Saturday, September 19, 2015

Cute Nerd or Creepy Old Guy?

Rock Island, August 1979

The summer after my freshman year at Augustana College.

There were no gay organizations in town, no gay books in the library, no gay dating sites on the internet.  There was a gay bar, but I was only 18 years old, and you had to be 21 to get in.

There was no way to meet gay men -- or straight men on the downlow -- except randomly, in the course of your daily activities.  Of course, neither of you would come out, for fear of violent reprisal.  So you played a game.

You made eye contact for a little longer than usual.
He glanced at your crotch, and made sure that you noticed.
You glanced at a hot guy passing by, and made sure that he noticed.
He asked if you had a girlfriend.
You asked if he lived in the dorm or with his parents.

When you were quite sure, you got him alone and made an undeniable move: you touched his face or his basket, or leaned in for a kiss.  But you were never completely sure.

He might jump away and yell "Whoa, man!  That's not my thing!"
Or call the Dean and have you expelled.
Or kill you.

During my four years at Augustana, I only met two or three guys that way.

One was a cute nerd.  Or maybe a creepy old guy.  I couldn't decide which.

In the main reading room of the Augustana Library, there was a bookcase filled with discards and donations.  You could get a hardback for fifty cents and a paperback for a dime.  Many students browsed there, sometimes a faculty member, but rarely anyone from the community.

I had a part time job in the library, and I often noticed Trevor (not his real name), a slim, rather cute guy in his 30s or 40s, with brown wavy hair and horn-rimmed glasses, who always dressed formally and spoke in over-grammatically correct English.  He came in most Tuesday afternoons at 3:00, just as the new books were put out.  He bought at least three, sometimes four or five, week after week.

When he came up to the circulation desk to pay, we made eye contact for a little longer than usual.  I glanced at his crotch, and made sure that he noticed. He glanced at a hot guy, and made sure that I noticed.  I asked if he lived in the dorm, and he said, "Oh, no, I'm not a student.  I live in town."

I, not we.  Not married.  Maybe gay, maybe interested.

But there was only one way to be sure.

One day he found a treasure: a ten-volume set of the works of Martin Luther in German (the library had just received a new edition).  "I'll take the first five volumes now, and come back for the others."

"I'll be happy to help you carry them to your car."

"I don't have a car.  But don't worry -- it's just five blocks."

I thought for a moment.  "Hey, we're running a special for our best customers -- free taxi service.  My car's parked out back."

He hesitated.

"It's 90 degrees out there.  You can pay me back with a bottle of pop."


Trevor lived five blocks from campus, where 5th Avenue turns industrial.  There was a factory across the street and an Irish pub next door.  No neighbors.

"Do you live alone?" I asked.

"It was just Mother and me until she died five years ago.  Now it's just me."

Suddenly I thought that this might not be a good idea.  Serial killers always lived alone, or with Mother.

Or with Mother's corpse.

Trevor piled the books on the enclosed front porch and fumbled about for his key.  "Your payment awaits within -- one bottle of pop," he said with a weird lunatic grin.

Besides, in a big house isolated from all the others, if he got violent...

Today I would never set foot inside that house.  But I was 18....


Trevor opened the door onto a large, rectangular parlor with parquet ceilings and two old chandeliers.  And books. Books and books. Wall-to-wall bookcases crammed with books.  Books piled on the sofa, on the coffee table, books in neat piles stacked near to the ceiling.

At a glance, I saw Modern Astronomy, Reading Norwegian, Shakespeare's Festive Comedy, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Look Homeward Angel, Murder on the Orient Express, five Complete Works of Shakespeare, and about a dozen paperback copies of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

"I run a rare book service for collectors," he said, noting my surprise. "This is some of my inventory."

He pushed aside a pile of books from a 1950s-style couch, invited me to sit down, and disappeared down a book-lined hallway.  A grey cat appeared out of nowhere and jumped onto my lap.

Other than purring, the room was utterly silent.  I imagined the terrible emptiness at night.  There wasn't even a tv or radio.

Trevor returned with two A&W root beer mugs filled with soda and a plate of cookies. The tray depicted a weird scary Santa Claus drinking a Coke.  "The cookies are homemade.  My secret ingredient is allspice," he said with a nervous giggle. "I see you've met my roommate,"

"Your roommate?"

"George the Cat."  He put the tray down, sat next to me on the couch, and started to pet George, his hand coming perilously close to my crotch.  I began to redden.  "You're quite athletic, aren't you?  How many push-ups can you do?"

"Um...I don't know.  I never checked.  Don't you get lonely here?  Or do you have friends over every night?"

"No...I'm afraid I don't get many guests.  Sometimes a client stops by.  But usually it's just George and me, and my books."

I wasn't worried about Trevor being a serial killer anymore.  I was worried that he was me in the future, going through life alone, with no friends, no lovers, just a cat and piles of books, the only gay person in a world of husbands and wives, a creepy old guy trying to pick up college boys.

Suddenly a phone rang.  I jumped a foot -- I hadn't noticed it behind a pile of books on the end table.  Trevor excused himself and answered.  "No, I haven't started yet...chocolate fudge, I suppose....ok, then, lemon...."

He hung up.  "Sorry about that. I've been drafted into making a cake for a birthday party tonight. You're welcome to stay, if you like.  We can talk while I bake."

A life devoted to cats, books, and cooking. Even worse. "Thanks, but I have to be going."

I didn't stop to ask who he was making the cake for.  I figured a nephew or neighborhood kid.

Trevor continued to come to the library book sales, but in the fall my schedule changed, and we rarely saw each other.  Two years later Professor Burton, who held the famous handcuff parties, "introduced" him as one of his gay friends.

I heard about his wide circle of friends in the Cat Club, the Iowa City Rare Book Club, the Friends of the Library, the Celtic Heritage Society, his cooking classes at the community college.  Male, female, gay, straight.

Trevor had carved out quite a nice life for himself.  Even though he was rather weird.  And lived in a small town full of heterosexual husbands and wives.


Thursday, September 17, 2015

Mario the Teen Fashion Model


New York, September 2000

When I was living in West Hollywood, there was a strict age segregation.  If your boyfriend was more than five years older or younger, tongues would wag.  More than ten years, and there would be snubs and disinvitations to parties.

So when I moved to New York in 1997, near my 37th birthday, I assumed that my boyfriends would be in the late 30s - early 40s range.

Instead, I was cruised by every Cute Young Thing in sight, guys in their 20s, even teenagers.

What did I have in common with guys 10 or 20  younger than me?  I had never heard of Puff Daddy or the Spice Girls.  I didn't watch Dawson's Creek.  I didn't play Grand Theft Auto.  And I was ready for bed by 10:00 pm.

But guys in my age range were usually in long-term monogamous relationships or married to women and closeted.  Or else they had major personality flaws.  So why not try the Cute Young Things?

But they had drawbacks of their own.


Fall 2000. I meet Mario (not his real name) at a party.  He's somewhat more feminine than what I usually like, but short and muscular, two of the five traits I find attractive (the others are dark skin, being religious, and having a large endowment).

A student at Columbia University, majoring in education -- "I've always loved kids"  -- and a professional model. He did some fashion catalogs and a nude photo shoot for Freshmen.

I call him the next day.  "Would you like to see Saving Silverman next Friday night?  I hear there's a lesbian character in it.  And afterwards we could go to the Empellon Taqueria.  That's where I went on my date with Andrew Lloyd Webber."

He giggles.  "Dinner and a movie?  So old-fashioned!  Sounds great!"

We see the movie, which is entirely heterosexist, all about "changing" lesbians.  Then, over quesadillas and chiles relleno, we discuss my brief modeling career and porn movie, compare growing up fundamentalist in the Midwest with growing up Catholic in New Jersey, and reveal our lists of favorite cities (mine are Paris, Tallinn, and Brussels, his are Paris, London, and New York).

That's when he tells me that he's only 19 years old.

I can count on one hand the number of teenagers I've been with, and the dates usually end up badly.  What would the guys back in West Hollywood say?

But I figure, We're having a nice conversation.  Why not give it a shot?

It's 10:00.  I'm ready for the evening to end with a kiss on the doorstep, or an invitation inside, but Mario says "Let's go to Webster Hall!"

It's an 18+ dance club, bright with flashing lasers, throbbing with techno-indie music, crowded with teenagers wearing glowing neon tubes and sucking on pacifiers.  Mario and I dance until I'm sweat-soaked and wishing I hadn't eaten that quesadilla, and then he dances some more, grinding and flirting with every guy in sight.

I'm fuming.  I rush over, pull him from the embrace of some guy, and tell him, "You don't cruise when you're on a date!  It's not done!"

He doesn't stop dancing.  "What's cruising mean?"

"Flirting with guys!"

"Oh, come on, don't be jealous!  I'm just having a good time!"

It's midnight.  My head is throbbing, and my shirt reeks of cigarette smoke.  "Can we go somewhere quieter?"  I ask.

"Sure.  I know a place."

We take a taxi to a dark, scary warehouse-type building.  We pay a $10 admission fee, deposit our clothing into lockers, and enter a dimly-lit maze where guys are walking around in towels.

"You brought me to a bath house?" I exclaim, astonished at his chutzpah. "But we're on a date!"

"Don't be a prude! Seeing all the hot guys will get us all excited for later, right?"

There are lots of hot guys around, more and more as time passed, until the hallways are just as packed as the dance club.  You have to push your way through, being grabbed a dozen times on the way.

At least I can to take a shower.

2:00 am.  I lose track of Mario for a long time, and think he's gone for good.  I'm about ready to get in a taxi and go home when he appears, nude and smiling. .

"You lost your towel," I point out.

"Oh, yeah," he says absently.  "I must have left it in someone's room. So, where to now?"

"Home!"

"But I'm starving.  A quick bite first, ok?"

Mario's "quick bite" is The Cafeteria in Chelsea, an all-night eatery patronized by actors, models, and wannabes.  While we wait for our signature macaroni and cheese with grilled green beans, two of Mario's model friends come in, and they sit and gossip, and gossip, and gossip.

4:00 am.  The four of us walk out onto the cold, dark streets of Chelsea.  "Home!" I exclaim.  I mean that we should go to our own separate homes, but I'm too groggy to protest as Mario pushes me into a cab and gives the driver his address -- a dormitory on 114th Street.  He has his own room, with a sink, but the bathroom is down the hall.

All I can think of is sleep, but Mario has other ideas. Lots of them.

I wake up at the same time every day, no matter when I go to bed.  So I'm up at 6:00 am, after about 45 minutes of sleep.  I take an early-morning subway back to my apartment.

The Gay Community Center is advertising a meeting of SAGE, the gay senior citizens club.  I think I'll find my next boyfriend there.

See also: Liam's 18th Birthday Present; My Most Embarrassing Date.

The Rabbi's Son Who Didn't Know He Was Gay

Rock Island, May 1977

 During my junior year in high school, I was acting the Johnny Nazarene, going to all of the church activities, going to the altar, and planning to attend Olivet, our Bible college on the prairie.  And dating Verne the Preacher's Son, sort of.

At the same time, I became obsessed with all things Catholic: I read The Little World of Don Camillo and The Seven-Story Mountain, saw Brother Sun, Sister Moon, even bought a small crucifix (which I had to keep carefully hidden from my family, of course).

And I became obsessed with all things Jewish.  I read the novels of Chaim Potok, watched Lanigan's Rabbi, and occasionally broke through the crowd of girls surrounding Aaron, the rabbi's son, to ask him a few questions about kosher laws or Hebrew School or his bar mitzvah.


We had a sizeable Jewish community in the Quad Cities, mostly Russian, some Polish.  There were three conservative Orthodox synagogues, a Reform synagogue, and the Tri-City Jewish Center, where Aaron's father worked.

Aaron was Reform -- he rarely wore his yarmulke, unless he wanted to make a political statement, and he didn't keep kosher.  But he was constantly looking out for Christian incursions into his religious freedom.




In orchestra, he refused to play selections from Jesus Christ, Superstar.  In Spanish class, he refused to read a story about "La Natividad."  When the English teacher assigned My Name is Asher Lev, he kept raising his hand to point out that the novel was set in a very conservative Hasidic community -- all Jews weren't like that.

Naturally, we became friends.

Aaron was always surrounded by girls, friends and admirers, but he never dated them.  Instead he was dating a Lutheran boy named Mike.

He didn't know that he was gay yet.  In fact, he was exceptionally homophobic.

One day in May 1977, just after  my naked conversation with Verne, we were walking down the hallway when a passing senior invited us to the Drama Club Spring Play, Tom Stoppard's Rosencranz and Guildenstern are Dead.

“And don’t worry, it’s safe to come,” he added. “We deleted lines implying that  Rosencranz and Guildenstern are. . .you know.” He flashed a limp wrist.

He walked on.  I asked Aaron "What lines imply that they’re. . .you know?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea!” Aaron exclaimed “I never saw it, and you better believe I’m not going to! Are you?”






“Of course not!" I said.  "No way am I a Swish!" I would never go to a play about them!"

"I would never read a book about them, either!"

“Well, I wouldn’t even touch a book about them!”

“I wouldn’t even touch a book that mentioned them just one time!”

“Well, I wouldn’t even be in the same room with it.”

Eventually Aaron won by declaring that he wouldn’t be in the same universe with a piece of paper that had the word "gay" written backwards,  in Bulgarian, in invisible ink.

But we had to end the contest.  We were meeting our boyfriends for lunch.



Tuesday, September 15, 2015

The Only Time A Guy Has Criticized My Size

Dayton, October 2005

I'll admit that I like them big -- #5 on the list of the Traits I Find Attractive is a Kielbasa+++ beneath the belt.  But small ones have their benefits.
1. No worries about your teeth getting in the way.
2. "Sure, go ahead and top me.  No problem."
3. They're extremely sensitive.
4. They're always a surprise.
5. Guys with small ones tend to have low self-esteem, regardless of their other qualities, and it's fun to work on building them up.

The biggest drawback is: they don't take off their pants easily.  They hide behind a towel at the gym.  They don't go to bath houses or M4M Parties, or cruise for hookups.  25% of men in U.S. have 5" or less, but you never see them.  Only the whoppers are on display.

The small guys never see other small guys, either. Leaving them to believe that they are even smaller.  Making them less likely to display it.  And so on, a vicious circle.

I've only been with a few guys in the 5" and under category, and almost never for a hookup.  Sharing here and there, a date once in a while.

I dated a firefighter in Dayton who was about 3.5"  He said that sometimes guys changed their minds and left the moment he dropped his pants.

One of the M4M Party regulars measures at 4.0", and that's being generous.  But he's not at all self-conscious about it.

Comic Book Guy in Florida was attractive, and into kissing, but he wouldn't let me in his bed for a long time.  When I got there, I found out why: an angry inch, maybe two.  That wasn't the reason we broke up, though.  His sleeping arrangements were just too weird.

The smallest guy on my Sausage List was Leronne, the ex-boyfriend of my boyfriend Charlie, the high school football coach.  One night Charlie invited him along on our date, to have dinner and hopefully "share."

"He's shy," Charlie warned me.  "And he's very self-conscious about his size, so don't say anything."

"Please, I'm not that rude!" I exclaimed, offended.  "How could I fault a guy for something he has no control over?"

"Just kind of build him up, praise him for how nice it is.  Pretend you want him to top you."

"Ok, fine."  I was wondering just how small this guy was, to require building up even after you have agreed to go to bed with him.

Leronne was an African-American twink, mid-20s, short, slim, light-skinned, with a lithe, non-muscular physique.  Not exactly my type, but close enough.

We had dinner in Yellow Springs, the hippie enclave -- Charlie was too closeted to be seen anywhere in Dayton.

 This was the 2000s, past the era when coming-out stories were standard parts of dinner conversations, but Leronne told me his anyway.  Growing up in southern Ohio, feeling isolated and alone because he was attracted to men, because he was black, and because he was "puny."  He hated gym class because guys would always laugh and point at his puny package in the locker room, call him a "girl" and a "fag."

"But it was even worse when I came out." he continued.  "Guys were all like, 'Come on, hottie, let me see your giant sausage,' and when I pulled it out, they like lost interest.  I was afraid to even go to the gym."

"How did you end up with a football coach?" I asked.

"I always liked them big," Leronne said with a smile.  "Big muscles, big package.  No Princess Teeny-Tiny for me."

"Double standard, huh?"  I thought.

We all agreed to the sharing, so we returned to my apartment, sat on the couch to "watch a movie," and started getting intimate.  Leronne was a good kisser, but reluctant to strip.  Both Charlie and I were naked before he unbuttoned a button.

Finally we took him into the bedroom -- he insisted on leaving the lights off -- tore off his shirt, and unzipped his pants.

Average size, maybe even a little bigger than average.  Nothing to get all ashamed of.

I pretended excitement.  "Wow, what a monster!  I hope you're a top!"

He was actually a bottom.  Charlie and I double-teamed him for awhile, and then I lay there while Charlie finished up.

I woke up at dawn.  Not wanting to wake the others, I put on a bathrobe and sat at my desk to work on my computer.

After awhile, Leronne got up, said "Good morning," and went to the bathroom.  "Got a spare toothbrush?"  he called.

I went to show him.  My bathrobe hung open.

He stared.  "What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're so small!"

"That's...um...you know, it gets bigger when you're with a guy."

"I know, but last night you were like,  huge..."  He spread his hands in a fish-catching gesture.  "And now you're like...that."

"I'll have you know that I'm in the A Category in the Horseman's Club in Amsterdam," I said, getting angry.  "No admission fee.  I'd like to see you get anything higher than a C!"

"Sorry -- I didn't know you were sensitive about it.  I'm not into size, anyway.  C'mon, let's go wake Charlie up."  He bounded back into the bedroom and climbed atop Charlie -- who also got bigger when he was with a guy.

Weird how even being accused of smallness can sting.

See also: My Two Boyfriends; The Truth about the Black Penis

L

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