes, teleportation, and Star Trek-style warp drive mechanics -- what could be more exciting?

Unfortunately, physics turned out to be deadly dull.

Levers and inclined planes and how pulleys work. Put this wire into that box.



Mr. Peterson tried to make it fun by singing songs and making silly puns, but still:

Gravity, friction, inertia. AC and DC currents. Calculate the velocity of a pitched ball.

Yuck!  We tweaked by with C's. And spent a lot of time whispering and giggling and making funny drawings in our notebooks.

One day we collaborated an elaborate picture of the ancient Greek view of the universe: a flat world surrounded by a vast ocean, with a dome of heaven above.  We labeled it "What we learned in Mr. Peterson's class."

We were so engrossed that we didn't hear Mr. Peterson approach and look over my shoulder.  "Looks like you guys have a lot of free time on your hands," he said with an incongruous smile.  "We'd better put you to work.  Report to the Chemistry Lab at 3:00 to wash test tubes."

Test tubes?

Five big boxes of them, a new shipment for Advanced Chemistry.  Before they could be used, they had to be soaked -- one at a time -- in a solution of hydrochloric acid, then washed in a special detergent and rinsed in de-ionized water.  Who knew it was such a complicated process?

Fun, though.  We got to wear goggles and gloves.

As we worked, Mr. Peterson tried the usual adult conversation starter: girls.  Do you have girlfriends?  What girl do you like?  Girls always go for scientists! And so on.

Finally I got tired of it and exclaimed "Girls are gross!"

Dan kicked me under the table.  In ninth grade, you couldn't express a lack of interest in girls.  The adults would say "Don't get smart!" or redouble their efforts to hook you up with "the girl of your dreams."

But Mr. Peterson said "Yeah, I guess girls are pretty gross," without even blinking in surprise.  "So, what do you like?"

I was too shocked to lie.  "Um...um...guys with muscles."

"Muscles?"  He stared, but only for a moment.  "Right, physical fitness is important.  You guys like Bruce Lane?  Wow, he had some muscles on him!"  He began doing fake kung fu moves and singing. "Everybody was kung fu fighting..."

"Donny Osmond is cute, too," Dan said.  "He took off his shirt in Tiger Beat."

"When I was a kid, we liked Elvis Presley.  Did you ever see him in Blue Hawaii?  He spends about half the movie in a swimsuit!"

The three of us spent the rest of detention talking about cute and muscular guys, from Greg Brady to Tarzan!

Mr. Peterson framed his comments in heteronormative terms: "I bet the girls go for him!" or "He must get all the girls he wants!"  But grownups always tried to make everything about girls.  It was easy to ignore the side-comments, and just feel proud and happy to be talking about muscles.

When we were finished with the test tubes, he said,"You've been such good assistants, I want to treat you to a hamburger."

We didn't care that dinner was in about an hour.  He drove us to Mulkey's, and we sat in a booth on either side of him, close enough so our legs and thighs were inches away from his, and we could feel the warmth from his body.

When the waitress asked  "Are these your sons?", he said, "No, my research assistants.  We're scientists, conducting a very important experiment."

"On what?"

"Muscles!"  Dan exclaimed.  We all laughed.

Best detention ever!

We never got detention again, but we took Mr. Peterson's chemistry class in the spring semester, and occasionally he tapped my shoulder and asked "Seen any musclemen lately?"

My brother and sister both took his classes when they were in junior high, and he always asked about me.

Since he's on the list of Teachers I may have hooked up with, you're probably wondering if we did.

Answer after the break:







Not unless you count my fantasies.

I don't know about Dan.  Mr. Peterson hooked him on science.  He majored in physics in college, and finally became an computer engineer of some sort.  Maybe they reunited years later.

I was happy just to be talking about muscles.


Hooking Up with My "Uncle"

Rock Island, June 1988

Sunday, June 5th

I'm back in Rock Island for a week.  A swishy, flamboyant older guy named Gene approached me during the coffee hour after morning services at the MCC.

"Your last name is...what?"  he asked, offering a multi-ringed hand to be shaken. "Oh, Mary!  I tricked with your Dad."

"My Dad? I don't think so,..he's pretty straight."

"Your uncle, then. Steve Davis. Girl, she was such a hottie, back in the day!"

I shook my head.  "I'm not related to anybody in Rock Island.   My family is from Indiana."

"Distant cousin, then!  When that Cute Young Thing came into the Hawaiian Lounge, all the queens just swooned.  She was picky, though, wouldn't go home with just anybody.  You had to have class."

Could he mean Mr. Davis, my grade school math teacher?  Everybody assumed that he was my uncle back then.  He wasn't -- but I had a major crush on him!  Black hair, sharp features, big, expressive hands.  He wore a thin white shirt with no t-shirt, so in the right light you could see the contours of his body as he moved.  And tight pants -- the first time I ever fantasized about a guy's basket was in his class.

"But that was, like, twenty years ago. He'd be...."

"In his 40s?  A big burly muscle daddy?"

My interest piqued, I asked "Is he still in town?"

"Oh, no, Mary.  I heard she fell in love with one of those big burly rough trade types and now manages a glory-hole truck stop in Ottumwa."

Monday, June 6th

In the 1980s, you looked people up in telephone books, one for each town.  I went to the public library and looked for a Steve Davis in Ottumwa, Oscaloosa, Osceola, and Indianola.  Nothing.

I invited Gene to lunch the next day.

Tuesday, June 7th

"All this trouble just to trick with your Uncle, sweetheart?  And he might not even be hot anymore!"

"Well, yeah," I admitted, embarrassed.  "He was my first crush, he's gay -- how could I pass up the opportunity to at least meet him?  And maybe see if his basket lives up to my fantasies."

"Well, Mary, you're in luck.  I've been asking around, and one of the girls has it on good authority that Miss Thing is now running a stud farm in Keokuk. Rhymes with...you know."

Back to the library.  Keokuk, Iowa, about two hours south of Rock Island, had a Steve Davis listed!

I called.  The number was disconnected.

Wait -- Dick, my former bully and current friend, had Mr. Davis in class, too.  Maybe their paths crossed.

I called him and got invited to dinner.


"Sure, I know Steve -- we dated for awhile, back when I first came out. He lives down in Normal now."  Two hours from Rock Island, the site of Illinois State University.

"Why didn't you mention that you dated our grade school math teacher?"

He shrugged.  "I thought he was your uncle.  Who wants to hear that his friend had sex with his uncle?"

Wednesday, June 8th
I called the number Dick gave me, and Mr. Davis -- Steve --answered!  He remembered me -- it's hard to forget a kid who everyone thinks is your nephew -- and even suspected that I was gay. He invited me to visit on Saturday.

The day before I was scheduled to fly back to Los Angeles.

Saturday, June 11th
Aching with anticipation, I borrowed my sister's car and drove out to Normal, to a small white-paned house a few blocks from the campus.

A Cute Young Thing answered the door: probably an Illinois State student, mid-20s, slender, with thick black hair and a short beard.  He was wearing a yellow shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a slim, hairy chest, and very tight short pants.



"I'm Maier, Steve's lover," he said with a smile. "He's asleep, but I'l try to wake him up.  He's really looking forward to seeing you again.  Not a lot of his former students turn out to be gay."

Asleep, at 1:00 in the afternoon?  When you're expecting company?

He led me through the living room, down a hallway, to a closed door.  He knocked, and a weak voice called "Come in."

A rather buffed, 40-something guy was lying in bed in his undershirt, propped up on pillows.  A couple of books beside him -- I remember A Brief History of Time.  A box of kleenix and an assortment of vials and bottles on the nightstand.

I stared -- the situation seemed unreal.  He had a beard now, and some crags and lines, but it was definitely Mr. Davis, who I used to gaze longingly at in sixth grade math class!  Memories came rushing back.  The smell of big math binders, the feel of chalk squishing against blackboards,  That white shirt with his body visible underneath.  The basket....

"Hi, 'nephew.' Nice to see you again," Steve said with a weak smile.  A little raspy, but the same voice I remember talking about multiplying and dividing fractions.  "Sorry I look so awful.  Fever of 102. Some kind of summer bug."

"No, you look great.  Same as you did back in sixth grade."

"You don't -- you've grown into quite a hunk."

Maier and I sat on chairs a few feet from the bed.  I told my best West Hollywood stories, about my date with Richard Dreyfuss, my stalled porn career, and Alan helping me thwart a celebrity at Mugi.

Steve didn't say a lot, but Maier told me about him leaving Denkmann to take care of his ailing mother, moving briefly to Chicago, and then getting a job teaching middle school in Normal.

"I wish you could visit again in a few days, when I'm feeling better," Steve said, reaching for a kleenix.  "We were hoping that you would be up for sharing."

"Too bad I'm flying back to L.A. tomorrow."  I looked at him hopefully.  "Um...this is a little embarrassing, but...I was wondering...could I...get a grope?

"Sure, if I can grope you, too -- I'm sick, I'm not dead."  He pulled back the covers -- he was naked underneath.  Rather small, but that didn't matter -- I approached him and fulfilled a 20-year old fantasy.

I promised to visit when I came back to Rock Island again, but at Christmastime it was too snowy for a two-hour drive, and the next summer I was too busy, and so on, and so on.  It never happened.

But that moment of intimacy at Mr. Davis's sickbed was worth a dozen nights of passion.

See also: My Night with the Son of Mr. Blowfish.


Wednesday, May 27, 2015

My Grade School Boyfriend and the Old Lady Schoolteachers

Rock Island, Fall 1984

You're probably wondering about my "boyfriend" Nick who saved me from The Killer one summer (I'm guessing the summer after 3rd grade, when I was eight years old).

The muscular, redheaded law student with freckles on his chest who took me out for an ice cream soda afterwards.

I don't have many more details, no long-ago smiles or glimpses of his shame.  He visited a few more times, that summer and the next -- once he took me and Bill for a ride in his convertible with the top down.

Then he vanished without explanation (or maybe he just happened to visit when I wasn't around.  I was busy every summer with Nazarene Bible camp and vacation and summer enrichment classes).


He left me with one connection: his grandmother.

Her name was really Mrs. Lindquist, and her companion was Miss Deverr or Devere, but everyone called them the Old Lady Schoolteachers because they had taught at Denkmann Elementary School for many years, beginning when it first opened in 1934.

I never knew their first names.

When I was growing up, Mom knew them from the PTA or the Safe House Program or something (Safe Houses had brown stars in the window, signifying that you could run there if a stranger tried to abduct you).  She used to go over and visit them -- maybe they reminded her of her own mother, who died in 1965.  Occasionally they sent banana bread or cookies back with her.

They always made popcorn balls for Halloween.

Sometimes my brother and I went over to shovel their sidewalks or mow their lawns.  We were supposed to do it for free, but they always tipped us a quarter each anyway.  They invited us inside once, while they fumbled about in their purses.  I remember dark, ponderous furniture, General Hospital on tv, and dozens of framed pictures of relatives. Nick was smiling in a graduation gown.

Miss Devere died when I was in high school, leaving Mrs. Lindquist alone in the house.

I brought my first boyfriend, Fred, over to meet her.  She gave us Swedish cookies and asked what we were studying in school.

Mrs. Lindquist died in 1984, during my year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.  Since I was 1000 miles away, I didn't go to the funeral, but Mom and Dad were there.  They talked to Nick briefly: he was a lawyer, living in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, with a wife and two kids. No doubt he was still buffed, with freckles on his chest.

The obituary they sent filled in the details in the life of Mrs. Lindquist: born in Galesburg in 1896, graduated from Augustana College, married Axel Lindquist, had two children.  She taught at several Rock Island schools, and at Denkmann from 1934 to 1961, when she retired. Her husband and her son Jonah preceded her in death.  She had four grandchildren and two great-grandchildren.

Miss Devere was not mentioned.

At the time I didn't think that they might be a lesbian couple.   After all, they lived on the next block!  They made banana bread!

But now I wonder: were they just heterosexual roommates, sharing the bills, describing the penises of their male lovers, on Friday nights gazing lustfully at aging sleuth Barnaby Jones on tv?

Or were they "together"?  Back in the 1930s, did they wear cravats and smoke cigarettes and read to each other from The Well of Loneliness?  Did they teach together, and then stroll across the grassy field to their house, a lesbian couple living freely and openly during the 1940s and police-state 1950s?

I might be able to find Nick on the internet, reunite with him, and ask for more details.  But I'm not sure I want to.  Living in Cedar Rapids, he's probably conservative, and might not amenable to the suggestion that his grandmother may have been a lesbian.

Besides, he's about 70 now.  I would rather remember the muscular redheaded teenager with freckles on his chest who rescued me on that hot summer day a thousand years ago.

See also: The Face of Pure Evil

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

The Amish Boy in Red Bikini Underwear

Rural Florida, August 2001

Whenever I tell someone about the rules in my childhood church: no dancing, movies, cards, mixed swimming, eating out on Sunday, secular literature, theaters, circuses, carnivals, jeans, earrings, makeup...they ask "Were you Amish?"

No, but  I have Amish roots.

My biological grandmother, Orpha Maye Young, was descended from an Amish family.  LaGrange County, where she and my biological grandfather lived, has the largest Amish population in the United States.  30% of the county speaks Pennsylvania Dutch (their German dialect).

By the way, many Amish work in factories, not on farms, and some do, in fact, use electricity.

When I was growing up, our visits to Indiana often included Shipshewana, the Amish capital, about 20 miles from Aunt Nora's house in Rome City. On the way we saw the Amish trundling down the country roads in their horse-and-buggies.

Once we arrived, we saw them at the Flea Market, at the Country Store, and on the streets, groups of boys, young unmarried men (without beards), and married men (with beards), all wearing their trademark black woolen hats, long-sleeved homespun shirts, and black pants (fastened with buttons because the Bible doesn't mention zippers).


I have a thing for religious men -- monks, priests, rabbis, imams, seminary students, Mormon missionaries -- and here was a whole tribe of them!

I found them fascinating, strangely erotic in spite of their attempt to appear modest. Or because of it. 

I'm not the only one, judging from the popularity of reality tv programs like Breaking Amish and Amish Mafia,  which seemed designed for the sole purpose of getting Amish men out  of their clothes.

Not to mention fictional tv series like Two Broke Girls, in which the sleazoid pair does their best to corrupt two innocent Amish boys (Jack DePew, Brandon Jones, top photo).

The largest concentrations of Amish in the U.S. are in Ohio, Indiana, and Pennsylvania; they are extremely rare elsewhere.  So I saw none while I was living in California or New York.

But in the summer of 2001, on my way from New York to Florida, I saw some in the most unlikely of places.

 On the I-95 South, just after crossing the Florida-Georgia border, you come to one of those mega-rest stops with gas, a restaurant, a video arcade, a convenience store, showers for truckers, and who knows what else?  I stopped, got gas, and sat down for a lunch of fried chicken, "dirty rice," and french fries.

Suddenly fifty Amish people came trundling in!

Later I found out that there are bus companies that specialize in transporting the Amish from Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania to Sarasota, Florida.  Why wouldn't they want to go on vacation?

A dozen Amish men were heading to the rest room.  I jumped up from my seat and headed there, too.

It was trough-style.

 I took my place between an unmarried young man and a married older man, unzipped, and did my business while surreptitious glancing at my partners.

The older man unbuttoned his pants, pulled up his shirt, and pulled out an impressive-sized member.  No underwear.

The younger guy pulled his rather smaller member from a pair of red bikini briefs.

Red bikini briefs? 

I had to know more about this guy!


A few moments later, I found him standing by his bus, sipping a soda.   "Hi, I don't mean to bother you, but I couldn't help noticing -- you're not wearing the regulation uniform."

He smiled.  "Yah, I got them at Penney's.  I like yours, too."

Apparently he had been sneaking a peek at me while I was sneaking a peek at him!

But I was wearing regular white briefs.  He must be referring to something else....

"Name's Amos.  I'm eighteen in October."

"Boomer. Older than that."

We shook hands.  He had a hard, firm handshake that he held a moment "too long."

Wearing underwear was against Amish policy, especially red underwear., Amos said.  But the elders understood adolescent rebellion: "They don't get too mad if a teenager starts to wear fancy clothes.  Or if he learns to drive a car, or goes to a movie."

"Or goes to a gay bar?"

Amos started to blush red around his ears, and looked the other way.  "Nah, we don't like the gays too much.  God wants you to get wife and children."

He didn't sound very enthusiastic.  That, plus the red underwear -- and checking me out -- he was gay!

The other Amish were starting to lope toward the bus. .I only had a few seconds left.

"There are gay-friendly churches," I said.  "You don't have to choose between gay and God.  Do you go on the internet?"

"Yah.  You think I'm a dope?"

"Search for 'Metropolitan Community Church.'  They're all over."

He grinned.  "Ok, thanks.  I gotta go."  He held out his hand for me to shake again.  This time he squeezed it hard. "Bye, now."

It's been almost exactly 13 years since that day in June.  Amos is 31 years old.  I hope he's out and proud.

I hope our five-minute chat helped.

See also: The Bodybuilder and the Teenage Underwear Thief; and A Glimpse of Supreme Beauty at a Highway Rest Stop

Sunday, May 24, 2015

The Bear Party on the Prairie

In West Hollywood, I went to bear parties in the Hollywood Hills with fifty guys.

In New York, there were gay male nudist parties on Long Island with thirty or more guys.

Even in Dayton, someone put a lot of mattresses on the floor in his basement and held weekly M4M parties, with at least twenty guys.

Why should the Prairie be any different?

I kept a lookout for parties for months.  There was one advertised in the City, but it specified that "a fag" would be in attendance to service all the "studs."  No way was I going to a party hosted by someone so horrifyingly homophobic!

Another was two hours away, a little far to drive to see guys naked.

So Troy and I decided to host our own.

Party #1

We turned the study into a dark room by nailing a blanket over the window, dragged all of the chairs in the house into the living room, put two mattresses on the floor in the bedroom, bought porn to put on the tv, made punch and lots of snacks, and printed out signs with hot guys on them.

I put ads up on craigslist and Men4SexNow, and planned a guest list of  25, making sure to have a variety of ages and body builds.

Then the questions started.  Weird, crazy, wacko, crazy questions.
"How many guys will be there?  Can I get their photos?"
"How many tops?"
"How many young tops?"
"How many muscular young tops?"
"How many muscular young hung tops?"

Come on, it's not West Hollywood!  What do you think the average guy looks like?




Which is fine with me, but if you're only into porn stars, a sex party might not be the place for you.

And by the way, everyone who specified a preferred sexual position was a bottom.  Everyone.

Results: RSVP list of 26, 10 guys showed up, including three young, muscular guys who had Attitude and wouldn't allow any else to get with them.  They didn't get invited back.

Party #2

We skipped the dark room and the clever signs, dragged some chairs into the living room, bought sodas and a bag of chips, put the same porn on the tv, and put up more ads.

More emails with questions about "how many young, muscular, hung tops?", plus a variety of other weird, crazy, wacko, and offensive questions:

"Is it discrete?  I don't want my boss to find out."
"How can I be sure that you're not sending me on a wild goose chase to retaliate against someone who rejected you?"
"Can you guarantee that the party won't be all black guys?"
"Can you guarantee that there won't be any old, fat guys?"
"Will there be any women there?"
"Can I wear my pretty pink panties?"

And, again and again, "What are your stats?  Are you a young, muscular, hung top?  Can I get a pic?"

Um...I'm the host.  I'm busy answering the door, checking clothes, making sure everybody has a good time.  I don't even take my clothes off.

Results: Another RSVP list of 26, but only 6 guys showed up, and three of them wouldn't even take off their clothes.


Party #3
We moved a couple of chairs into the living room, put out a few cans of soda, and put Absolutely Fabulous on tv.

I put up more ads with a detailed description of what to expect, plus provisos like "no attitude" and "you will be surrounded by guys of all sizes and shapes, so if you're extremely picky, this isn't the place for you."

More emails of "How many hot, young, muscular, hung guys will be there?"

Results: RSVP list of 16, 3 guys showed up.  One was fat, one old, one black.  We watched Absolutely Fabulous.  After an hour, it was obvious that no one else was coming, so the five of us went into the bedroom, took off our clothes, and went at it.

Best M4M party ever.