Saturday, December 19, 2015

My Date or Trick with Mario in the White Room

West Hollywood, September 1987

In spite of my nostalgia-infused memories of West Hollywood as a paradise, it had some big problems.  For one thing, it was completely segregated.  Only 3% of its residents were black, 5% Asian, and 10% Hispanic (compared to Los Angeles in general, 10%, 11%, and 47%).

You rarely saw anyone black on the streets, and when you did, he was with a white guy, and being charged a hefty cover to get into the bar, or waiting extra-long for the server to notice him in the restaurant.

But this isn't a story about institutional racism and microaggressions.  It's about a guy named Mario.

Nearly every day, I stopped into the Different Light Bookstore on Larrabee.  I joked that I was moving the entire stock into my room.

And one day I saw Mario browsing in the theater section.

He was rather feminine, thin and willowy, wearing gold rings, bracelets, and necklaces -- an immediate turnoff.  But he was shorter than me, dark skinned, with glasses that gave him a studious look.  So when he approached, started a conversation about gay literature, and invited me to dinner at the Greenery, I agreed.


Wait -- he meant right now.  In West Hollywood, you always set up dates for the future. Was this one of those dreaded tricks, a pickup, sex for its own sake?

Tricking was frowned upon -- if this was a trick, I could never tell my friends about it.

While I ate a hamburger and Mario picked at a salad, we exchanged coming-out stories.  He grew up in Richmond, Virginia and fled to West Hollywood seven years ago.  He had a job as a secretary, but only until he got his big break as an actor.  He hadn't had much luck, but he did land a date with celebrity Rob Lowe.

I countered by telling him about my Celebrity Boyfriend.

"My boss wants me -- I can tell," Mario continued.  "But I saw him in the rest room -- a footlong, honey!  No way, nuh-huh, I can't handle that."

Ok, feminine and into anal.  Date or trick, this wasn't going to work.  I put $5 on the table to pay for my dinner, and politely excused myself.

"Come on, honey, don't leave me hanging!" Mario exclaimed.  "After I put myself out to cruise you!  I don't meet many nice guys, who are willing to take things slow and get to know you.  Everybody wants to just jump into bed right away."

This was awkward!  "Well...um...I don't think we're compatible."

"Is it because I'm black?  You're afraid what your friends will say?"

"What?  No!"  My face burned.  That was the farthest thing from my mind,  But now we were definitely going through with the date, or trick.



So we walked down the street to Mickey's, the twink hangout, and danced and flirted and groped and fondled.

No kissing!  Was he shy or what?

But, date or trick, I was ready to go home with him.

Mario lived in a very nice apartment building, white with pink trim, on Romaine Street just off Fairfax.  He made me take off my shoes and socks to avoid tracking lint on the carpet.

"Do you want to take your shower first?" he asked.  "There are fresh towels in the bathroom, and a douche under the sink."

Douche?  Was he an anal top?

All of the towels in the bathroom were white, like at the gym.

I showered and came out to find Mario in the kitchen.  "Now put your clothes in the washer, and I'll do a load tomorrow morning before you go home.  Don't worry, no one will touch your stuff."

"My clothes...but...."

"You can't get dressed into dirty clothes, can you?"

I did as he asked.  Mario went to take his shower.  I wandered around the apartment -- only a few books, all on acting -- and found the bedroom.

It was completely white: rug, curtain, dresser, nightstand, lamp, bedspread, everything.  It made my eyes hurt.

I stood there, afraid to touch anything.  A song by Cream ran through my head: "In a white room with black curtains...wait in the place where shadows run from themselves..."

Soon Mario appeared, wearing only a white towel.

"Oh, don't worry -- the sheets and bedspread are clean.  I change them every day."

"Every...day?  I have like three sets of sheets, tops.  Don't you run out?"

"Oh, honey, I wouldn't run out for a month.  I buy sheets the way other guys buy shoes.  But I do the laundry every day anyway.  Who wants dirty clothes in the hamper for a week?"  He groped me.  "Now give me that towel.  I'll hang it up so it won't get mildewed."

He took off his towel, too -- Kielbasa, beautifully shaped.  I sat on the bed, naked, until he returned.

I moved in for a kiss.  "Sorry, I'm not into that," he said, turning his face away.

We lay on the bed, not kissing.  Mario's body was cool to the touch.  He didn't turn the light off -- the bright lights against the white background were dazzling.

He turned over on his stomach.  No dice.

He tried to sit on me.

"I'm really not into that," I said.

"No problem, honey.  I know lots of ways to please my man."

Mario moved down below the belt.

The weirdness, the whiteness, the femininity, the lack of kissing -- nothing was happening.

A unpardonable sin, for either a date or a trick.

After awhile, he gave up and said "Well, I love cuddling with my man, too."

Wait -- didn't I get a chance at his Kielbasa?

He didn't turn off the light!  I was stuck spending the night with him -- it would have been gauche to leave -- in a room as glaringly white as a hospital bed.

After a few hours, I got up, gauche or no gauche, retrieved my clothes from the washer, and woke Mario with some excuse about why I had to leave.

"Sorry, honey," he murmured.  "I guess you're just not into black guys."

No, I was definitely into black guys, just not glaring white rooms.

I ran into Mario occasionally after that, at the Different Light, the gay Safeway, or on the street, and he always smiled sadly, as if to say "I know your secret shame."

That wasn't fair.  No one can be expected to perform in a white room, with someone who won't kiss and calls him "honey."

See also: Mario's Date or Trick with Rob Lowe and  The Truth about the Black Penis

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 Bottom Named Rode

Dayton, December 2007

When I was living in Ohio, there were about M4M Parties held every week, alternating Thursday and Saturday afternoon, in a small, rather run-down house in the Oregon district near downtown Dayton.

I invited my closeted boyfriend Paul, but he wanted nothing to do with the place.  He wasn't averse to casual encounters: he was just worried that someone he knew would see him, and find out that he was gay.

I went by myself on a Saturday afternoon in the spring of 2007.

A bushy-haired guy in his 60s let me in and marked my name off a checklist.  He stayed upstairs to make sure no one wandered around the house and got grabby.

A hefty bear in his 40s was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich.  Eventually he came downstairs, but he never stayed long.

 I never learned either of their names.

Downstairs,  I was greeted by a tall, muscular gym rat with a smooth chest, a reddish beard, and average beneath the belt gifts.  He introduced himself as Rode.

"It's not my real name, of course," he said with a grin.  "It means 'slut' in Danish."

"That's not the most positive screen name."

"No, but it tells you where I'm coming from. I like to be 'rode.'  So -- deposit your clothes in those bookshelves. Do all of the oral you want. If you do anal, you have to use a condom, and shower afterwards -- there are towels in the next room."

There was a small lounge area with two couches for socializing, an unfurnished room with a shower and sink, and a large wood-paneled room with mattresses on the floor and porn playing on a tv.

There were about 20 guys, all ages, sizes, and shapes.  Activity consisted mostly of oral and making out.

I went down on several guys, including the bear roommate, but not Rode.  When I offered, he politely refused.  I figured I must not be his type.

But soon I realized that Rode wasn't participating at all.  He stayed in the lounge area, chatting and watching.

Maybe he was just into watching?

Then, when the party was almost over and most of the guys were gone, Rode approached. "Care to ride me?"

"Oh -- um, thanks, but I'm not into anal."

"Too bad."  He moved on to another guy, who agreed to top him, while everyone else watched, the last event of the party.

I started going to all of the Saturday parties, unless I had other plans.  There were always special events going on like Biggest and Smallest Penis Contests, Halloween and Christmas-themed parties, Guess the Celebrity Butt, and Bring a Straight Friend Night.

I found out more about Rode: he grew up in Florida, came to Ohio to study art, did something with medical records that he hated, and had an injury that wasn't covered by his health insurance.  But I never found out his real name.

The bear roommate sometimes came downstairs to participate, but Rode never did anything until the party was winding down.  Then he selected someone to top him.

Finally I asked why.

 "I'm strictly an anal bottom," he explained.  "Oral just doesn't do it for me.  But I don't want to get topped by everybody -- I'm not that much of a slut.  So I wait until the end and pick just one guy."

"What about when you are dating?" I asked.  "You must do some making out and oral as preliminaries."

"We don't do a lot of dating in Ohio, as you probably noticed.  Everyone is too closeted."  He paused.  "I haven't been on a real date for...oh, a couple of years.  These parties are my social life, and my roommates."

It seemed like a lonely life.  But then, I figured, his roommates provided the emotional connection, and the M4M Parties took care of the erotic.  What more did you need?

Still....

Then one day near Christmas -- I'm not sure how it happened -- we started kissing.

And fell onto a mattress for more kissing and fondling.

An hour later, we were still kissing.

Eventually we moved to the 69 position.

Suddenly we noticed that most guys had left.  A few were waiting expectantly for Rode to select someone to top him.

He looked up.  "That's ok, I'm fine here," he murmured.  "Thanks for coming."

When we finished, we kissed again for awhile.

We were alone in the basement.

We looked up at each other sheepishly.

"Um...what now?" I asked.  "Maybe we could go out to dinner?"

"You mean, a date?"

"Sure, why not?"

He stood and moved pointedly toward the staircase.  "Thanks, but I don't date much.  Besides, I'm strictly an anal bottom."

See also:   16 Buckeye Boyfriends, Bratwursts, and Bondage Boys; The Winner of the Biggest Penis Contest; and Roland the Bondage Boy with the Wife Upstairs.

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.

The Youngest Guy I've Ever Dated

Do you know how many college students fantasize about hooking up with the professor?

As far as I can tell, all of them.

I got my Ph.D. at age 40 (no, I wasn't in school that whole time), and began teaching.

Some of the boys in my classes would sit with their legs spread wide, unbutton a few buttons of their shirts to display some chest, drop by my office with little gifts like a can of soda, invite me to venues ("I'm singing at open mike night!").

Jostling for a higher grade?  Maybe.

It wasn't just my own students.  It was everywhere on campus.  The guy who sold me yogurt at the student union, who checked out my books at the library, who worked out next to me in the gym.

I'm 54 now, older than the fathers of most of the boys, but the cruising continues unabated.

The most recent was in February of this year: Scott, a 22-year old theater major.  I saw him in Shakespeare's Love's Labour's Lost, for which the actors wore bulgeworthy Elizabethan tights. His was rather well put together.

He was cute above the belt, too: rather short, with curly black hair, brown eyes, a square jaw, and a solid physique.

A few days later, at brunch, Scott was our waiter!  I told him I was a professor at the college, praised his acting talent, and claimed to be his biggest fan.

The next week, we went out to breakfast again at the same time, and made a point of getting Scott as our waiter.  When I paid with a credit card, he said "Could I check your id, Professor?"

No one ever calls college professors "Professor."  It felt weird.  But I handed him my driver's license.  "Ok, you have my height and weight," I said.  "What other measurement would you like?"

Scott laughed and handed my driver's license back.

I went home and friended him on Facebook.  His timeline and personal information didn't give a clue about whether he was gay or straight.  But mine did.

I waited for him to figure it out and react.  It didn't take long: the next day he initiated a facebook chat, and invited me to get coffee at a lesbian-owned, gay-friendly coffee house. Definitely gay!

He talked about growing up in a small town in Minnesota, feeling "different," and finding a safe haven in theater, and I told him my best "dating a celebrity" stories.

He wasn't impressed by Michael J. Fox, Cesar Romero, or Richard Dreyfuss.  But Andrew Lloyd Webber!  "What was he like?  Did you do anything?  Was he hot?  Do you have his phone number?"

After coffee and listening to a weird local band, Scott invited himself back to my apartment, a few blocks up the hill.  I was going to show him my collection of classic musicals on DVD, pop in On the Town, and then make a move, but the moment we walked in the door, he pounced. Before I knew it, we were rolling around on the living room floor, and he was moaning "Take me, Professor!  Use me!"

Ok -- my name is not "professor."  This isn't Gilligan's Island.

He was done before I even got his pants off.

"Sorry, Professor..."

"Boomer..."

"Sorry, Boomer...this has been a fantasy of mine for a long time."

He was willing to stick around for a bit, but still....



The next night, we had dinner at the Indian place downtown.

We returned to the apartment and sat on the couch to watch Chicago.  But we didn't make it far into the first scene.  Suddenly Scott was on my lap, kissing and groping me and moaning "Punish me, Professor!  I've been bad!"

Obligingly, we all went into the bedroom and took off our clothes.  Scott had a nicely muscled, slightly hairy chest and a nicely shaped Bratwurst.

"I want to spend all night with you, Professor..."

"Boomer."

"Sorry...um... Boomer.  I want to try everything with you!"

"Let's start by getting into bed."

I took him into the bedroom.  Instantly Scott was on top of me again, groping, whispering "Could we do it in your office, Professor?  Pretend I'm failing class, and I have to do something to pass."

"I don't do anything on campus," I said.  "That's inappropriate.  And call me Boomer."

But he wasn't paying attention.  He was lost again in his fantasy world.  "Professor, tell me I've been bad, and you're going to punish me.  Keep me after school.  Spank me with your belt.  Make me cry..."

And he was finished.

Ok, if Scott wanted role-playing, he would get role-playing!

I invited him over for a "special evening."  I draped the bedroom in black, put black sheets on the bed, and borrowed a lot of S&M equipment from a friend: black-painted rope, handcuffs, clothespins, three whips, a paddle, a ball-gag, a blindfold, and four dildos (including one too big to actually use on anyone).  Chaps and a leather vest completed the scenario.

When Scott came to the door, I brandished the whip and said "You're late!  I don't abide tardiness!"

"There was traffic." he said, staring, annoyed.  "Chill."

"Um...come into the dungeon for your punishment."  I took him by the arm and dragged him into the bedroom.

He stared at the equipment.  "Um...hey, I'm not into pain,  Or toys.  Or getting tied up.  Couldn't we just do...you know..kissing, oral, regular stuff?"

How embarrassing!  "Sure, ok.  Let me just get out of these chaps."

"Let me help you out of them."  A moment later, we were rolling on the bed, and Scott was murmuring "Take me...use me...punish, me, Professor!"

"Boomer."

By the way, with Scott, I surpassed my age gap record.  He was 32 years younger than me!

See also: The High School Bodybuilder; The Hookup Contest Part 2, and Our Date with the Teenage Beach Boy.

Monday, December 14, 2015

10 Ethnic Groups on My Bucket List

On The Simpsons, Homer sings "I could love [e.g., have sex with] about a million girls."

A million?

Assuming a 50-year sexual life, that's 20,000 per year, or 384 per week.

That's a lot more than gay men could ever hope for.

If you spent every waking hour in the bath house, and if you were extremely attractive, you might get as many as 10 partners per day, or 70 per week.

But in real life, people have other interests and obligations, they don't have a superheroic physique, and they're usually involved in relationships that require monogamy or "sharing."  They might average 10 partners per year.

Or only one.

Homer goes on to list the various ethnic groups he is interested in: "I could love a Chinese girl, an Eskimo, a Finn. I could dig a Deutschland chick...."

That sounds more promising.  There are only about 6,000 ethnic groups in the world.  Could you "love" someone from each one?

For the purpose of this study, "loving" will be defined as "an event in which you see your partner naked in a private setting."  Clubs, bath houses, nude beaches, and dates that don't end with a bedroom won't count.

An "ethnic group" will be defined as a group identified by a distinct language and culture.  Generic white Americans and African-Americans don't count.

After careful calculation and checking my journals, I find that I've "loved" guys from 41 identifiable ethnic groups.



18 European
8 East or Southeast Asian
5 African
5 Latin American
2 Middle Eastern
2 Native American
1 South Asian

5,959 to go.

If I really want to sample the vast variety of  masculine beauty in the world, there are a few left on my bucket list:

1. Faeroese: from the Faeroe Islands far to the north of Britain (population 44,000).  Like the famous swimmer Pal Joensen (top photo).

2. Yakut: a Turkic-speaking people of Siberia.  There are 478,000 Yakut speakers, including 10,000 in the United States, so there's hope (second photo: a Yakut wrestler).

3.Ainu (left): the original inhabitants of Japan were not of Asian ethnicity, and their language was like no other in the world (there are only about 10 native speakers left).  They liked beards so much that the women got their chins tattooed to make it seem like they had beards, too.  Today there are an estimated 25,000-100,000 Ainu in northern Japan.  The most famous is Oki, who performs electro-pop versions of traditional songs with his Oki Dub Ainu Band.


4. Chukchi: from remote northeastern Siberia, near the Bering Sea.  The 16,000 Chukchi speak a Paleo-Siberian language.  Their shamans change from male to female when they travel to the spirit world.

 5. Hawaiian (left): 400,000 people claim to be part Hawaiian, but only 140,000 claim to be Hawaiian alone, and only about 2,000 speak the language.







6. Jivaro (left): about 20,000 of the former head-hunters, divided into several different tribes in the western Amazon region of South America, mostly in Ecuador, Peru, and Colombia.  I visited Colombia, but didn't meet any Jivaros.

7. Tuareg: there are about 1.2 million Tuaregs, a nomadic people of the Sahara, mostly in Niger and Chad. Formerly called "the blue people" because the blue dye in the men's turbans rubbed off onto their faces, they speak a Berber language.







8. The Mbuti (left): one of several "pygmy" tribes in the Congo, there are about 30,000 Mbuti, most still living as traditional hunter-gatherers.  The men have an average height of 4'9."  Sounds like my kind of guys.

9. Greenlander: The northernmost country on Earth, Greenland has a population of about 60,000, most of whom are Greenland Inuit.












10. Aboriginal Australians: The original inhabitants of Australia have the oldest cultural traditions in the world.  They have legends about walking to Australia over a land bridge that hasn't existed for 14,000 years!  There are about 600,000, divided into many different tribes with distinctive languages and customs.  Ritualized same-sex behavior is commonplace as an initiation rite.

I visited Australia 20 years ago, but didn't get a chance to meet -- or "love" -- any aboriginal guys.

But there's always next year.  Maybe these guys are on Facebook.

See also: The Day I Turned Japanese



The Huber Heights Horror, or The Worst Hookup in Ohio History

Huber Heights, Ohio, November 2005

I still cringe just thinking about it.

Everybody was closeted in Dayton, so you spent a lot of time in online chatrooms, cruising for hookups, arrangements, friends with benefits, bondage boys, and maybe, occasionally, a real, actual date.

So I got used to online profile exaggerations: they're really 5 years older, 20 lbs heavier, and 2 inches smaller beneath the belt.

But really...

Brandon: 23, blond, slim swimmer's build, 8" uncut.  

We talked online for over an hour, about movies, tv, art, literature.  We had everything in common.  I felt an immediate emotional connection.  I was going to ask him out to dinner, but then he said, "Why don't you come over tonight?"

Well, it nearly midnight. I was falling asleep.  What kind of date could we have?

But he insisted.   I figured we would cuddle on the couch, spend the night together, go out for brunch the next day, a good old fashioned West Hollywood date.

"Sounds great!" he said.  "Come on over."

"Um..you don't have any parents or straight roommates hovering around, do you?"

"Oh, no, I live alone."

So I showered, changed clothes, and headed out the door at 12:30 am.

Brandon lived in Huber Heights, a ritzy suburb on the north side of Dayton, 15 miles from Fairborn. Down two deserted midnight highways.  Then a crazy maze of subdivisions with inadequate street signs.

Finally, at nearly 1:30 am, I pulled into the driveway of his nondescript suburban house.  

I walked shivering in the night chill across the front yard and rang the doorbell.  It seemed extremely loud.

Brandon's father answered.

At least, it looked like Brandon's father. 



23?  Try 43.  

Blond? grey and red.

Slim swimmer's build?  Husky bear.

 

And by the way, his name wasn't actually Brandon, it was Keith.  He just picked Brandon as a screen name because it sounded more youthful.

I had no objection to guys in their 40s -- I was in my 40s, too -- - or to husky bears.    But try for a little less deception!

Still, I drove all the way out here, and we had everything in common. Maybe he was just self-conscious about his age and weight.

We could still cuddle on the couch, then spend the night together, then have brunch in the morning, right?

Brandon took me into the living room and sat me down on the couch without offering any beverages or snacks.  He unzipped and pulled it out.

Another deception -- nothing like 8".  Maybe 5"

"Um...couldn't we do some preliminaries first?" I asked.


"Sorry -- it's just that I don't have very much time."

Not very much time?

But...but...what about spending the night?

"Sorry -- I have to get up early.  I was...um...called in to work."

He grabbed my head and pushed it down. Ok, the evening wouldn't be a total loss.

I  went down on him.

And kept going and going and going.  Brandon/Keith moaned and groaned, but never came close.  Finally I said "Ok, this isn't going to happen!"

"I guess I'm a little tired.  It's past my bedtime.  But thanks for coming over."

I left and drove home, arriving at 3:00 am.

Let's recap: 

I drove an hour in freezing cold in the middle of the night to meet a guy who lied about everything, who didn't offer any of the basic courtesies of a date, or even a hookup, for an event that was purely one-sided, no reciprocation, no kissing, and didn't even end with a payoff.

A week or so later, I was back in the same online chatroom, and Brandon/Keith instant messaged me.

"I had such a wonderful time with you!  We should get together again!"

Aargh!




This guy has no connection to the story.  I just need something to take my mind off the Huber Heights Horror.

See also: Ricky with a Y; Remy the Jerk












Teenagers, Twinks, and Cute Young Things on my Dating List

I don't really have an age preference, but it seems that when I was in my 20s and 30s, I usually ended up with guys 5-10 years older, and when I hit 40, guys 10 or more years younger. I'm over 50 now, but  I still get cruised by practically every twink I meet, even those who say "no older guys" on their profiles.

Dating younger guys has some advantages: they're cute, they have boundless energy and enthusiasm, and they are constantly surprised by your stories of life in the 1980s.  

But there are disadvantages: they go out too often and stay up too late, they don't fit in with your friends, and even after extensive research, you still can't understand their pop culture references.

Here are my favorite teenage (or twink) boyfriends and hookups who were 10+ years younger than me.  Don't worry, they were all over 18.



New York

1. Conrad, the 20 year old who came to my room Upstate to fix my computer, said "I'm not into older guys," and grabbed.  17 years.

2.  Mario, a teenage model studying at Columbia University.  We went on one execrable date.  20 years.

3. Sibu, the hottest guy in the world, a seminary student met at a conference in South Africa.  Dark room hookup, and then "I'm not into older guys."  15 years








4. Liam, who I talked to online for several years.  He waited until the exact moment he turned 18 to give me a birthday present.  21 years

5. Jermaine, the Biggest Guy on My Sausage List.  A Harvard undergrad studying political science, and planning to go to law school, we met when I was on a job interview in Boston.  18 years.

6. The Pizza Boy, an undergrad theater major in Rock Island. My friend Dick actually started dating him, but we shared at Christmastime. 18 years

Florida

7. Victor, the Brazilian twink who turned out to be a drag queen, Miss Chita Taboo. 16 years.

8. The Young Republican, one of my ex-students who invited me to a Christmas party at his parents' country club.  We dated a few times in spite of his politics. 20 years.

9. The college freshman hitchhiking to Key West who David and I picked up.  20 years









10. Jean in Paris, the violist who wouldn't let me touch his instrument. 22 years

11. The high school bodybuilder.  We dated for a few months.  I also may have hooked up with a couple of his friends, but don't worry, I made sure they were over 18, too. 26 years.

Dayton

12. Paul, the aspiring writer.  Boyfriend for about six months, lived with briefly, but he turned out to be too good in bed.  22 years.

13. The Emo boy who I picked up in London while visiting Yuri and Michael.  26 years.

14. Austin, the high school boy who hit on me in the park.  Of course, nothing happened, but I'm proud of the way I handled the situation by introducing him to other gay kids. 32 years



Upstate

15. Chad, the Satyr's houseboy/boy toy, who worked as a waiter at the Neptune. We dated through the fall and winter.  21 years.

16. Malik: picked up by the boy and his dog. 23 years.

17. Troy, a 23-year old French major when we started dating.  We were together for about five years.  26 years.

18. Peter, who rejected me at the bath house the night I became a Creepy Old Guy.  He came around later.  28 years.






The Prairie

19. Andy, The boy with daddy issues who wanted to rip my clothes off, who I met at a comic book store.  Two dates.  30 years.

20. Scott, the youngest guy I've ever dated, a 22-year old theater major who wanted to try everything.  32 years

21. Ludek, from the bathhouse bait-and-switch in Paris.  30 years.