Saturday, December 12, 2015

Streaking Through a School Assembly

Rock Island, May 1974

In the spring of 1974, when I was in the eighth grade, streaking was all the rage: in high schools and colleges, at sporting events, on Main Street, young men would doff their clothes and run naked past a shocked and titilated public.

On April 2nd, a streaker named Robert Opel ran across the stage during the live broadcast of the Academy Awards, causing presenter David Niven to comment on his "shortcomings."  A novelty song called "The Streak," by Ray Stevens, hit the top of the pop charts with humorous lyrics about a hick constantly exhorting his wife "Don't look!" as the streaker ran past.

They call him the streak -- he likes to show off his physique.
If there's an audience to be found, he'll be streaking around,
Inviting public critique.

Who could refuse to participate in such an iconic 1970s moment, and plus get to see a lot of naked guys?

My friends Darry and Dan positively refused to do it, remembering the fallout from our protest of evil-lution two months before.  But Craig, who you remember from the Swim Team post and the graduation party -- he had a last name close to mine and therefore sat next to me in every class from third grade to high school -- agreed.

Plus a tall, husky Asian guy appropriately named Peter, who went swimming with us at Longview Park Pool, and a ninth grade Viking whose name I don't remember, but who turned out to not have any "shortcomings."  I don't think any of them were gay.


We waited for the last day of school, where you could sneak out without causing much attention.  Just as the principal called a final assembly, we found a deserted art room, left our clothes with a confederate, and, flushed with joy and fear, ran down the hallway.

To our disappointment, it was deserted.

Peter led us to a side door, and onto the stage, where the principal, vice-principal, and guidance counselor were sitting on folding chairs.  The band was playing the theme of "The Entertainer."

And we ran.

Laughter and applause filled the room as we dashed across the stage, pausing only to give peace signs.  I got a glimpse of the principal.  He was grinning.

We ran down the hallway again, ducked into the art room, threw our clothes on, and hid until we could make our way out of the school in the crowd of students.

We weren't punished.  The administration, heavily embarrassed, acted as if nothing had happened at all.

We didn't even make it into the yearbook.  To this day, alumni argue whether the streaking incident happened at all.

My friends often asked how a conservative fundamentalist boy, who carried a Bible around and couldn't even go to movies, managed to pull off such a stunt.

I did it to see naked guys.

We've gotten much more conservative in the U.S. since.  Today streakers are arrested and charged as sex offenders.

See also: The Naked Pumpkin Runs.

Friday, December 11, 2015

The Smallest Guys on My Sausage List

About 25% of the men in the U.S. are small, with 5" or less, but you rarely see them.

They hide behind a towel at the gym.

They don't go to bath houses or M4M Parties, or cruise for hookups.

Their dating profiles online say 7".

Once on the date, they'll make extra sure to win you over with their wit, money, or physique before even considering dropping their pants.

Here are the smallest guys I remember dating. graded by:
C: 4.5 to 5.5" (11.5 - 14 cm)
D: 3.5 to 4.5" (9 - 11.5 cm)
F: Under 3.5" (9 cm)

Remember, this is just one grade on their report cards.  They might have a B+ for intelligence, a B for charm, a B+ for physique, and for bedroom performance, an A+.

And, to avoid embarrassment, I'm not including anyone who I am still in contact with.




College

1. Joseph, from the Gay Student Union at Indiana University.  He was very popular, so we didn't actually date, but we did hook up the night we saw the ghost in his grandmother's house.  C

West Hollywood

2. Dr. Bartan, the Most Conservative Professor at USC.  It took me months to land a date with him.  C

3.  Chehay, the slim, soft survivor of the Pol Pot atrocities in Cambodia, whose drag queen Aunti Bopha cornered me at Mugi in an attempt to marry him off.  C.














4. Ryan the Dwarf, with whom I had the worst date in West Hollywood history (not for that reason). C

5. Will, the Bondage Boy with the Sweeney Todd fetish, who lived in Silverlake.  He was into vore (fantacizing about being eaten).  But he wouldn't have made much of a meal. D.

6. Ramon from Barcelona, of Chinese ancestry, but he didn't speak Chinese.  He was, however, fluent in Catalan and a promoter of Catalonian independence.  We had quite a heady political conversation for a hookup. C.










New York

7. The Unhung Hippie who talked nonstop, mostly trivia and nonsense.  Yuri wanted to hook up with him, assuming by his height, hands, and feet that he was hung.  I tagged along to make sure the hippie wasn't an axe murderer.  Even worse: regrettable beneath the belt gifts.  D


Florida

8. The Teenage Hitchhiker that David and I picked up.  An 18-year old from Canada, he wanted to go as far south as he could before his freshman year started in the fall.  C









9.  The Guy in the Darkroom at the Club in Wilton Manors.  In a classic bait and switch, the penis at the hole was huge, but the guy whispering "Do you have a room" was not.  He had rather a pencil stub.  F.

10. Comic Book Guy, who liked to kiss on the couch, but refused to go further, until finally I insisted that I be allowed to spend the night  Resulting in the discovery of his extra-extra small beneath the belt gifts.  But that's not why I didn't see him again.  F









Ohio

11. Shawn the Firefighter in Dayton.  Nicely muscular physique, disappointing beneath the belt.  He said that guys sometimes changed their minds at the end of the date. D

12. Carlos who had 3 secrets.  One, he was a superchub (his ad said "a few extra pounds").  Two, he had a hot boyfriend.  Three, his sausage was so small that I couldn't even find it.  F










Recent

13. Ludek, who performed a "bait and switch" at a bathhouse in Paris, sending in a guy with a gigantic Mortadella+ to draw attention away from his Vienna sausage.  C.

14, The Transman and His Angry Inch.  Turns out that I read this Philadelphia college boy's ad wrong.  He hadn't transitioned beneath the belt yet.  What he had was lady parts enlarged by testosterone treatments into an angry inch.  F

15. My First Grindr Hookup. AKA the boy who had never been kissed.  Other things, but not kissed.  So that was all he wanted to do.  I wondered if he was another Comic Book Guy, but he was just a little small.  C.

16. Ricky with a Y, or should I say Ricky with a C.  This was just a couple of weeks ago, but I'm pretty sure I won't be introducing Ricky with a Y to my parents

Thursday, December 10, 2015

My Platonic Friends and their Boy Toy

Plains, April 2014

I was asked if there were any platonic friendships in the gay communities of the 1980s and 1990s.  Any guys you hung out with but never saw like this?

Not many.  Some acquaintances at church and the gym, some "friends of friends" you met at parties.

But your friends, the people you called on the telephone, invited over for dinner, went out with, were mostly guys you had dated, along with their current boyfriends, whom you were invited to share.

Sometimes you made friends without dating first, but you still shared boyfriends and, by the time I got to Florida, hookups.

There was hardly anyone who moved from acquaintance to friend without bedroom activity.

Guys who were celibate?  Not many of those.

Guys in monogamous relationships?  They mostly kept to themselves and stayed acquaintances.

What about guys you weren't attracted to?  It was considered impolite to refuse sharing, so unless he was literally repugnant, you at least did some desultory groping.

When I moved Upstate in 2008, I found sharing uncommon, either due to changing times or the culture of the Straight World.  The Gang of Twelve had all dated each other, but at different times.  I had to introduce Troy to the practice.

And when I got to the Plains, I even met guys who expected friendship without a bedroom.



I met them at the gym sometime in April 2014, just after Troy moved back upstate, leaving me alone on the Plains.

Hank was in his 50s, a tall redhead with nice abs, a moderately hairy chest, and a gigantic Mortadella+ beneath the belt.  He worked as an electrician.


















His partner Wayne was in his 70s: a retired high school history teacher, a rather chubby bear, bald, white haired, with an impressively thick Bratwurst.

Ten years ago, they were both married with children, seeking secret partners on the downlow. They met at an outdoor cruising site, but the anonymous hookup soon turned into dating and romance.  They divorced the wives, moved to the nearest big city (this was a big city?), and came out as a gay couple.

I invited them to the Metropolitan Community Church -- they hadn't known that gay churches existed.

When they invited me over for dinner later that week, I naturally assumed it was for dinner and sharing.

They lived in an old farmhouse out in the country that they were having "fun" remodeling: the whole upstairs was still unfinished.

While Wayne finished cooking, Hank gave me a tour of the rest of the house: living room, dining room, study, and two bedrooms in colonial American style, with tall chairs, an antique secretary desk,  an old cupboard to hold the tv, and framed portraits of dour Puritan ancestors.

It was all rather boring, especially when Wayne went into detail about how they imported 9' grills for the grillwork, and redid the wainscotting around the landscaping and added .4 inch recessed bludgers with special prehensile bars and anodized aluminum pistons.

You've seen them at the gym, I told myself.  They're worth a little boredom.


I was surprised when the tour took me out into their formal colonial garden.  There was a modern enclosed redwood deck, with a hot tub.  And a boy sunbathing nude on a lawn chair: slim, sandy-haired, smooth chest, uncut Kielbasa.

"This is Jimmy," Hank said.  "He's renting our basement room in exchange for helping us remodel."

"Nice to meet you!" Jimmy said with the cruisy smile I always get from twinks. He reached up to shake my hand and almost pulled me into his lap.  "Are you a remodeler too?"

"I'm a professor at the University."

"Cool, I'm a student.  I'll sign up for your classes next semester.  Maybe you can give me some...you know, extra credit assignments."

I've only heard that one about a thousand times before.  But -- Hank, Wayne, and Jimmy?  This evening was getting better and better.

But Jimmy didn't join us for dinner.  "Oh, he doesn't want to hang out with us grandpas," Wayne explained.  "He's a young guy, into dance clubs and bath houses, all that stuff we did 30 years ago.

Anyway, there was still Hank and Wayne.



Wayne's forte was cooking.  He served chicken in an acidic tomato sauce over pasta, with tiramisu for dessert.  I hated it, but still, I had to listen to every ingredient and the minutiae of cooking techniques described in detail.

 No one ever has soda, so I brought Diet Coke, and had to listen to Wayne pontificate about how phenylalanine and aspartame would kill me.

Meanwhile Hank described how they built or refurbished the furniture with prehensile oak tachyons and tapestry lining from an old anchor basting wobble he got in an estate sale.

Still, sharing....

But after dinner came 1 1/2 hours of stories about remodeling, refurbishing, real estate, recipes, and pontifications about the evils of bottled water and Delicious apples.  With no one making a move.

Toto, I don't think we're in Oz anymore.

Maybe we just needed the young guy as a catalyst.  I invited them over for dinner, and specified "be sure to bring along that cute roommate of yours."

The three of them showed up with homemade cookies that Wayne made using a new recipe of grated fruit rind, plus molasses substituted for sugar and some peach pits that he got at a farmer's market last year dusted with nutmeg and cardamon, with a few dashes of coriander and spliced pecan buds for flavor.

Ok, ok.

After dinner, I invited them into the living room, where Jimmy sat next to me on the couch, and the other guys chose armchairs.  We chatted, drank coffee, and Jimmy fondled my knee.  I put my arm around his shoulders, pulled up his shirt, and ran my hand across his chest and abs.  We started kissing.

I looked up.  Hank and Wayne were putting their shoes on.  "It's about time for us to be going," Hank said with a broad grin.

"Wait...um..."

"Oh, don't worry," Wayne said.  "Jimmy brought his own car, so he can drive home in the morning. Thanks for a nice evening."

'Wait...um..."

And, having fixed me up with their roommate, they were gone.

"I thought they'd never leave!" Jimmy exclaimed, looking at me expectantly.

"Don't you ever...um...share with them?"

He laughed.  "Are you kidding? I mean, I'd like to, but those guys are like in bed by 9:00 pm with warm milk.  No sexual interest at all.  I don't think they've done anything but cuddle for years, even with each other....so, want to take a shower?"

Dating a 21-year old does have some advantages.

See also: Yuri and the Muscle Daddies.; My Date with the Star of "Wizards of Waverly Place," and Ricky with a Y

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Finding Larry's New Fetish

Santa Fe, New Mexico, July 2004

I've never understood how you can be friends with someone for years, and then there's an incident, and it's over.

They just stop answering the phone when you call, or responding to your emails.  They unfriend you on Facebook.

Or in the case of Larry, he orders you out of the house.

You remember Larry, the "lost soul" in Nashville with the crazy, obsessive lifestyle, who finally got involved in the gay leather community?

After I left Nashville, we called and emailed each other regularly.

He moved to Denver and then Santa Fe, New Mexico.  I moved to New York and then Florida.

In the summer of 2004, we hadn't seen each other face-to-face for years, so I decided to fly out to Santa Fe for a 10-day visit.  

Big mistake.

As Ben Franklin said, house guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.

Day 1:  I arrived at 8:00 pm.  Larry picked me up at the airport, gave me a brief tour of the city, and then took me back to his house.

A three-room trailer in a desolate commercial strip on the outskirts of town.  Cluttered with terrible, mismatched thrift-store furniture.

I guess passions for leather and opera don't come cheap, so you have to economize in other areas.

We tried to squeeze into his small single bed for some ordinary vanilla sex, but the night was very hot, and we were both big, so I ended up sleeping on the floor.

Day 2:  I assumed that Larry would take off work so we could go sightseeing, like I always did when a friend visited me in Florida.  But no, at 7:00 he drove off, leaving me alone on Jemez Road with no car.

All of the art galleries, shops, missions, and museums were downtown, about six miles away.

I started walking, and eventually hit Airport Road, with a lot of fast food places and cars rushing by in the hot desert sun. There was a mall about a mile away, where I bought a t-shirt.  I found a gym, but they didn't have day memberships.

Larry returned at 6:00 pm.  "What's on for tonight?" I asked.  "Dinner, art walk, the clubs?"

"Oh, no, I'm too tired to go out.  I'll cook dinner here."

"Well...can we at least go to the gym first?"

So Larry drove me to his gym and bought me a day pass.  Then he baked a chicken for dinner. It wasn't ready until 10:00 pm.

"Four hours past dinnertime," I muttered.  "We should have just ordered a pizza."

"Too much saturated fat, and way too expensive!"

Some brief, noncommittal bedroom activity ended the evening.

Why wasn't I meeting his friends?  Why weren't we cruising?  What was going on?

Day 3:  I asked Larry if I could drive him to work and borrow his car for sightseeing, but he refused: "Nobody drives my car but me."

So I rented a car and visited The Plaza, The Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, and The New Mexico Museum of Art, and returned to Larry's gym for another day pass.

When Larry got home at 6:00 pm, I said, "Tomasita's tonight -- best Mexican restaurant in town, according to the internet!"

"Oh, no, that's much too expensive."

"My treat."

"Oh, no, you're my guest, I'll cook.  I can do Mexican, if that's what you want."

So he made low-fat enchiladas.  Afterwards he wanted to go to the gym.  I had already been, so I asked "Do you mind if I go to the clubs?"

He glared at me.  "No, the clubs will be dead on a Thursday night.  But when I get back from the gym, we can do a S&M scene, if you want.  I'm a top, you know."

So I watched tv all night, and then bottomed for an S&M scene.  I didn't like it.

Day 4:  While Larry was at work, I went to the Canyon Road Art Galleries, the San Miguel Mission, and the Cathedral of St. Francis of Assisi, and had lunch at Tomasita's.  Then I bought groceries.  When he got home at 6:00, dinner was on the table.

Surprisingly, he was annoyed.  "I'm the host, I should cook dinner.  Or don't you like my cooking?"

I ended up apologizing and waiting while he wrapped my dinner in cellophane for later and cooked a meal of his own.

Afterwards, I said "It's Friday night.  The gin joints should be hoppin'.  Where shall we go?"

"Oh, no, there aren't any decent gay bars in Santa Fe.  We'll go into Albuquerque tomorrow.  Let's just hang out and watch tv tonight."

"Well -- do you mind if I go to the clubs on my own?"

I didn't notice him glaring at me.  "No, of course not.  Just -- if you bring a hot leatherman home, I get to share."

Turns out that Larry was right -- there was only one gay bar in town, the Rouge Cat.  Unfortunately, it catered to the Cute Young Thing crowd, and twinks in New Mexico didn't have the Daddy fixation that they did in Florida.  After about an hour of getting Attitude, I was finally cruised by a cute University of New Mexico undergrad named Tom.

By the time we got back to the trailer, Larry was asleep in his single bed, so Tom and I slept on blankets on the living room floor.  He got up and left early; I didn't think Larry had even noticed.

He had.

Larry got up and made coffee as if nothing was wrong.  But when we sat down, he started in: "What did I tell you?  You bring a cute guy into my house, and I don't even get a peek!"

"Sorry, you were asleep, and...well, I didn't think Tom was your type.  You like them more mature."

"Why were you going out without me, anyway?  You're visiting me!," Larry continued, starting to rant.  "We're supposed to go out together!"

"You said it was ok.  You were too tired to go out."

"Well, excuse me for working for a living!  I don't have a rich sugar daddy who gives me free rent!"

Did he mean Barney?  "No, I pay rent..."

"Or a cute boy toy just waiting at home for me!"

Did he mean Yuri?  "No, we're just..."

"You know what?  If my house isn't good enough for you, why don't you just get out?  Take some of your sugar daddy's money and stay in a hotel!"

I stared.  "I didn't say your house wasn't good enough..."

I don't remember what else was said that morning, but it ended with my duffel bag deposited into my rental car.  I spent Days 6-10 in hotels, touring Tucumcari, Roswell, Allamogordo, Albuquerque, and the Navajo Nation.  I called Larry a couple of times, but when he heard my voice, he hung up.

Had I been bragging about my "sugar daddy" and "boy toy" back home in Florida?   Had I been complaining a little too much about the dreary accommodations and lack of sight-seeing?  I don't remember.

The trip wasn't a total loss.  I saw some interesting museums and art galleries, hooked up with a couple of cute guys, and discovered my grandmother's long-lost gay friend.

But I lost a friend of 13 years in the process.

See also: Finding Larry's Fetish; Cruising in the Navajo Nation; Cruising in New Mexico.

Monday, December 7, 2015

My Date with Santa Claus

San Francisco, December 1996

It was Christmastime, one of the years when I couldn't make it back to the Midwest, so I was even more depressed than usual.  To cheer me up, my friend David dragged me to the Bear Party (for husky guys and their admirers) held every Saturday night in a house South of Market in San Francisco.

As we wandering through the upstairs lounge area, where guys were chatting and eating Christmas cookies and drinking egg nog to "Jingle Bell Rock," David exclaimed "Look -- it's Santa Claus."

The guy he pointed out did look like Santa Claus, except for the jeans and red suspenders -- in his 60s, tall, thick muscular arms going to fat, a chubby belly, a white beard, his chest covered with white fur.  He was sitting on a leather couch, talking animatedly to a friend.

"Come on, let's go sit on Santa's lap!"

David was 43 years old, recently out, and anxious to try everything with everybody, but I was a little more picky,

"He's not into it!" I exclaimed.  Some guys came to the Bear Parties just to socialize with friends.  If you wanted sexual activity, you went down to the basement, where there were three rooms of mazes, mattresses, and dungeons.  "Besides, my idea of Santa Claus is a little younger, with a bodybuilder's physique."

"Don't tell me you never fantasized about Santa sliding down your chimney!"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"Scrooge!"  David dragged me across the room and knelt in front of Santa like a supplicant at an altar.  Smiling, he unzipped -- a very thick Kielbasa.  The friend made himself scarce.

While David worked, I sat next to Santa and fondled his chest and nipples.  He put a thick arm around me and drew me into a whiskery kiss.  It was all I could do to stifle a giggle as the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" played in my head.

David pushed my hand down onto Santa's penis, but I was a little weirded out and moved away.

After a few minutes, Santa zipped up and drew us both into bear hugs.

"Thank you, young man -- I had resigned myself to no erotic activity tonight -- you see, my knees aren't what they used to be, so I can't make it down the stairs.  But such things are forbidden in this part of the house.  Would you and your friend care to come back to my apartment?  By the way, my name is Bearnárd, with an accent grave.

"Well..."  David never felt that a Bear Party was a success until he'd been with at least five guys.

"I have wassail, and spiced apples, far superior to the Safeway gingerbread they're serving here. And condoms," he added with a wink.

"Sure, why not."

I didn't feel like going, but you should always bring someone along on a hookup.  I followed them out the door.

On the way home, Bearnárd told us that he majored in biology at Harvard, but now he wrote fantasy novels about King Arthur and his twin brother Mordred, one good, one evil, locked in an apocalyptic battle.

"They sell very well -- I've been called a new Tolkien, if that is in fact a complement."

"Any gay characters?" I asked pointedly.

"Oh, tons.  Of course, they didn't have the concept of gay in the Middle Ages, but there are many languorous looks between comrades in arms."

 Bearnárd's apartment in the Castro was completely Medievalized.  There were suits of armor, tapestries, halberds, and heavy oak tables.  He told us that he drew inspiration from the king's room in the Tower of London.

He did have a wassail bowl, full of hot apple cider and sliced apples, peaches, pears, and raisins, which we drew into bowls and ate like soup.

 Bearnárd changed into a red silk bathrobe which made him look even more like Santa Claus, and invited us to get naked, which made sitting on hard wooden benches rather uncomfortable.  He told us about the pagan origin of the yule log, the Christmas tree, the wassail bowl, chestnuts roasting over an open fire, and "Twelve Days of Christmas."

I had already heard of most of it, but Bearnárd acted as if it was an amazing revelation.

"And Saint Nicholas himself was no Madison Avenue marketing ploy, but the Wild Man of the Hunt, revered throughout Europe from prehistoric times, gone undercover when Christianity took control."

David and I exchanged pained expressions.  Who knew that Santa Claus was such a talker?

Trying to change the subject, I said "I know a guy in L.A. who went to Harvard.  My friend Fred's ex, Matt.  He majored in French and German."

"Matt, you say?  What's the surname?"

I told him.

"I may have tricked with him.  I go to all the alumni events, you see.  Cute boy, but completely insane!"

Time to take the bull by the horns, as it were.  I walked across the room, knelt, opened the red silk robe, and went down on Santa Claus.

He pulled my head up.  "My boy, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there's plenty of time for that later!  We must listen to some music first.  I have Charpentier's Noels por les instruments sung by the Ensemble Metamorphoses de Paris."

We left the Bear Party at a little after 9:00 pm.  It was after midnight when we finally got into Bearnárd's bed.  And then it was mostly watching and fondling while David went down on him.

It took an hour to finish.  Several false starts.

But at least I can now say that I've been with Santa Claus.

The next day I called Matt and asked if he knew Bearnárd.

"The fantasy writer?  Sure -- we dated when I was a senior.  Well, not much of a date.  Not a lot going on in the bedroom.  And talk, talk, talk.  The man is completely crazy!".

See also: 8 Harvard Yard Hookups; The Slave Boy of Market Street.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

My 14 Felonies

Most gay Americans over age 30 have committed multiple felonies.

Before 1962, same-sex acts were illegal in every state of the U.S., sometimes misdemeanors, often felonies.   During the 1970s and 1980s, many of these homophobic laws were repealed, or invalidated by Supreme Court actions.

But it was still illegal to engage in same-sex acts in 16 states as late as 2003, when the Supreme Court case of Lawrence v. Texas invalidated all sodomy laws in the U.S.

That was only 12 years ago, so many gay people over age 30 have committed multiple felonies in the U.S.

Here are the states where I engaged in acts that could be prosecuted as felonies.





1. Missouri, 1982

Laidover at Lambert International Airport for 36 hours.

The crime against nature, 2-5 years.  Repealed in 1999.

 2. Kentucky, 1982-84

When I was in graduate school at Indiana University, I drove down several times, including my visit to the Preacher and the Security Guard at the MCC, and a concert with Viju in Louisville.

Sodomy, buggery, or bestiality. 2-5 years.  Invalidated in 1992


3. Mississippi, 1984

On my way south to Texas, I stopped and cruised in Oxford, Mississippi.

Unnatural intercourse, 10-20 years.  Invalidated in 2003.


4. Texas

I lived in Texas for about nine months while teaching at Hell-fer-Sartain State University (1984-85).

Homosexual conduct.  2 to 15 years. It was reduced to a misdemeanor in 1993, and invalidated in 2003.

5. Louisiana

I drove out to visit New Orleans while in Texas, and I've been back once since.

The abominable crime against nature, 2-5 years.


6. Nevada 

On my way to West Hollywood in 1985, I stopped in Las Vegas, and went to a casino and a drag show.  We also went up when I live in West Hollywood.

The crime against nature. 1 year to life. Repealed in 1993.



7. Tennessee.

I spent a semester studying Biblical Hebrew at Vanderbilt University (1990).

The notorious crime against nature.  5 to 15 years.  Invalidated in 1996.







8. Georgia

We visited Atlanta in 1993.  I was confused by a dozen streets named Peachtree.

Any act involving the sex organs of one person and the mouth or anus of another.  1-20 years. Repealed in 1995.


9. District of Columbia.

One of my favorite cities in North America.  Flew out twice in the early 1990s.

Placing his or her sex organs in the mouth or anus of another. 10 years.  Repealed in 1993.










10. Virginia

I visited Alan and his partner in Norfolk, and then Tarik in 1996.   I also stopped on the way down from New York in 2001.

The crime against nature.  2-5 years. Invalidated in 2003.


11. North Carolina.

They took me down to a resort on the coast of North Carolina in 1996.

The crime against nature with mankind or beast.  3-5 years.  Invalidated in 2003.















12. Montana.

We drove cross-country in 1995 to visit Rock Island, and passed through a number of felony states on the way back, including South Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, and Idaho.  Fortunately, we only spent the night in Montana.

Deviant sexual relations.  10 years to life. Invalidated in 1997.

13. And Utah

"Deviant sexual intercourse," up to 6 months.  Invalidated in 2003.

14. South Carolina.

On the way from New York to Florida in 2001, I spent the night in South Carolina.

Buggery. 5 years.  Invalidated in 2003.

In case you're wondering, here are the countries where I've committed felonies:


Date from Hell: Closeted Country Boy

5.  In Nashville, I accepted a date with a closeted country boy, a student at Vanderbilt, with an infinite number of rules and quirks.  After a truly miserable date  he ended up giving me the wrong number.  I got revenge by looking him up in the student directory and calling him anyway.

November 1999: A Hookup with Barry and the Poz Boy


In the fall of 1999, Barry, the traditional Catholic who had been exorcised from the homophobic demon, invited me to "share" his friend Jared.

"You'll like him," Barry insisted.  "He's from the Midwest, like you.  And an intellectual.  He knows everything about world history.  Just ask!"

"What's he look like?"

He send me a picture -- not my usual type.  In his 20s, tall, thin, pale, with long scraggly hair and a pretty, androgynous face.

"I like my guys with a little more heft to them,  Sorry."

"Well...he's gigantic beneath the belt," Barry said.  "And he really needs this.  He hasn't been with anyone for months."

"Why, what's wrong with him?"  I asked suspiciously.

"Nothing.  He's just been going through some things.  Some health problems.  He can explain."

I was intrigued by the mystery, so I agreed.

On a Saturday in late November, I took the train out to Barry's apartment in Sayville (he had given up on the traditional Catholic community).

Jared was slim and fragile, sitting shyly on the couch.  He had a soft, limp handshake.  I put my arm around him, and he sank against my chest, as if he were cuddling with a lover.

This guy was the polar opposite of the dynamic, loquacious Barry!   I wondered how they had ever become friends.

"So, what do you do?" I asked.

"I work at the Fashion Barn.  But I want to get into design someday."  He held me tightly and nuzzled my chest.  "Sorry if I'm a little forward...it's been awhile."

"That's fine.  I like being the object of attention."

He disentangled himself for dinner at the Sayville Inn.  He ordered only a salad, no dressing.

"How did you guys meet?" I asked.

"At church," Jared said.  "I gave up on the church when I came out, but a few months ago I came back.  Barry got me involved in Dignity [the gay Catholic group], and sometimes I go to Mass with Andre at the Catholic brotherhood."

He returned to the church a few months ago?  And he hadn't been with a guy for a few months?  What happened?  

Back at the apartment, the three of us hugged.  I kissed Barry, and then tried to kiss Jared, but he pulled his head away.  "Before we go any farther, I have to tell you something.  I'm poz."

He meant positive for the HIV virus.

"No problem," I said.  Actually, I was a little curious about what poz guys do in bed.   I had never dated anyone who was poz before, that I knew of, or even had any poz friends.   A couple of guys at the church, who I knew vaguely, and that was about it.

You're probably wondering how I managed to live in West Hollywood at the height of the AIDS crisis and not meet anyone poz.  Literature and film of the period always describes losing most of your friends to AIDS, a dozen in just a few months.

I've wondered about that myself.  I think it was just by accident.

The most common way to transmit HIV is through unprotected anal sex.  I was simply not interested in that, so when I was asked, I refused, and usually didn't see the guy again.  Since we typically chose our friends from among our ex-boyfriends, I built up a social circle of guys who also were not interested in anal sex, and remained negative.  By accident.

I'm not blaming the guys who practiced anal sex -- they had no way of knowing that it was unsafe at the time.

Jared had a huge Mortadella+, but he doesn't get a place on my Sausage List, since I wasn't permitted to do anything except fondle it.

He had sex by hugging me tightly, rubbing things together while Barry fondled his rear, having an explosive orgasm, and then starting to cry because "it's been so long."

We spent the night, had a replay in the morning, and then went out to breakfast.

"I thought my sex life was over," Jared said.  "No one wants to be with a poz guy.  But last night was great."

I hoped he wasn't implying that he wanted to start dating!  Our evening together was nice, but he wasn't really my type physically, he was kind of weird, and what was up with the no kissing?

I can do without oral, but no kissing?  The virus isn't transmitted that way!

A few days later, Jared called.  "I'm coming into the City for my birthday. Free to get together?"

"Well...um...I'm a little busy, with finals coming up and all."

"I want to try something.  I've been too nervous before.  But it's my birthday, and I thought you could help."

"What is it?"

"You go to the New York Bondage Club, right?"

So on Sunday Jared took the train into Penn Station.  We dropped into a diner for a piece of cake, and then went to a meeting.  He asked me to tie him to a St. Andrew's Cross, blindfold and gag him, and leave him open to all comers.

I monitored the situation as he was fondled, prodded, kissed, licked, tickled, teased, edged, and spanked.

Later, I untied him so he could try his hand at topping.

He became a bondage club regular.

Soon I saw him at Ravi's Bear Parties, too, wandering around, fondling, teasing, edging, but no oral.

And still no kissing.

See also: The Homophobic Demon; an All-Nighter at the New York Bondage Club; and The Colonial Boy's First Time.

8 Harvard Boys in My Bed

Growing up in a working-class neighborhood, we hated the North Side kids.  Their summer houses, their fancy cars, their birthday trips to Paris, their opera tickets, and especially their elitism, their snobbish disdain for my house, neighborhood, outfits, music, just about everything.

I still get upset when I hear snobbish derision of the Midwest, tv sitcoms, science fiction, or some other beloved region of my childhood.

Yet I love Harvard, the oldest and most elite university in the U.S., probably in the world.

Whenever I'm in Boston, I try to go to the campus, walk down Everett and Oxford and Divinity Street, across Harvard Yard.  I go into the Widener Library and Memorial Hall, down the corridors of the Law School and the Divinity School, pretending that I belong there, that I'm a student (or, more recently, a professor).

I am always shocked by how ordinary the buildings and classrooms and students look.  This isn't a shimmering otherworld of universal wisdom.  It could be any college anywhere.  It could be Penn State.

Ok, the freshman dining hall looks a lot like Hogwarts.

However, every Harvard student and graduate I've ever known has been crazy.  No exceptions.  Some are just quirky or eccentric, some are bona fide nutcases.

I've dated or hooked up with eight Harvard boys.  Each has had a fabulous physique or superb beneath-the-belt gifts.  Each has been certifiable.

In order, from least to most insane:

1. Jermaine, the Biggest Guy on My Sausage List, with an enormous Kovbasa++++.  He was remarkably kind and unfailingly upbeat, with just a few eccentric habits.  Like asking "Who's your Daddy" during the sexual act, getting offended at the suggestion that he might be a top, and skinny dipping in the icy Atlantic Ocean with his uncle.




2. Ari, the Linguist Who Wouldn't Shut Up, born in Israel, with Hebrew as his native language.  But he didn't want to talk about that.  He wanted to talk about the pronomials of Tlingit, a Na-Dene language of British Columbia and Alaska, and the gender categories of Jingulu, an Australian aboriginal language.  Yawn.  At least he was gifted beneath the belt, #6 on my Sausage List.

3. Hunter the Historian, an undergrad I hooked up with in the Widener Library while visiting Boston for a conference.  He was a history major who asked me an endless array of questions about life in West Hollywood in the 1980s.  Was I a Castro clone?  Did I go to the baths?  Did I use poppers? I kept trying to steer him toward the sexual encounter.  


4. Sammy Blowfish, the son of my old high school speech teacher, a new art history professor at a small private college in Iowa.  Other than his odd inferiority complex and his fixation on dalmatians (although he didn't own one), his only quirk was trying too hard, initiating sexual acts a dozen times in the 24 hours or so of our date.

5. Dr. Charles Bertan, professor of Restoration and Augustan literature at USC, uptight, conservative, so completely non-sexual that I couldn't imagine him with his clothes off, let alone actually having sex with anyone.  We went out on one date.









6. Ricky With a Y,  a cute twink with a hairy chest and a rather small penis, who spent our whole date psychoanalyzing me.  "Why do you think that is interesting?" "Why do you say that?"  "Tell me about your relationship with your father?"

Even in the bedroom: "Is your refusal to engage in anal really a failure to embrace your gay identity?  Do you subconsciously believe that if you don't top me, you're not really gay?"

He wasn't even a psychiatrist.  He ran a mail-order company that sold gay pride merchandise.









7.  Matt, Fred's Cute Young Thing, a recent graduate of Andover Academy and Harvard, who spoke with a nasal Boston accent, peppered his conversation with French and German, adored the opera, and complained that everything about me was bourgeois or jejune:  the Midwest, West Hollywood, USC, you name it.  Plus he gossiped about everybody and everything, providing the weird voices.

In the bedroom, he kept up a nonstop monologue of his progress: "I'm getting there...un peu plus, mon chevalier...a little more....je vais arriver...a little more...bien, bien...here I go..."

What did Fred see in this guy?

Well, he was cute.



8. Santa Claus, aka Bearnárd with an accent, in his 60s, chubby, with a white beard and a hairy chest.  He was actually David's hookup, not mine, but I tagged along to make sure everything was ok.

Bearnárd majored in biology at Harvard, but now he wrote fantasy novels about King Arthur and lived in a completely Medievalized apartment in the Castro. There were suits of armor, tapestries, halberds,and heavy oak tables.  He offered us "mead" to drink out of golden goblets (really).

It was Christmastime, so he explained to us the pagan origins of the yule log, the Christmas tree, the wassail bowl, chestnuts roasting over an open fire, and "Twelve Days of Christmas."

After all that, the hookup was rather a letdown.  I mostly watched and fondled a bit.

See also: My  Sausage List; 12 Teacher Hookups