Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Fantasy Hookup with the Chinese Food Delivery Guy

Dayton, October 2005

After the wealth of Asian guys available in California -- Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Korean, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Burmese, Malaysian, Filipino --  I felt deprived when I moved to New York -- during four years, I was only with six Asian guys:
1. Peter, the Filipino undergrad who is #3 on my Sausage List
2. Jun, a Japanese gymnast who I met in Montreal
3. An undergrad history major from Shanghai. We had just one date.
4. A guy I met at the Eagle, whose name I don't remember.
5. Mario the teen model.
6. And  the Man in Black, a priest or something who cruised me in the street.

I felt even more deprived in Fort Lauderdale.  In four years, I was with only two Asian guys, and one of them, the Son of Mr. Blowfish,  I met while back in Rock Island for a visit..

By the time I got to Dayton,  I was desperate.  If I didn't get some Asian action soon, I'd be hopping the next plane to Hong Kong.

Unfortunately, the population of Dayton is less than 1% Asian, and I wasn't meeting any.

Then I ordered Chinese food.

Who hasn't wanted to do this to the delivery guy?

He's always the son or brother of the owner, young, cute, and smiling -- not like the grungy ex-cons who deliver Domino's.

He doesn't speak English well, so whatever you ask, he nods in agreement.

And he brought you food, so subconsciously you think you're on a date.

The guy from the Dragon Palace who delived my Hunan chicken was young, black-haired, and smiling, but darker and more muscular than I expected.  Three of the five traits I find attractive -- and I was deprived of Asian companionship.

This guy was getting in my bed.

One way or another.

"Um...I don't have any money for your tip.  Can I write you a check?"

"Ok, check," he said, grinning.  "My name is Long Wei Chan, but you can say Bobby Chan."

He walked into the kitchen while I wrote out his 50% tip.

"This is very nice apartment  You live all alone?"

"No, I have a roommate." I didn't really, but you never reveal to strangers that you live alone.

"How much you pay?"

I told him.

"Nice," he said, and left, while I kicked myself for not having a game plan prepared in advance..

I intended to wait a couple of days and try again, after I developed a cruising strategy, but a couple of hours later, Bobby knocked on the door.

"Hi -- did I forget something?"

"No, no -- sorry to bother you.  I want to ask you something -- can I come in?"

Absolutely!  Come inside, take your clothes off!  I yelled in my mind.  But I just said "Sure.  Come in and sit down.  What's up?"

Bobby sat on a chair, not the couch (Darn it!!!) and explained that he was planning to move out of his parents' house, and he wanted to bring his "friend" around to see how nice my apartment was -- maybe they could move into my building.

A hookup with Bobby and his "friend"?  Well, he didn't actually say "a hookup," but still -- what else could he mean?  My mind reeled.

We agreed to meet the next night for coffee and dessert. I invited Chuck, my "friend with benefits" over, because it isn't wise to entertain two strangers by yourself.

The "friend" turned out to be a Caucasian guy named Thad, a few years older than Bobby, and a lot more muscular, but a little too tall for me, with a long, bearded face that's one of my turn-offs.

They looked at my bookshelves full of gay books, beefcake movie posters, and statue of Michelangelo's David without surprise or comment.  Obviously a gay couple.

Still, I was a little disappointed -- I had been expecting another Asian guy.


I got even more disappointed.

"A place like this would be great for us," Thad said after the tour.  "You know, Bobby really wanted to move in with his girlfriend, but his parents said 'no way'!"

Girlfriend!!!!!!

"Together for two years!" Bobby bragged.


I excused myself, went into the bathroom, and ranted.

When I came out, Thad was waiting in the hallway.

"Oh, sorry.  It's all yours."

"Wait."  His hand pressed against my chest.  "Do you mind..." he stammered.  "I just want to see...I want to..."  Then he was kissing me.

I broke away.  "I though you and Bobby were straight."

"Oh, he doesn't know about me.  Frankly, he's a little naive.  He didn't even figure it out from your beefcake poster.  I mean, who wouldn't figure it out from that?"

Later conversations revealed that Thad had a special interest in Asian guys -- he met Bobby through an unsuccessful cruise.

He had a whole address book full of gay Asian friends and former boyfriends, including a very hot graduate student in political science at Ohio State.

So I didn't get the delivery boy, but I did finally meet some Asian men.

See also: Hooking Up with the Museum Guard; and the Hookup with the Water Delivery Guy.

Meeting my First Bisexual


Bloomington, Spring 1983

When I was in grad school in English in the early 1980s, we had to learn all about Great Literature, which meant long, boring novels about heterosexual men lusting after women.

And we had to watch Great Movies, which meant long, boring movies about heterosexual men lusting after women.

A group of English grad students went to the Nuart Cinema for "art films" every couple of weeks.  All horrible AND heterosexist:

Tempest, with John Cassavetes having sex with Susan Sarandon on the beach.
The Return of Martin Guerre, about a Medieval Frenchman who comes back to his loving family.
Sophie's Choice, about a young writer (Peter MacNicol) who falls in love with an elderly concentration camp survivor.
Koyaanisqatsi, shots of crowded city streets and things going by on conveyor belts.
The Year of Living Dangerously, with Mel Gibson falling in love in Indonesia
Liquid Sky,  about heroin users who kill each other while aliens watch.
Fanny and Alexander, 3 hours of Swedish kids watching their relatives do boring things.

I dragged my friend Joseph, one of the "Gays of Eigenmann Hall," along to share in the torture.

Joseph ("Joe" in the straight world) was a grad student in history, concentrating in Enlightenment Europe, fluent in French and German, and a fencing enthusiast with an impressive physique.

I tried hard to date him, and he did consent to share my bed a couple of times, but he wasn't particularly interested.  He liked husky, hairy blue collar types, auto mechanics and repairmen.  One day he was elated because he had managed to seduce the custodian at Ballantine Hall, right down in the boiler room!

At the Nuart, we were strictly closeted, of course -- coming out to a heterosexual friend in 1983 would result in, at best, a horrified stare and a stammer of  "Whoa, back off, man!"

So I didn't talk about gay subtexts, or point out attractive men on screen.

But Joseph went even farther to maintain a heterosexual facade. He joined in the nonstop discussions of feminine beauty, saying things like "You'd have to be an idiot to leave a hottie like Nathalie Baye (in Martin Guerre)"  and "I kept waiting for Susan Sarandon (in Living Dangerously) to show her breasts!"

One night he kept it up even after we said goodnight to the other guys and returned to Eigenmann Hall: "I can't believe how sexy Meryl Streep (in Sophie's Choice) was!"

"Don't you mean Peter MacNichol?"

"Oh, right, right."  He grinned sheepishly.  "Sorry, I was still pretending to be straight."

But I was suspicious.

When you grow up being told over and over that same-sex desire does not and cannot exist, you become very sensitive to subtle signs of erotic interest: a glance that is a little too open, a little too much attention to detail.

Gradually I became aware that Joseph noticed women.  When I referred to a female classmate, I might say "She sits behind us in Chaucer class."  He would describe her hair and face.  He looked women up and down, evaluating their breasts and curves in the same way that he evaluated the biceps and baskets of burly truck drivers.

Was it possible that Joseph could be bisexual, and not know it?

One day I invited him to my room for a Domino's pizza, and asked "Did you ever have sex with girls, before you realized that you were gay?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, who hasn't?  How could you avoid it?  When you're on the fencing team, the girls are all over you. Hotties, too!"  He caught himself.  "I mean...well, you know what I mean..."

"Not really.  I'm not attracted to women at all."

"Me, neither!" Joseph protested.  "I'm gay!  I mean, what straight guy fantasizes about big, burly truck drivers with gigantic stick shifts?"

"It's not always a matter of one or the other.  Some guys like both."  I picked up a copy of Playboy (displayed prominently on my desk to keep up my heterosexual facade) and opened to a page at random.  "For instance, if she walked into this room and offered to kiss you, would you accept?"

"Well, sure, who wouldn't?  Being gay doesn't mean I'm dead!"

"I wouldn't.  No way!"

He stared.  "But...I like guys...." he said in a small voice.

"I know.  It's like, after a lifetime of heterosexual brainwashing, realizing that you like guys is a joyous, liberating experience.  Then, when you find yourself attracted to women, you think that the brainwashing worked after all.  You feel like a traitor.  But let's face it -- some guys like guys, some guys like girls, and some guys like both.  There's nothing you can do about it."

Joseph denied it again, but soon he revealed, with a sigh of relief, that for dating, romance, and long-term relationships, it was men only.  But for sex, and for noticing attractive people on the street, he was into both hairy, husky truck drivers with gigantic stick shifts, and thin, athletic women with long brown hair.  It was nice to not have to hide anymore.  At least among his gay friends.

Fine, always nice to help someone recognize their true nature.  Except Joseph somehow got the idea that all gay men were attracted to thin, athletic women with long hair.  He began pointing them out to me with the avidness of a hetero-horny jock.


One Sunday night he knocked on my door to tell me that I had missed a really good episode of One Day at a Time.  

"Why, did Max (Michael Lembeck) take his shirt off?" I asked.

"What?  Are you kidding?"  he exclaimed.  "There was a really hot close-up of Barbara (Valerie Bertinelli), cleavage and all!"

"But...she's a woman.  Why would I...."

"Who cares if you're gay or straight?  If Barbara's cleavage doesn't get you going, man, you don't have a pulse!"

Um...some people are straight, some are bi, and some are gay.  They all have pulses.

L

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