Saturday, October 31, 2015

15 Bondage Boys

I was fantasizing about tying up guys before I even knew about sex.  Maybe it's the sense of power and control.  Or the extra bulge in his muscles -- and other parts -- as he struggles to "escape."  Or just the spectacle of his entire body spread out before you like a vast unknown continent, waiting to be explored.

The problem is, I'm just into the basic bondage, not pain, humiliation, verbal abuse, and all the other advanced things that BDSM fetishists like.  So whenever I find a guy who admits to being into BDSM, he wants to do far more than I do.  I like newcomers, introducing guys who have rarely, or never, been tied up before.

Here are 20 boyfriends and hookups who were into bondage or other BDSM scenes.

College

1. In fifth grade, we visited my Indian relatives, and I had my first Indian sausage sighting and BDSM scene.

2. Fred the Ministerial Student.  My first real boyfriend, a ministerial student in the United Church of Christ.  He was into being tied and spanked.

3. My geology professor used to throw handcuff parties for his advanced students.  All boys, a box of handcuffs, nothing beneath the belt.

West Hollywood

4. Within a few days of moving to West Hollywood, I found Mugi, the gay Asian bar, and accepted a date with Huan, who had only been in the U.S. a short time and didn't speak English well.  But he had a closet full of home made bondage equipment.

5. Will, who had a very nice house in Silverlake, and liked kidnapping, POW, and cannibalism scenes. He was obsessed with Sweeney Todd, "the greatest musical ever made."

6. David, the Orthodox Cute Young Thing, who disapproved of Gentile guys.

7. Larry from Nashville.  I helped him find his fetish.







San Francisco

8. The Slave Boy of Castro Street.   I borrowed him from his master for the night.


New York

9. I went home with a cute twink from the New York Bondage Club, and ended up in an all-night session.




10. Blake, the opera buff I dated.  The only black guy I've ever known who was into it.



11. Jared, the first HIV positive guy that I dated, that I knew about.  He wanted to go to the New York Bondage Club for his birthday, and get tied up for the first time.














Florida

12. The Boy Who Cried Fabulous, who I introduced to BDSM mostly just to shut him up.

Ohio

13.  Ethan, the boy in the wheelchair, who wanted to be tied up anyway.

Upstate

14. Troy, the 23-year old French major, wanted to try being a top, so we found a twink for him to practice on.



Plains

15. The boy with daddy issues who wanted to rip my clothes off.






Raul and I Bankrupt the Porn Industry

West Hollywood, November 1986

On November 19th, 1986, my roommate Alan the ex-porn star, who kept trying to steal  my boyfriends, threw me a surprise birthday party. After the present-unwrapping and cake, he introduced Raul and me to an older, balding guy named Scott and asked "What do you think?"  .

"I'll need to see them in action, of course. But they certainly have the right look."

"Um...thanks?"  I turned to Alan for an explanation.

"Surprise! Guess what -- that pocket organizer wasn't your only present.  I set you up to star in  Scott Masters' new movie!"

He was the head of Nova Studios, a major producer of.... I reddened.  "You want me to do porn?"

"Alan recommended you and Raul," Scott said.  "It's a great script: funny and romantic, not just sex.  That's why we want lovers, to add verisimilitude."

"But...I'm not an actor."  I had a brief modeling career in college, but no nudity, and certainly no sex.

"You don't need to act.  Just do what you do anyway.  $800 a day for a guaranteed five-day shoot."  

The money sounded good (my three jobs were't paying enough to cover rent, tuition, and jaunts to Australia and Japan).  And Raul liked the idea (Filipino restaurants don't pay well, either.) So we signed on, and that Saturday we got up at 4:00 am to shoot some exteriors at the San Miguel Mission in San Luis Obispo.

The script didn't require a lot of memorization.  In old Spanish California, Rodrigo (my character), falls in love with Paco (Raul), an apprentice monk at the mission.

But Paco is secretly the kept boy of the homophobic Archbishop "Farwell" (a play on Jerry Falwell). There's a duel that ends with a three-way encounter.

A few days later we drove to a house in the Hollywood Hills to film some of the bedroom and pool scenes (yes, the old Spanish mission had a pool.).  I wondered who would be playing Farwell. Boomer Stryker?  Kip Noll?

I didn't find out until he walked through the door -- Alan!

Was this all just a set-up to trick with Raul?

"Hey, they needed a husky guy, and I'm a preacher, so I have the right vibe."  He grinned.  "Tricking with Raul is just a bonus."

We were going to shoot the Farwell-Paco first.  That meant I had to watch Alan and my boyfriend together!

"They're just acting!" I told myself over and over.  I started thinking of last September, when my date wandered into Alan's bed.  And a year ago, when Alan and I were dating, and he cheated on me with a Norwegian con artist.  And now he was with Raul.  They were kissing...and groping...and kissing...with obvious enthusiasm!

I couldn't take it anymore!

"Get off him!" I ran over and pulled Alan away. "He's my boyfriend!  You always do this!  Every time I meet a guy, you horn in...."

They looked up at me quizzically.

"No ad libbing!" the director yelled.

Flushed with embarrassment and anger, I stumbled away.  "I'll...I'll be waiting in the car."

Raul followed, saying something like "It's just a job, man..."

The aftermath:
1. The film was never completed, but we did get paid for two days of shooting.
2. Alan forgave me: "I know you have hangups about monogamy."
3. Raul and I broke up, but not over that. We stayed friends, and reconciled a few months later, after my celebrity boyfriend dumped me.
4. Nova Studios went bankrupt.  But surely that's not my fault.

See also: Alan's Arrests.


Friday, October 30, 2015

An All-Nighter at the New York Bondage Club

New York, November 1997

I was fantasizing about tying up guys before I even knew about sex.

Maybe it's the sense of power and control.

Or the extra bulge in his muscles -- and other parts -- as he struggles to "escape."

Or just the spectacle of his entire body spread out before you like a vast unknown continent, waiting to be explored.

So the moment I arrived in New York in 1997,  I joined the NYC Bondage Club,  It met from 8-11 pm on Sunday nights in the basement of a nondescript building in Chelsea, about 10 blocks from Penn Station.

There were three rooms with bondage beds, slings, a St. Andrew's Cross, and jail cells.  Snacks and sodas were provided; you had to bring your own ropes and bondage equipment.  30-50 guys came, mostly middle aged and older, a lot of chubbies and bears, not many twinks.

Most activity considered of ordinary bondage, teasing, and tickling, but there were also guys into heavy BDSM scenes: flogging, whipping, hot wax, electroshock, mummification, water sports, fisting.

But no "vanilla" sex.  By New York law, no oral or anal contact was permitted.

Which many of the guys didn't mind: BDSM scenes were the pinnacle of their erotic experience.  But I would have preferred some body contact.

There was a lot of hooking up after the Bondage Club ended, but I had a problem:  if I stayed overnight in the City, I would have to be up at 5:00 am to catch the 6:00 am train to Long Island for class.

And if I invited someone back to my place on Long Island,  they would have the same problem.

Besides, Chelsea was as provincial as West Hollywood.  If you didn't live in a gay neighborhood, they didn't want to know you.

I would never admit that I didn't live in Manhattan.

So I made do with standard vanilla bondage scenes, tying up guys and fondling them, and then rushing out into the night at 9:45 like Cinderella about to turn into a pumpkin.

Until Dustin invited me home.

He was by far the most attractive of the Bondage Club regulars, a dark-haired, dark-eyed twink with a wide smile and a ready laugh, plus a smooth, hard chest, baseball-biceps, and turtle-shell abs.  He liked moderate scenes, with no pain, just tickling, fondling, edging, and kissing.

"I also like oral and anal sex while I'm tied up," he said, "But of course we can't do that here."

Dustin bottomed for at least two guys per night.  They inevitably asked him back to their place afterwards, but he refused: "I have to get up early for class."

I never topped him, although I tried to join in with his scenes with others.  He was too experienced, exploring subtle nuances of BDSM practice.  My basic interests would be too elementary, kindergarten-ish, inept.

But one night I found him relaxing between scenes, sitting naked on a red couch, drinking a soda.  We started chatting, and then we started kissing  Before I knew it, we had been lying on the couch, kissing and fondling, for almost an hour.

"Why don't we go back to my place?" he murmured.

"Well -- I have to catch the 6:00 am train from Penn Station."

"No problem, I live just a few blocks from a Metro Line that goes directly to Penn.  You'll have plenty of time."

Ok, I was new to New York, I didn't know what a Metro Line was.  I assumed a subway somewhere in the Village.

We left the Bondage Club at 9:30, and arrived at Penn just in time to miss the 9:45 Metro Line.  The next one was at 11:45!

But there were no other trains to Long Island until 6:00 am.  I was in Manhattan for the night.

Back to the Bondage Club, then to a pizza-by-the-slice place.  Then to Penn, where we caught an 11:45 Metro Line that listed cities I had never heard of: Mahwah, Ho-Ho-Kus, Warwick.

"Wait -- don't you live in Manhattan?" I asked.

"Well -- no, not actually," Dustin admitted.  "But you know how guys in gay neighborhoods are.  I didn't want to turn you off.  And it's not far, believe me.  You'll have plenty of time to catch your train at Penn tomorrow."


On the way, Dustin told me that he was studying biology at Fairleigh Dickinson University, planning to become a doctor.  He had always known he was gay, and had his first bondage scene at age 14.

An hour later, at 12:45 am, we arrived in Allentown, New Jersey, about 20 miles away.  Then Dustin drove us about three miles past something called a Celery Farm, to a very large suburban house.

"You live here?"  What college student could afford such a place? My heart sank.  "You don't live with your parents, do you?"

"This is my boyfriend's house.  I actually live in the dorms, but I stay with him on weekends."

Boyfriend?

"Um...do you think that, anytime during the last three hours, you might have mentioned the boyfriend waiting at home?"

"Didn't I mention him?  Sorry -- I guess I assumed everybody knew.  He comes to the Bondage Club all the time.  Except tonight he was too tired.  He said I could bring home someone to share, though."

Back in West Hollywood, Lane and I would often bring home a third person to share.  Becoming that third person was quite a different matter, though. Especially at 1:00 am.

The boyfriend, Stan, was up, watching David Letterman or some such talk show: a middle aged muscle bear, bald, bearded, hirsute, obviously a gym rat.  He enveloped us both in bear hugs, and then dragged us into the kitchen to eat egg salad sandwiches and brownies and drink coffee.  I wasn't at all hungry, but ok....

"So, are we up for vanilla or a BDSM scene this evening?" Stan asked.

It was 2:00 am.  I had to be up in 3 hours.  I just wanted to go to bed.  "How about some plain old kissing and cuddling?" I suggested.

"Oh, we can do better than that!" Dustin exclaimed.  "There's a fully-stocked dungeon in the basement.  You can double team me.  Or you can top us both -- Stan is versatile."

"How about a POW scene?" Stan said.

"Or an incest scene?" Dustin suggested.  "You know, where you humiliate the father by forcing him to have sex with his son?  We just need to set up the roles."

So we set up the roles and the dungeon.  Fueled by caffeine from the coffee and sugar from the brownies, I tied them up, "forced" them to kiss, and then "forced" Stan to top Dustin.  I was too tired to do any vanilla sex of my own.

By the time the scene ended, it was 4:00 am.  "You know what?" I said.  "I'm skipping class tomorrow...um...I mean today.  Let's just go to bed!"


"Um..well, I have to go to work," Stan said.  "And Dustin has to get back to campus.  But we can all go out for a nice breakfast before you catch your train."

We grabbed some pancakes at an all-night diner -- our third meal in six hours!  -- and they put me on the 5:15 am train to Penn Station.

Which arrived just as the train to Long Island was leaving.  I didn't make it home until noon.

See also: My First Indian Sausage Sighting and BDSM Scene; a Hookup with Barry and the Poz Boy.








Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Yuri and the Unhung Hippie


Long Island, April 1999

Yuri came as my guest to a Sociology Department reception in the spring of 1999, and immediately saw Marcel parked by the buffet table, taking two, three, four helpings of quiche and tabouli with pita slices.

"The big guy there looks hot!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, you don't want to hook up with Marcel, trust me."

"Why not?  He has the four things."

Yuri liked them big, the bigger the better.  Hookups had to be at least a Bratwurst; he wouldn't accept a second date with anyone under Kielbasa; and the man of his dreams had the endowment of a Tom of Finland drawing.

Unfortunately, you can't tell from the basket -- it's often padded or invisible.  So, being a scientist, he developed a 4 Point Plan for Finding Super-Sized Guys,  If you met all four, you were in:
1. Height (tall)
2. Waist (small)
3. Hands (big)
4. Shoes (big).

Ok, Marcel had all four: he was very tall and lean, with big hands and big shoes.  But he also had a mountain-man beard, a blurry, dazed expression, and weird clothes: a flack jacket over a t-shirt with a bulls-eye painted on it, faded, frayed blue jeans, a flowered belt, and hiking boots. And you could smell the marijuana from five feet away.

"Marcel has been coming to department functions as long as anyone can remember," I told Yuri.  "No one seems to know who he is.  I heard a rumor that he was a grad student who had a nervous breakdown while writing his dissertation."

"I don't care about nervous!  I just care about if he's big!  Did you talk to him?  Is he gay?"

"I tried talking to him once.  Couldn't understand much of it.  He's sort of crazy.  I don't know if he's gay or not."

"Ok, let me try.  I'm good at getting guys."  It was true that Yuri's combination of an athletic physique and a handsome, almost angelic face got him a lot of attention.  He had been out for over a year, and hadn't been turned down once.  "Come, introduce us."

First Attempt:
We approached Marcel, who stared into space as if he was giving us Attitude in a cruise bar.

"Hi Marcel, you remember me -- Boomer.  And this is Yuri."

Yuri grinned and held out his hand.  "Nice to meet you."

"Hi!  Did you know that this is Malaysian Independence Day?" Marcel said.  "Hari Malaysia.  In 1963, Malaysia was formed out of the former British colonies, with prime minister Tunku Abdul Rahman, known as Bapa Kemerdekaan, or Father of Independence."

"That's cool.  Do you study Malaysia?"

"I'm planning to ride my bike to Sayville later.  All the twinks have left Fire Island -- I guess you can't be gay after Labor Day -- but it's still a nice ride, and St. Katherine's has a nice rummage sale.  You can come, but you have to beware of the bears."  He laughed at a secret joke.

I suddenly noticed someone I had to talk to on the other side of the room, and dragged Yuri with me.



"What's up?"  Yuri asked, annoyed. "I was cruising him!  He's gay, no doubt."

"But he doesn't know what's going on!  He's on drugs, or schizophrenic, or something.  You don't want to get involved with him."

"Why not?  I didn't say I want to marry him.  Come on, we go again."

Second Attempt:
The "very important conversation" over, we returned to Marcel.

"Have you heard the expression personne ne peut vivre sans vin ou baisses? (No one can live without wine or kisses)?" he asked, as if resuming the prior conversation. "Everyone thinks it's by Lamartine, but that's wrong.  It was Theodore de Banville, one of the greatest poets of the decadent era, who wrote 'Baises de Pierre,'"

"Est-ce qu'il était gay? (Was he gay?)" I asked, hoping that he would be more coherent in French.

Marcel grinned at Yuri.  "Some people are always trying to show off.  Not you -- I can see that you have a pure soul. You're a Taurus, right?  I'm going to the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona next year.  You can come, if you bring your own passport."

"Cool.  We were in Estonia last summer,"  Yuri began.  "And Finland and Russia."

"I was in Russia last year, but I didn't like being under surveillance all the time, and at the Hermitage a fat, hairy guy with no shirt on rushed up and smacked me on the butt.  You think he was KGB?"

I dragged Yuri off to another very important conversation.

"See?" I exclaimed.  "Completely paranoid.  You can't go home with him -- he'll start yelling that you're a Communist spy trying to get the secret of his cheesecake recipe."

"If you're worried, you come too.  We will share."

"Oh, no -- he's not my type."

"So you will just be with me.  I'll go between, and you don't have to see his body. Come on."  He took me by the arm and dragged me back to the food table.


Third Attempt:
By this time Marcel was working on his third piece of cake.  "Have you read The German Ideology?" he asked.

At least this one made sense.  It was assigned in my Sociological Theory class.  "Yes, I....."

"So you agree that the twink should have a room of his own?  Just like Virginia Woolf."

"I have a room," Yuri said.  "It's a graduate student apartment.  Do you want to come there?  Boomer will come, too."

Marcel smiled.  "Bringing up the reinforcements, huh?  Just like the Cavalry, which is not the same thing as the Calvary.  Ok, but I hope you've been taking your vitamins."

The Hookup:
We walked across campus to Yuri's apartment, while Marcel talked about blue jays (cyanocitta cristata) and Heidegger's Being and Time, and asked if we were fans of Janis Joplin, and did we have any beer.

When we got into Yuri's bedroom and shut the door, Marcel pounced, grabbing and squeezing Yuri, groping him, kissing him, running his hands all over his body.  I joined in, kissing Yuri, then Marcel -- he was quite good at that, if you could overlook the marijuana smell -- while Yuri unbuttoned his pants.

Very, very small.  Yuri looked at me and grimaced.

"Ok, who brought the condoms?" Marcel asked.  "The twink and I have a date, I believe."

That was the end of Yuri's 4 Point Plan.

See also: In Search of the World's Biggest Penis

The Twink Who Wasn't Interested

I never approach younger guys. They have to make the first move.  I don't want to become known as one of those "creepy old guys" who aggressively grab and grope and won't take "no" for an answer.

Besides, I don't really need to.  Every since I turned 40, I've been getting cruised by every twink in sight.  The question isn't, "Can I hook up with that 23 year old?"  It's "Shall I hook up with him right now, or wait until later?"

If a twink I like shows no interest, I just let him go and wait a few minutes for the next to show up.

Except for Gabe.  He showed no interest, but I kept trying anyway.  I couldn't help it.






Meeting #1:
He was the MC at a gay trivia contest fundraiser for the LGBT Pride Festival: a cute nerd in his 20s, rather feminine, the kind of gay guy who spends all of his time with heterosexual girls.  Long haired, weird red-plastic glasses, lots of weird plastic bracelets, but one of the cutest guys I have ever seen, with a nice tight physique and an obvious bulge.   Definitely my type!

I won first prize with my knowledge of the first state to legalize gay marriage, the first gay character on a prime time tv program, and the date of the Stonewall Riots.  That would surely impress him!

Nope.  He handed me a gift card.  "Here's your prize -- congratulations."   No cruising, no phone number.  Go figure.

Was he involved in a relationship?  Many twinks are monogamous, before they discover the joys of sharing.

Through the gay grape vine, I discovered that Gabe was a recent graduate of the university, an art major, now working as a graphic designer.  He was dating Colton (top photo): a hairy bear cub, a regular at our M4M Parties and a devotee of public encounters at a local cruising spot.  So monogamy wasn't the problem.

Why wasn't he interested?



Meeting #2:
A Vegan potluck in July.  Different glasses, different hair, I didn't recognize him at first.

This time Gabe brought his "life partner," Sasha, a pug dog, who immediately found its way onto my lap.

Gabe sat on the floor at my feet so he could pet Sasha while we played some sort of board game.

This is great!  I thought.  "We're bound to get some hand-touching while we both try to pet the dog!"

Nope.  He was careful to not be petting at the same moment that I was.

Again, no phone number.  I went home and friended him on Facebook, but he ignored my chat requests.

I checked Grindr, Adam4Adam, Hornet, all of the gay dating apps.  He wasn't there.

What was going on?  Why wasn't Gabe hitting on me?   Was I a twink magnet or not?


Meeting #3: Sort of.

He was leaving the gay-friendly coffee house down the hill as I was coming in.  I said "Hi," and he gave me an odd look, not aware of who I was.

Meeting #4-6 More of the same

I forget how many times I saw Gabe, coming and going, at events, across crowded rooms.  Sometimes we would exchange a little small talk, sometimes not. I should have written him off.  But he was so cute!

Meeting #?: Another vegan potluck.

Last week while out jogging, I tripped on some uneven pavement and fell on my face.  Three stitches on my eyebrow, plus a major black eye.  The next day I was in pain, but I went to the potluck anyway

Gabe was wearing a gay pride t-shirt.  I walked up and said hello, and recounted my accident for the 800th time that day.  "Do you think I should drop out of that beauty contest?" I concluded.

He laughed.  "No, you're still beautiful."

If he wasn't going to make a move, then I would!  "I'm getting really bored, hanging around the house all day.  Are you doing anything after the potluck?  We could...you know...do something."

Yes, it did sound that lame.

He shot me a pained look.  "Um...well, I'm supposed to hang with my friends...um...would you like to come with us?"

A pity date?  But ok.

Gabe's friends turned out to be three girls, who took us to a straight bar downtown for cocktails and gossip.  I felt a little out of place during their discussions of couture and Maroon 5, but at least I got to squeeze Gabe's hand under the table.  And afterwards, he accepted an invitation to my apartment.

As we sat on the couch, I couldn't help asking "What took you so long?  I've been trying to attract your attention for months."

"What?  When?"

 "The first time we met, at the trivia contest."

"When you took your prize and walked off without even giving me your phone number?"

I paused.  "What about that potluck last July?"

"You mean the one where I sat at your feet for an hour, and you never touched me?"


Ok, this was getting weird.  "I've seen you like a dozen times, and sometimes we say 'hello,' and sometimes you don't even talk to me."

"Yeah.  I figured, why bother pursuing someone who obviously isn't interested?"

"Well, I didn't want to be a creepy old guy who hits on every twink in sight."

He sat me down on the couch and drew me into a long kiss. "You're too hung up on age."

Maybe I should be a creepy old guy more often.

See also: The Boy Who Had Never Been Kissed; The Hookup Contest

The Bed-Hopping Boy in Japan

Osaka, Japan, July 1986

When I was living in West Hollywood, my ex-boyfriend Alan, the Pentecostal porn star, moved to Japan to start a gay Pentecostal church.

I know, odd idea for a country where less than 3% of the population is Christian.

I managed to get a scholarship to study Japanese that summer, and moved in to his tiny apartment on a noisy street in the Kita Ward of Osaka. There are beds, tables, and chairs available in Japan, but Alan insisted on traditional furnishings, sleeping on mats on the floor and eating off a coffee table.

Every day between 8:00 am and 2:00 pm, Alan met with his students -- 8 to 10 per hour, talking about current events and writing essays.  I went to Gold's Gym, then to my class in Japanese Literature or to the Joto Library to study Japanese.

At night we went cruising.  The West Hollywood condemnation of casual hookups didn't apply in Japan -- in fact, most gay men were closeted, with wives and girlfriends, and preferred hookups to dates.  Often they didn't even want to spend the night.

I concentrated on the gay bars -- Physique, Popeye, Kuro, Leibnitz -- clustered in the Doyama-Cho neighborhood.  Alan sometimes came to the bars, too, but mostly he hit the bath houses and sex clubs.

There wasn't actually much cruising in Japanese gay bars.  You didn't approach the guy you liked.  You asked the club owner or bartender to introduce you.  The few gaisen (Japanese guys who like foreigners) usually preferred older men, so I struck out a lot.

But Alan, who was infinitely attractive to all Asian guys, didn't.  He brought someone home almost every night.

In a tiny one-room apartment (216 square feet, about the size of a bedroom in the U.S.), the roommate gets to watch or join in by default.  Except for Minoru.

One night I was alone in the apartment, having struck out at the bars, when Alan came in with an Cute Young Thing -- in his 20s, short, slim, baby-faced.  Later I discovered that he was 19 years old, studying German at the University.

They were so busy kissing, groping, and ripping their clothes off that they didn't notice me until they were nearly naked.  Then Minoru froze.  Smiling with embarrassment, he whispered something in Alan's ear.

Alan turned to me.  "Boomer, this is Minoru.  He's very conservative, and he doesn't like to be watched.  Could you take a walk?"

"You're kidding!" I exclaimed. I had never been kicked of the apartment before.

"Just for an hour or so."

I roiled with anger, but, I wasn't actually paying rent, so what could I do?  I walked down to the street and mingled with the noisy partying salarymen for an hour.

When I returned, they were lying naked on Alan's mat.  Minoru quickly slid on his underwear.

"Is it ok to come in now?" I asked sarcastically.

"Sure.  We were just about to go to sleep."

I undressed, climbed onto my own mat, and switched off the light, but didn't doze off.

After a few minutes, Alan started to snore.  As if on cue, Minoru crawled over to my mat and started groping me.

"Hey, you're Alan's date!" I exclaimed, startled.

"Oh, he doesn't care."

"Wait..." I murmured.  "At least ask him."  I raised my voice a bit.  "Alan!  Do you mind if Minoru and I get together?"

"What?" He raised his head and glanced over sleepily at us.  "No, do what you want."

Minoru pulled my ear close and whispered "Tell him to go away.  I don't like it when someone watches."

See also: The Bed-Switching Freshman at the Chocolate Moose.

L

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