Thursday, August 27, 2015

My Top Black Boyfriends and Hookups

I am particularly attracted to guys with darker skin, black, Asian, Hispanic, Mediterranean.

The myth of the extra-large beneath-the-belt gifts has nothing to do with it.

But I do seem to encounter extra large black guys rather often.

Here are my most memorable black boyfriends and hookups.  Let's check on their size.





1. Tyrone, my weight-training partner, who I may or may not have done something with in a car in the Rocky High parking lot. Bratwurst.

2. Julian, the radio station manager at Augustana who was self-conscious about his size.  Bratwurst.

3. Raymond, the Texas hookup who kept saying "if you relax, it won't hurt." Mortadella.

4. Sayid, his friend, who kept turning over on his stomach and saying "Take me! Take me!"  Bratwurst.







5. T, the Thug on my Sausage List, who Alan and I picked up at Jewel's Catch One.  Mortadella+

6. Mario, the feminine guy who changed his sheets every day.  Kielbasa.

7. The first guy that Yuri and I shared, in New York.  He just wanted to kiss.  Average.

8. Blake the Opera Buff , who I dated for a few months before switching to his roommate. Mortadella+




9. Jerry the !Kung, the Bushman I met in South Africa. Small.  But I don't know if Bushmen count as black or not.

10. Sibu, the Hottest Guy in the World, the seminary student I met in South Africa.  I saw him in the dark room of the bar, but he wouldn't invite me up to his place.  Bratwurst.

11. The custodian I hooked up with in France.  Kielbasa.

12. Jerome, the Biggest Guy on My Sausage List, who I met in Boston at a job interview.  Later we visited his uncle in Delaware.  Kovbasa+





13. Tye, the Florida guy I shared with Yuri. Average

14. Azi, the Dutch Afro-Caribbean guy at the Horseman's Club in Amsterdam.  Kovbasa.  But I only actually dated his brother Eli.  Bratwurst.

15. Keaton, the 18-year old friend of the High School Bodybuilder. Bratwurst+.

16. Leronne, the guy I shared with my boyfriend Charlie in Dayton, another guy who was self-conscious about his size.  Average.

17. Justin, who Yuri and his boyfriend hooked me up with in London. Bratwurst.










18, The Rapper in Upstate New York.  Bratwurst.

19. Malik, the small guy whose enormous dog broke the leash and bit me.   Bratwurst.

20. Deonte, the regular at our M4M Parties who insists on wearing a condom for oral.  Mortadella.

So, in my sample of 20 black guys from 3 continents, 25% are small or average, 40% big, and 35% enormous.

Of course, the sample might be skewed.  Maybe I don't remember the smaller guys, or my memory is making them bigger.

Or  it's mostly the bigger guys who are self-confident enough to approach me.

Or, when you date a black guy, you can expect beneath-the-belt gifts.  No problem, as long as that's not the only reason you're interested.

See also; My Sausage List.

Monday, August 24, 2015

Is Professor Singer Gay?

Bloomington, March 1984

In my second year at Indiana University (1983-84), I had to choose two historical eras for my Comprehensive Exams.  I decided on the Romantic Era (1770-1830), mostly because of the homoromantic exuberance of the Frankenstein monsters, vampires, and dying poets, and the Restoration-Augustan Era (1660-1770), mostly because of Dr. Singer (not his real name).

He was a new professor of Restoration Literature, a Wunderkind with a Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins and a book coming out, though he was only 26 years old (I was 22).  Tall, thick hair, broad shoulders, nice biceps, a smooth muscular chest peeking up through the casually-unbuttoned top buttons of his shirt.  He used his hands a lot while lecturing, said "apposite" more in one class session than most people in a lifetime, and criticized; my; use; of; semicolons.



Both Viju and I got major gaydar from Dr. Singer; flamboyant, precise, and not averse to gay content, such as Lord Rochester's "Love a Woman? You're an Ass!", about how gay sex is better than hetero sex.  When we got to John Milton: he showed us an illustration from William Blake's allegorical biography, and quipped: "I'll bet you didn't know that Milton looked like that!"

We had two goals during the semester.  First, to determine if Dr. Singer was gay.

Viju's strategy: He got some confederates, male and female, to invite Dr. Singer out for "a beer" after our Tuesday-night seminar, and checked to see whether he spent more time gazing at men or women.  My boyfriend Jimmy, the Bodybuilder on Crutches, tagged along.

Dr. Singer deliberately made eye contact with each student in turn, and didn't gaze at anyone else.

My strategy: I wrote a paper on the gay subtexts in Paradise Lost: naked Satan, etc.  I got a B (a failing grade in grad school, where everyone gets an A on everything).

Ok, so the "gay" test was inconclusive.  Our next goal: to determine if Dr. Singer was available. We waited until the spring semester, when I was single again after dating Jimmy the bodybuilder on crutches.

Viju's strategy: He went to Dr. Singer's office in Ballantine Hall and said he was having a crisis.  He was attracted to guys!  Did that make him gay?  But his parents back in India would be scandalized -- they would cut off their support, and he would have to drop out of college!  His career plans would be ruined!  He began to cry.  Dr. Singer offered him hand-on-shoulder sympathy, but didn't reveal anything (a student used the same tactic on me in Texas a year later).


My strategy: I found out that Dr. Singer went to the campus gym to lift weights every morning at 7:00 am.  I went in and timed my workout so we would end up in the shower together.  I complemented him on his physique.

"You really know how to work on those abs," I said.  "Maybe we could work out together sometime?"

"Um...er...I'm sort of busy."

"Well, it doesn't have to be at the gym," I said, soaping myself suggestively.  "I've had some of my best workouts at home."

That did the trick.

Moral: When all else fails, try nudity.

See also: Dr. Kirtis Serves Me His Bratwurst.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

Roy the Farmboy Butches It Up

Bloomington, November 1982

No one came out casually in the 1980s, but it didn't take long for me to suspect Roy, the sophomore education major who worked with me at the Eigenmann Hall Snack bar.

He had big hair and wore bright colors, mostly reds and yellows.  He wore rings.  He had an overmodulated, feminine voice and a vocabulary heavy on adjectives.  His manner was a bit swishy.  Ok, a lot swishy.

We were open from 7 p.m. until midnight, selling hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza, cold sandwiches, bagels, and snack items.  There were tables and chairs, but most people brought their food into one of the tv lounges, or up to their rooms.  So we were alone a lot, and we had lots of opportunities to talk and joke around.

One night he performed "A Lil' Ole Bitty Pissant Country Place" from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas!

One of my jobs was to replace the soda and lemonade canisters, which involved swinging 50-pound jugs over my head.  Roy watched with a cruisy gleam in his eye. "Watch it -- you'll fall," he said, and and clapped his hands onto my waist to steady me.  And "accidentally" feel my butt.

Ok, so he was probably gay.  But I wasn't going to come out to him until I was sure.

Unfortunately, we didn't work together often.  There were always two workers, one on the grill and the other on the counter, both boys or both girls --  so we'd keep our minds on our jobs, Carol, our Boss from Hell, said with a heterosexist flourish.  But she alternated the boys, and we just worked twice a week anyway, so during all of the fall 1982 semester, Roy and I only worked together four times..

The third time, just after Halloween, I still hadn't figured out if he was really gay or not, when he mentioned something about church.

Religious?  Hetero, then.  And homophobic!

"Are you having Anita Bryant as a guest speaker?" I snarked.

"What?  No, we're against...um...homophobia, you know."

What kind of church was against homophobia?

"It's a church with a special outreach to people who have been rejected by mainstream churches. Like, you know, prostitutes, and drug addicts...and homosexuals."

"MCC!" I exclaimed.  The Metropolitan Community Church, the only church for gay people, was founded by the Rev. Troy Perry in 1968.  One of the first gay books I read was his autobiography, The Lord is My Shepherd and He Knows I'm Gay.

For the record, the MCC doesn't have an outreach to prostitutes or drug addicts.  Roy put in those others to avoid completely outing himself.   I don't know why he put homosexuals at the end, as if they were by far the most disreputable of the lot.

"Oh, you've heard of us?"  Roy said with a grin.  "It's so great to meet someone else who's....come on, give me a hug!"

He hugged me, but not with the joy of one gay person finding another in the closeted 1980s.  With a cruisy tightness.  He was interested!  Next he'd be asking me for a date.

But I wasn't interested.  Roy was nice, but tall, thin, gawdy, gilded, and flamboyant.  He smelled of cologne.  He wore rings.  Not at all my type.

"I've been trying to find a MCC," I said, disentangling myself.  "The Gayellow Pages doesn't list any in Indiana."

"There's one in Louisville, Kentucky.  I'm from New Washington, about a half-hour drive away.   When I'm at home, I always go."  He paused.  "Why don't you come home with me this weekend, and we'll visit together?"

I hesitated.  I knew what "visiting" meant.  Spending the night in his bed.  I didn't find him attractive.  But...a gay church!

"Sure, that would be great," I said without enthusiasm.

New Washington, Indiana

When Roy called for me in the lounge of Eigenmann Hall that Saturday morning, I was astonished.  He had somehow managed to transform himself from devotee of show tunes to a devotee of tractor pulls, from fey and theatrical to redneck.  The rings and cologne were gone.  He had a different haircut.  He was wearing tight jeans and a lumberjack shirt.  He looked...well, rather hot.

"Ready to go?" he said, in a deep, non-modulated voice.

"I'm sorry...um...are you Roy's straight brother?"

"Hey, in farm country, you learn to fit in."

New Washington was about two hours south of Bloomington on the shore of the Ohio River, a tiny town with a few bars, a fire station, two churches, and a water tower.  He didn't live on a farm, exactly, but his house had a huge back yard that abutted a cornfield, and there was a farm next door.

We had lunch at the house with Roy's parents and brothers (one older with his own place, the other still in high school).  Roy wasn't out to them, of course, so our conversation was mostly about our "girlfriends," Darla and Jane (we made out complete biographies on the way down).

"You should have seen this boy in high school!" Dad bragged.  "Such a lady-killer -- he was always bringing girls around.  Why, I think he had more girlfriends than boy friends!"

Roy grinned at me.  "Yeah, I was friends with just about every girl in the school.  And quite a few of the boys.  The captain of the football team, for instance."

Nobody seemed to catch the joke.

In the afternoon we saw the Ohio River and went for a hike at Charlestown State Park, where Roy turned out to have remarkable stamina.

"Oh, I was up and down these hills all the time when I was a kid.  You'd be surprised how much fun I had here."  He "accidentally" grabbed my butt.

After dinner at a rather good pizza place, we settled down for a night of Diff'rent Strokes, Silver Spoons, and Mama's Family.  We claimed tiredness to avoid having to sit through Love, Sidney, with Tony Randall playing a gay man -- it would be too close for comfort.

Roy's parents put us into the room he used to share with his older brother.  There were two twin beds,

I looked at Roy, questioning.  He smiled and unbuttoned his lumberjack shirt, revealing a smooth, hard chest.  "Why don't you give me a hand?" he said.  "I especially need help getting my pants off.  They're pretty tight -- and getting tighter by the second."

I didn't need to be asked twice.

In case you were wondering: good kisser, with a Bratwurst, and an anal top.

In the morning I got up early to go for a run.  At least, I thought it was early.  Dick, Roy's teenage brother, was already up, eating oatmeal at the kitchen table.

With his shirt off -- hard, smooth chests must run in the family.

"Have some oatmeal?"  he asked.  "The family won't eat for another couple of hours."

"I thought farm folk got up with the chickens."

"Well, we ain't got no chickens.  Sit down," he said forcefully.  "I want to ask you something."

I sat.

"Are you and Roy together?  I mean, dating?  Like a couple?"

1980s homophobia required you to say "No, of course not!"  But I was too flustered. I just stared.

"Don't freak --  it's fine with me.  I knew Roy was that way for a long time.  Always with a girl, but never talking about girls, you understand?   So I figured when he brought you home, you being so obvious and all...."

"Obvious?"  I repeated.

"Well, yeah."  He dug into his oatmeal.  "No offense, but...well, you're kind of fruity.  I could tell right off that you're the girl in the relationship."

See also: The Optometrist's Boyfriend

Next: Sharing the Farmboy with the Security Guard.

My First Visit to an Adult Bookstore

Bloomington, September 25th, 1982

I "figured it out" during the summer of 1978, but my real "coming out" was on September 25th, 1982,  a Saturday night during my first year in grad school at Indiana University.

As an undergraduate at Augustana College, I had worked hard, very hard, to find gay people, and I found a few -- my ex boyfriend Fred; the priest in Des Moines with three boyfriends; Professor Burton, who held handcuff parties for campus hunks.  You had to go through word of mouth, through a friend of a friend of a friend.

Now I was at a vast university with 40,000 students, and as far as I could tell from conversations and signals and interests, every single one of them was heterosexual (I had not yet met the 5 Gay Men of Eigenmann Hall).

My friends, classmates, and coworkers all, without exception, maintained the "what girl do you like?" whine of my childhood.  I had to leave Playboy magazines on my desk and think of logical reasons why I didn't have a girl on my arm every second.

My classes were as empty of gay references as they had been at Augustana.  Every writer who had ever lived was heterosexual.  Every poem ever written was written from man to women.  The Eternal Feminine infused all our lives.

And, as far as I knew, this was the way life was everywhere and for everyone.  A vast emptiness, hiding, pretending, unyielding silence.

That Saturday night I had been watching Silver Spoons and Mama's Family in the 13th floor tv lounge of Eigenmann Hall.  At 9:00, my roommate Jon said "Let's go to the grad student mixer.  I'm hot to get laid tonight."

I had no interest in getting laid.  At least, not as Jon understood it.  But I walked with him across the vast, silent campus, past empty buildings, past towers of Indiana limestone erected by heterosexuals long ago, to the Memorial Union, where a party for heterosexual grad students was in session.

Then I said goodbye and went to the campus library.  There were uncountable millions of books in the vast stacks, rooms as long as a football field, but only two listed under "homosexuality" in the card catalog: the memoirs of Tennessee Williams, and Nothing Like the Sun, by Anthony Burgess, about Shakespeare's romance with the Dark Lady of the sonnets.

I walked alone down Kirkwood Avenue, past student bars and little Asian restaurants and hamburger stands.  Just before the Baskin Robbins closed at 10:00, I stopped in and bought an ice cream cone.  Two scoops, strawberry on the bottom and Rocky Road on the top.  30 years later, I still remember that ice cream cone.

There were gay bars in Omaha, and even in Rock Island, dark closet bars with nondescript names and no windows, where you entered through the back so no one could see you.  But surely Bloomington was too small for such a place.

 I stopped into a weird eclectic bookstore called the White Rabbit. No gay books -- it was illegal to display them openly, as Fred told me when I found his secret bookshelf two years ago.  So I bought a novelization of the 1980 Popeye musical starring Robin Williams, set in the port town of Sweethaven:

Sweet Sweethaven!  God must love us.
Why else would He have stranded us here?

A church tower had a cross that lit up white at night, and I looked up it and prayed "Why did you strand me here?"

I wandered for a long time through quiet residential streets, houses where heterosexual husbands and wives were asleep, their children in the next room surrounded by "what girl do you like?" brainwashing toys and games.  I walked past a public park, but was afraid to go in.  After dark, monsters roamed through the dark swaying trees.

It occurred to me that I was one of the monsters.  After all, being gay was illegal in the United States.  I was a criminal.  (Actually, Indiana's sodomy law was repealed in 1976.)

Somehow I found myself at a small, nondescript building on College Avenue.  The sign on the marquee advertised "Adult Books."

I knew about gay pornography, magazines featuring naked men - Lars told me about it during my brief modeling career, and I saw some in Omaha.  But surely regular adult bookstores wouldn't stock any.


Still...it wouldn't hurt to check.  The most they could do is call me a "fag."

Screwing up my courage, I walked through the glass door, past a sign advising me that the materials could be sold only to police officers, physicians, lawyers, and scholars with a legitimate professional interest.  Ok, so I was a grad student working on a research project.

The room was brightly-lit, glaring with hundreds of images of naked women, their private parts on full display.  There was a blow-up sex doll hanging from the ceiling.  There was an aisle of lubricants, shelves of erotic candies, sex games, bondage costumes...and an obese man in a t-shirt behind a little counter, eating french fries and drinking a fast food soda.

 I found it incongruous, almost bizarre, that he was watching Love Boat on a small portable tv set.

He didn't look up as I approached.  I cleared my throat and asked in a stilted, halting voice, "Do you...um, like...do you have anything...like, gay?"

That was the first time I ever said the word "gay" to a stranger.

Without looking up, he jerked his thumb toward a rack in the back, by the bathroom, near the sign for "movie booths."

I expected some clandestine porn or, at best, some mimeographed newsletters.  But I found big, bold, glossy magazines: In Touch, The Advocate, and Christopher Street.

News articles!  Movie reviews!  Advice columns!  Cartoons!  Celebrity interviews!  Travel guides!

Donelan, Tom of Finland, Ethan Mordden, Quentin Crisp, Querelle, Making Love, the Stonewall Riots, Noel Coward, pink triangles, Howard Cruise, Felice Picano, Gay American History, Harvey Milk, Castro clones, Allen Ginsberg, homophobia in the military, Harry Chess, Jerry Mills, gay pride marches, pro-gay Senators, Christopher Street, Peter Berlin, bar etiquette...

Gay havens like West Hollywood, the East Village, the Castro, Dupont Circle, and Fire Island.

Maybe Bloomington was dark and closeted.  Maybe Rock Island.  Maybe even Omaha.  But somewhere, over the rainbow, gay life was bigger, louder, and more open than anything I had ever imagined.

See also: Prince Charles is Gay