Friday, December 18, 2015

My Home Town is a Queer Haven

I just got back from a visit to Rock Island, my first in about 10 years.

The gay scene was gone.

When I was living in West Hollywood in the 1980s and 1990s, I flew back twice a year, at Christmastime and during the summer, and spent a lot of time in the local gay scene.

1. Three gay bars, including JR's, a disco that covered half a city block.
2. A club that featured male strippers.
3. An adult bookstore that sold gay magazines.
4. Outdoor cruising at the levee.

In 1995, my parents retired and moved to Indianapolis, about a five hour drive from the Quad Cities, to be closer to my sister and her family.  So I spent most of my Christmas and summer visits there, and drove out to the Quad Cities for brief overnights, to see my brother and Dick, my friend from high school, and his partner Jack.

 Not a lot of time for gay bars, or nightlife of any sort.

Then Dick and Jack moved to Denver.

And problems with weather and cars and other traveling intervened, and I didn't visit Rock Island at all for ten years, until last weekend, in December 2015.

I didn't recognize much.

My old college had a new Student Union.

Downtown was an entertainment district with nightclubs, theaters, art galleries, restaurants, and casinos that I had never heard of.

I didn't even recognize my old house -- I had to check the address to make sure.

I reconnected with some of my old high school friends.  How had they managed to get so much older than me?

And the gay scene:
1. The gay bars were now two straight bars and an Italian restaurant.
2. The adult bookstore: an antique store.
3. The male strippers: a comedy club.
4. The levee: a landscaped jogging and biking path along the Mississippi.

What happened?  Was Rock Island back in a 1950s closet?  Had all the gay people packed up and moved to Chicago?

Time to get on Grindr, and get some local guys into my hotel room to find out.

I wanted someone gay, out, and in his late 20s, who would know about Rock Island's gay scene, or lack thereof.

No one bi, straight, on the downlow, married but looking.

Not Brad, a 60 year old who hadn't cruised since the 1980s.

Not Curtis, a newly-out 20-year old college boys.

Ok, maybe we could get together for a couple of hours tomorrow, before I left town.  

But for tonight, I chose Dylan, age 28, with black hair, dark eyes, and a  smooth, muscular physique.  But more important, he was a life long resident of the Quad Cities, gay, and out.

I met him at a coffee shop around the corner from my hotel.

A straight coffee shop, full of heterosexual couples!

"Last year The Advocate named us one of the 15 queerest cities in the United States," Dylan told me.  "We have had anti-discrimination protections for 17 years, we have a gay alderman, an annual Pridefest, and a lot of gay-run businesses."

"But...no gay bars, no adult bookstores, no cruising places."

"I get my porn and cruise online, and I go out to the bars to have fun and dance with my friends.  Some are gay, some are straight, some are queer.  Why should I exclude my straight bros?"

"Well, if 10% of the population is gay, and you're in a bar with 100 people, your chances of finding someone to dance with are limited."


He gave me one of those pitying glances twinks get when talking to someone hopelessly out of touch. "Why couldn't I dance with a straight guy? Or a girl?  It's just dancing."

"Ok, but what about dating?  How can you find a boyfriend in that crowd?"

"That's what hookup apps are for."  He put his hand on mine under the table, then pulled it onto the table top.

We were holding hands in plain sight of everyone in a straight coffee shop!

You can't go home again.

Oh, the hookup?  Very nice, very passionate, uncut average beneath the belt.

We exchanged phone numbers.  I could use more gay friends in Rock Island.  I may be coming back more often.

See also: Spending the Night with Todd

Thursday, December 17, 2015

The Glory Hole Bait and Switch at a Paris Bathhouse

Paris, June 2015

I've got nothing against small guys.  I'll gladly go home with either of these two, or both:







But I hate bait-and-switch.


The Bains d'Odessa, a gay bath house in Paris, has a series of alcoves with glory holes -- holes placed in the wall at penis-height.

One guy puts his penis through the hole, and the other goes down on him, "anonymously."

Some guys like the sense of fantasy -- the penis could belong to anyone you wanted.

Others want sex without going through the trouble of cruising.

Of course, it isn't usually anonymous -- the guys will usually scope out each other before beginning.

But sometimes you are walking by, and someone has already begun, pushing his penis through the glory hole in search of a taker.

One day I was walking by and saw this staring out at me.

One of the biggest I've seen in awhile, easily a Mortadella, uncut.  I estimated that the guy it was attached to was tall, tan, and hairy.

Naturally, I went for it.

After awhile, the guy began to moan and gasp.  Deep voice, very sexy.

After he finished, he pulled back. I saw him put on a towel.  He appeared at the entrance to the alcove, smiling.

A very attractive twink, thick brown hair, blue eyes, hairy chest.  Shorter than I expected.



He drew me into a kiss, but pulled away when I tried to grope him.

"You were very good," he said in heavily accented French.  His voice was higher than I expected. "My name is Ludek."

"Boomer."

"You will have dinner with me?"

We walked about five blocks to Flam's, a fast-food place that specialized in an Alsatian pizza called Flamenkueche, and talked in a melange of English, French, and German.

Ludek was originally from the Czech Republic, but he grew up in Hamburg, and now he was living in Paris, working on a graduate degree at the ECE, the engineering school.

"I don't go to the bath houses very often," he said.  "I am very shy."

"I don't understand why.  You are very attractive.  You must be approached often."

"No, not very often, and then only by guys who are desperate."

"Just take your towel off and go naked.  You are so big, you are bound to get many admirers."

He smiled coyly.


After dinner we walked through the Luxembourg Gardens and eventually made our way back to my tourist hotel in Le Marais, the gay neighborhood, where we kissed and groped for awhile, and Ludek went down on me.

Eventually we took our clothes off to climb into the bed.

He didn't have a Mortadella!  It was rather small, average at best!

"Wait -- you're not the guy from the glory hole!"

"Of course not.  That was my friend.  I was just fondling his rear as you worked on him."

"But...but...surely you realized that I thought it was you?"

Ludek blinked, confused.  "Why would you think that?  I look nothing like my friend."

"But I didn't see him when he went in the alcove! Or you, either!"

"So you saw only his penis," Ludek said slowly.  "But you saw all of me except for my penis.  Are you disappointed?"

"No, of course not.  You are very attractive.  But..."

To this day I think Ludek was lying in wait on purpose, using his friend's Mortadella to his advantage, out of a misguided belief that his penis was too small.

His friend, by the way, was not really my type.

See also: The Smallest Guys on My Sausage List; the Darkroom Bait and Switch.




Wednesday, December 16, 2015

The Doctor Makes a House Call on Christmas Eve

West Hollywood, December  18th, 1987

My second year in West Hollywood.  I was planning to fly home for Christmas the next day, but I woke up sick: feverish, dizzy, headache, sore throat.

"Why do I always get sick at Christmastime?" I asked myself savagely.  The answer came: Too busy, too much stress, too much fat and sugar, not enough exercise.

I cancelled my flight, and waited to get better.

December 22nd

I could hardly eat anything due to the sore throat. It was time to see the doctor.

 I called my regular doctor, but he was out of town, so they offered to get me an appointment with a substitute.

I blanched.  Overall, health care professionals are more homophobic than any other professional group, and in the 1980s, at the height of the AIDS crisis, even moreso.   You didn't go to a doctor, ever, who didn't advertise in the Gayellow Pages or who wasn't recommended by friends.

But any port in a storm.  I figured I could just be very closeted, maybe invent a girlfriend.

My appointment was that afternoon.  I was too dizzy to drive myself.  Alan was in Thailand, and my roommate Derek and off-on boyfriend Raul were both out of town for the holidays, so I called my friend Mitch to drive me to the UCLA Medical Plaza.

The nurse called me into the little room, took my temperature and blood pressure, and had me sit on the little table covered with paper to wait for the doctor.

He arrived a few minutes later: in his 30s, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, very handsome, with a round face, dark eyebrows, dark eyes, and curly black hair.  I noticed big, square hands and no wedding ring.  Very hot.

His nametag read "Dr. Mohammed al-Khouri."

Uh-oh.  In the 1980s, Muslims were stereotyped as very homophobic.  I hope my regular doctor didn't write anything about being gay in my files.

But I was especially attracted to guys from the Middle East -- my first sexual experience was with a Lebanese boy -- and you didn't meet many in West Hollywood.  I wished that I was well enough to cruise him.


Dr. al-Khouri was cheerful, almost jovial, as he examined my chest and abdomen.  "You're in great shape," he said casually.  "Are you a pro athlete?"

"No, I just go to the gym for fun," I said in my brackish cough-voice.  "But I do work for Muscle and Fitness."

"That must be exciting.  Can you get any work done, with all of the bodybuilders coming through all the time? Turn your head to the left."

He was trying to feel me out, to see if I was gay!  "No, I'm a professional," I said noncommittally.  "I'm not distracted easily."

"Ok, let's have a look at that throat."  He peered down. "Ok, Boomer, you've got strep throat.  Better lay off the guys for a few days"

I was so worried about the strep throat that I didn't notice "lay off the guys."

He painted my throat with something, ordered a penicillin injection, and gave me a prescription for medicine.  "You'll need to take it easy for about three days.  Stay home, no bars, no parties  Do you have anyone to take care of you?"

"My roommate Derek.  But he's going out of town for Christmas.  My friend Raul, too..."

"Tell you what," Dr. al-Khouri said.  "I'll drop by in a couple of days to see how you're doing."

"I didn't know doctors made house calls anymore."

"Some do.  How about Thursday night, around 7:00 pm."

"But that's Christmas Eve. Don't you have..."  Suddenly I remembered that he was Muslim.  "Oh, sorry."

"No, I'm free as a bird.  And you'll be free, too.  Doctor's orders."


December 23rd  

I spent the next day alone in my house, except for brief visits from friends.

December 24th.

My sore throat was gone, I felt better except for a little tiredness, and I was still stuck in the house. At noon I walked down to the Different Light and had lunch at the Greenery, luxuriating in being able to eat crunchy things again.

Then I went home.   I kept thinking of the gym, of the French Quarter, and of all the things I was missing back in Rock Island: Christmas caroling, light displays, our traditional Christmas Eve pizza and present-opening.  I kept hearing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," my most detested song in all the world, playing from somewhere far away.

I ordered a pizza for dinner, and watched a Christmas special on tv.

At 7:00 pm sharp, Dr. al-Khouri knocked on the door.

I didn't expect him to really show up!  I was in my bathrobe!

He was carrying one of those medical bags like in the movies, but dressed in a regular short-sleeve shirt and jeans, not in a doctor's uniform.   Now that I was feeling better, I definitely noticed his broad chest and muscular arms, not to mention his impressive basket.

I rushed into the bathroom, splashed water on my face, gargled some mouth wash, and returned to sit next to him on the couch.  There was definitely some heat between us.

He took my temperature and blood pressure, looked down my throat, and said.  "I pronounce you cured.  You're not even contagious anymore."

"Um...does that mean I can go out tonight?"

"I wouldn't suggest that.  You still need some rest. But if you want to invite a boyfriend over for some tlc, that's perfectly fine."


"How did you...know?" I asked in surprise.

"Please, you live in West Hollywood, you have a man listed as your emergency contact, and you keep trying to sneak a peak at my basket."

I looked at it openly.  Very impressive.   "Well that just means I'm feeling better, right, doctor?  So what about kissing? Um...I mean, can I do that?"

He draped his arm across the couch behind me, and touched my shoulder. "Go ahead and kiss...um...anybody you want.  Tell you what.  As of this moment, I'm not your doctor anymore.  I'm a friend visiting to help you celebrate the holiday.  Got any eggnog?"

"I think there's some in the refrigerator.  Um...and there's some mistletoe around here somewhere, too."

We didn't need the mistletoe.  A moment later, I was kissing anybody I wanted.

In case you were wondering: Mortadella.


December 25th

What do Muslims do on Christmas Day?

They spend the day in bed.

See also: 12 Hookups and Dates that Sound Like Porn Movies.; the Arab Boy at Music Camp.

L

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